Because Timpanogos Regional Hospital's radiology department's track record with finding my veins and inserting ports, we have to drive to Provo for today's port insertion.
Can I just say how much I love Riverwoods Imaging? It's a beautiful building with VERY caring, compassionate, and competent medical staff.
Gina is my nurse and she is wonderful! She checks on me regularly, is there to answer any questions we have, and takes the time to listen to me.
Dr. Gibby is equally wonderful. It usually takes about 45 minutes to place a port. It takes about two hours to place mine today, but I am absolutely not complaining. Instead, I'm rejoicing that their team is taking the requisite time to ensure that the port works well.
They have to tape down my chest to try and get as much access to my right neck, but I'm used to that.
No sedation, so I'm able to sense everything. At one point, I sense warm liquid running down my neck and part of my back. I think it must be a douse of liquid antibiotics, but then that doesn't explain the warmth. Then, it hits me. Of course! It's my blood. Okay, don't contemplate that too long, Trish.
At another point, I feel a weird pain, almost a sharp electrical shock in the middle of my left butt, then it travels down my left leg, gradually lessening until it stops about mid calf. Suddenly, I feel like I can't breathe. I focus on breathing slowly in for 3-4 counts and out for 3-4 counts to try and not panic, but it's a really strange sensation. I mention to Dr. Gibby and Gina, but they've never heard of that happening during a port insertion. Neither have I, and this is the fourth port for me. They kind of dismiss it since they don't really know what to do. My O2 concentration is good, so I keep focusing on breathing and imagine that I'm sitting on a beach with a cool breeze, birds calling overhead, and my toes nestled into the warm, wet sand.
A little while longer, Dr. Gibby knows what happened. He must have touched a vasal nerve with the lidocaine needle. It's the only explanation he knows of, but he didn't realize he'd gone so deep with the numbing medication. And there's really no way to tell where those vasal nerves are. We know he didn't nick the nerve because my O2 levels remained great, so no real harm done.
What really takes him a long time is closing the wound. Normally, they put only one layers of sutures in a port incision, but he takes extra time putting in three layers. He says my skin is so thin from having multiple ports and from the chemo, so the sutures aren't really "biting" the skin the way they should. He's afraid that the wound will open and get infected again if he doesn't go overboard with the sutures. I'm glad he cares that much! He even puts in three external sutures and one external suture at my neck to ensure everything stays closed.
After I'm cleaned up, all of the tape is removed, and I'm re-gowned, it's time to remove the PICC line. Gina actually seems nervous about pulling it; but Dr. Gibby assures her it's easy and she doesn't need him to supervise, so here we go. After removing the three external sutures that are holding it in and a gentle tug, a 1.5 foot white flexible tube comes out. I thought it would be a bigger deal, that I'd feel it more. But it's done. Gina seems relieved also at how easy it was.
What care! I will definitely drive to Provo rather than go to Timpanogos Hospital if I ever need a port again.
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Showing posts with label PICC line. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PICC line. Show all posts
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Sixth Adcetris Dose
6/16 or 3/8 guaranteed finished with Adcetris after today's dose. 16 doses is the maximum for one round of chemo.
I was hoping I'd have a port by now, but the PICC line--hopefully--will work as well for today.
They're now giving me three medications to control nausea, and it's working! Their drugs (Emend, ondansetron, and one other?) give me about 4-4.5 days without nausea. Then, I take granistetron every morning and every evening, then rotate taking ondansetron (Zofran), lorazepam (Ativan), and promethazine (phenergan) every two hours. It's a pain to be taking so much anti-nausea pills, but they're working. I'll take working!
I've lost six pounds since my last appointment, but I promise to eat better since we finally figured out a working combination for nausea.
Dr. Wendy says I'm mistaken. She's planning on the full 16 doses. Even if the cancer is totally gone? I'm not sure, but I am disappointed. What happened to the 12 doses that we talked about at the last appointment?
I forget to mention how bad the peripheral neuropathy (nerve damage in my hands and now my feet and legs) is to Dr. Wendy, but I do mention it to Breanna (one of the chemo nurses). They mention it to Kathy (the patient coordinator) and I get a printed list of things to try: vinegar, B vitamins, and drinking tonic water to decrease muscle cramps and cocoa butter lotion. My summary: not much help! Dr. Wendy will discuss it further at our next appointment. Lovely! More to look forward to.
I was hoping I'd have a port by now, but the PICC line--hopefully--will work as well for today.
They're now giving me three medications to control nausea, and it's working! Their drugs (Emend, ondansetron, and one other?) give me about 4-4.5 days without nausea. Then, I take granistetron every morning and every evening, then rotate taking ondansetron (Zofran), lorazepam (Ativan), and promethazine (phenergan) every two hours. It's a pain to be taking so much anti-nausea pills, but they're working. I'll take working!
I've lost six pounds since my last appointment, but I promise to eat better since we finally figured out a working combination for nausea.
Dr. Wendy says I'm mistaken. She's planning on the full 16 doses. Even if the cancer is totally gone? I'm not sure, but I am disappointed. What happened to the 12 doses that we talked about at the last appointment?
I forget to mention how bad the peripheral neuropathy (nerve damage in my hands and now my feet and legs) is to Dr. Wendy, but I do mention it to Breanna (one of the chemo nurses). They mention it to Kathy (the patient coordinator) and I get a printed list of things to try: vinegar, B vitamins, and drinking tonic water to decrease muscle cramps and cocoa butter lotion. My summary: not much help! Dr. Wendy will discuss it further at our next appointment. Lovely! More to look forward to.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Blood Transfusion and PICC Line
We leave for Timpanogos Regional Hospital a little early, knowing that they might have a little trouble starting an IV for the transfusion, and arrive at 12:30 p.m.
After checking in to Same-Day Surgery, they tell us that they're moving us to one of the floors to give us a room that's larger. Sounds good to me.
However, I start laughing when it ends up being the pediatric unit that I'm escorted to. And it's decorated so cute, with Dr. Seuss sayings and bright vinyl cut outs everywhere. I get the Dandelion Wishes room. And there's only one other patient on the floor--a two month-old baby, so I pretty much get a dedicated nurse to myself also. Cool.
Hmmmm. Maybe not so cool.
Thirteen large-bore needle sticks that each sting, six different people poking my veins and poking through my veins, and three hours later, we still aren't any closer to having a working IV. Each attempt has been on my right arm, and it's black and blue from end to end now. This is not working.
What other options do we have? They've called up the nursing team from radiology--the same nursing team that helped place and pull the port. They can't find a working vein even with the ultrasound machine, but they do have another suggestion--a PICC line.
Okay, let's do a PICC line. I agree quickly and eagerly to any other idea that will help us accomplish the transfusion goal and get me out of this hospital. It's almost Thanksgiving Day. I have family coming in from St. George. Not just any family, my sister. My closest sister that has been there for me through all of it--even before Dale was in the picture.
"No sedation?"
"Nope."
About thirty minutes later, we have a working PICC line (an IV inserted into my left arm and leading directly to my heart). Hooray! Now we can start the transfusion at 3:30 p.m.--close to the time originally that I was told I'd be finished.
I call my sister and invite her up to the hospital. I feel terrible that she's at my house for the holiday weekend, and I'm in the hospital. She hates hospitals though, so I know she's making a sacrifice just to walk in the doors for me.
She does manage to find quite a bit of humor in the doors to the unit though. Plastered on the wall is the familiar quote "A person's a person, no matter how small."
"There you go, Trish. They were matching your room according to your height. No wonder you ended up in pediatrics!" At least she can find some humor in today's ordeal.
The two units go rather smoothly, and we're finally released around 8:30 p.m. to start celebrating the Thanksgiving weekend.
After checking in to Same-Day Surgery, they tell us that they're moving us to one of the floors to give us a room that's larger. Sounds good to me.
However, I start laughing when it ends up being the pediatric unit that I'm escorted to. And it's decorated so cute, with Dr. Seuss sayings and bright vinyl cut outs everywhere. I get the Dandelion Wishes room. And there's only one other patient on the floor--a two month-old baby, so I pretty much get a dedicated nurse to myself also. Cool.
Hmmmm. Maybe not so cool.
Thirteen large-bore needle sticks that each sting, six different people poking my veins and poking through my veins, and three hours later, we still aren't any closer to having a working IV. Each attempt has been on my right arm, and it's black and blue from end to end now. This is not working.
What other options do we have? They've called up the nursing team from radiology--the same nursing team that helped place and pull the port. They can't find a working vein even with the ultrasound machine, but they do have another suggestion--a PICC line.
Okay, let's do a PICC line. I agree quickly and eagerly to any other idea that will help us accomplish the transfusion goal and get me out of this hospital. It's almost Thanksgiving Day. I have family coming in from St. George. Not just any family, my sister. My closest sister that has been there for me through all of it--even before Dale was in the picture.
"No sedation?"
"Nope."
About thirty minutes later, we have a working PICC line (an IV inserted into my left arm and leading directly to my heart). Hooray! Now we can start the transfusion at 3:30 p.m.--close to the time originally that I was told I'd be finished.
I call my sister and invite her up to the hospital. I feel terrible that she's at my house for the holiday weekend, and I'm in the hospital. She hates hospitals though, so I know she's making a sacrifice just to walk in the doors for me.
She does manage to find quite a bit of humor in the doors to the unit though. Plastered on the wall is the familiar quote "A person's a person, no matter how small."
"There you go, Trish. They were matching your room according to your height. No wonder you ended up in pediatrics!" At least she can find some humor in today's ordeal.
The two units go rather smoothly, and we're finally released around 8:30 p.m. to start celebrating the Thanksgiving weekend.
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