I think my doctors had a strategy. “Keep her busy with excessive appointments and blood work and she won’t have time to work herself into a tizzy about starting treatment,” they said in a booming “car commercial” voice. I realize this most likely isn’t the way it happened because my main doctors are women, but having Minnie Mouse say it doesn’t have the same authoritative ring. Regardless of which voice was used, I was in every doctor’s office and hospital having every kind of test done at all times of day, which left me breathless and brainless. I was getting an echocardiogram and CDC blood work. I went to a homeopathic nutritionist and filled prescriptions at CVS. I went to my pre-op appointment and had my glucose test done. By the end of this week, I felt qualified to start giving medical advice to other patients in the waiting room. However, the doctors succeeded. I was almost looking forward to starting treatment so I could finally rest. The appointments would be over. I could actually sit in a quiet room on a comfortable chair for two hours with nothing to do but read a book. Of course I’ll have poison being pumped into my system while doing this, but even that didn’t sound too daunting as long as I could take a nap.
Of course no week is perfect, and a small curveball was thrown my way. I have been deemed “unveiny”. This made-up word means I don’t have those huge, snake-like veins that look like someone drew on your inner arm with a blue sharpie. I suppose there will come a day when I am grateful that it doesn’t look like I have track marks on my arm from all the vein and needle hide-and-seek games the doctors would have had to play.
Instead, they have opted to insert a port. What sounded like something simple actually turned into quite an ordeal. This special port will be inserted into the left side of my chest, hooking its little tube into a major vein. It turns out that there isn’t some magical way to insert this port and surgery was added to my list of things to do. We’re talking “I’ll be out for at least an hour” surgery. But that’s not the worst part. I have to stop eating at 8:00 am. Not a drop of water or morsel of food can pass my lips. I won’t actually be getting surgery until about 4:30 and coming back around at 6:00 AT NIGHT. And THEN, I’m whisked upstairs to have the baby monitored for an hour to make sure this little champion still knows how to karate chop. Here’s the problem: anyone who knows my mother or sister realizes that the women in our family have a serious issue with being hungry. In a matter of minutes it goes from sad to cranky to “horror-show,” with innocent bystanders scared for their lives if they don’t give us food. And this is on an average day. Now add seven months pregnant and I don’t even want to think about the attitude I will pull with anyone that tells me to eat yogurt after fasting for ten hours. I’ll start acting like someone who’s been drinking gin on an empty stomach, cussing and throwing things. I know this hasn’t happened yet, but I’m setting the stage for worst possible scenario, which may not be far off from reality. There is a chance I will be asked to leave the hospital and never allowed back.
This could turn into a very exciting day after all! There could be police reports of physical abuse to doctors, patients escaping to Del Taco in their hospital gown with their IV chasing them or even a yogurt being dumped down the shirt of my anesthesiologist. I promise to report all after I’ve eaten my weight in carbs and organic cherries, my latest and greatest craving. Send out that good energy today, because those doctors will need it as much as I will!!