Surgery went well yesterday. They found my jugular vein alright to run the hickman through it. (how gross is the word jugular?) I’m now the proud new owner of chest tubes. Jealous? My new goal over the next few months is to not clumsily rip them out, pull them, or step on them when hooked up to my IV pole.
The surgeon was definitely my kind of guy. Not only did he leave a heart-shaped bandage on my neck, but he preemptively painted my gas mask with strawberry Lip Smackers to make inhaling the anesthesia that much better. Ah, just like they did when I was seven when bubble gum was the flavor of choice.
I slept most of the day yesterday. I think they gave me a little too much anesthesia. Do you know that some people come out of anesthesia kicking and punching? The anesthesiologists specifically asked me if I did so beforehand. Apparently I need to be a bit more creative.
“I must admit, my anti-seizure meds are making me feel out of it,” I said to my nurse as I plopped down on the bed for practice chemo this morning. That’s a new one. Never had anti-seizure meds before, but I need them for this first chemo drug.
But a lot of this experience hasn’t been so new. It’s all coming back to me now. I think I’ve impressed with my experienced IV pole-maneuvering skills. And my dad knows exactly where to park in the ramp and rides the slow drivers who don’t. When I’m about to get an IV, my mom knows exactly when to distract me with Glee conversation. Maybe chemo regimen isn’t the best thing to be well-versed in, but it sure helps.
P.S. While I do not endorse the claiming of one’s ginger-ship as a flaw, this week’s ginger confession on Glee is worth bringing to light:
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