Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille

I have been busy-I wish I could say it was something other than hospital visits, but-not so. A morning appointment means you sit around all day-and I do mean, all day. That happened several times this past week. If you are going to an appointment with a consultant-well, anyone, really-you must remember to bring lunch. And a big bottle of water. And a book-something around the size of War and Peace should see you through. Maybe.

I did my due diligence. I had a lump removed, and it turned out to be a not-so-good lump. But, the surgeon got the whole thing, so I am clear (ish). I'm on the "watch" list: they are going to watch for symptoms. Of course, they had me on the watch list in 2010, and that didn't work out so well, did it? I need to check for symptoms-I am on so many antibiotics, how would I know a symptom if I saw one? So I get a colonoscopy in six months and we will all see if anything else decides to appear. Colonoscopies-so much fun.  I had a colonoscopy. Get near my back end and I will kick very hard. I honestly don't know how anyone could stand having anal sex. They must be masochists.

It's reached a point where they (surgeons) have taken so many pieces of my body that they will soon be able to make a quilt. King-sized, of course. Perhaps they could do with making a few lamp shades and sending them to BMW (oooooh, that was a funny, not a dig at the Germans. I promise!).

Last week I had to go to the pre-admission clinic at the Royal Free, which is where I will be having my reconstruction (eventually. Remember hurry up and wait?), I went through my medical history, had height and weight measured, the usual boring stuff-and two veins in my arm destroyed before the nurse actually went to get someone who knew what he was doing. By that time, of course, I was horribly bruised. Good thing I am a pacifist. Then I had to go into another room, where a cameraperson was waiting-complete with lights. Very professional. I had to remove my shirt, and the woman photographed my chest from every angle. I couldn't help but laugh: there I was in a soft porn shoot. I told her that if I had known I was going to be photographed, I would have worn Spanx. She just looked at me. Oh, well, it's only a scarred chest. Big deal.

Friday arrived, and I had to go to the day surgery area at yet another hospital. This is due to the fact that, although I initially swore I would never have one, I agreed to have a hemodialysis line inserted. Hemodialysis line: to me it is a PortaCath (something for you anoraks out there to Google. I did-repeatedly-before I agreed to have one).

A PortaCath is a line that goes from a small port (inserted in the chest wall) into the tip of the heart. I don't really like the idea of someone shoving something into my chest-even worse is the fact that the line goes into the main vein into the heart-but it was either that or continue to have what few veins I have in my arms completely brutalized and destroyed. Even John (my nurse) finds it difficult to find a vein to take blood, or to cannulate for my antibody infusions. So I reluctantly agreed to it. And I am still surprised, one week later, I am still alive. More or less.

The hospital transport was too early, I had to wait around for hours (and I didn't bring a book-shame on me, I should know by now!!. The anesthetist made a mess of my vein that held the cannula, and my hand blew up to twice its size. I was nearly screaming, it was so painful. They really screwed up-and I was terrified that if they couldn't even get a line into my hand, what were they going to do with the PortaCath?

Well. I got through it all, and got home 12 hours after I arrived at the hospital-with a very swollen hand and a very sore chest. I was told to keep the wound covered, and not to get it wet for at least five days. That was Friday; on Monday I had to go back in for my antibody replacement-through the port. It hurt. And when I got to the clinic, I had the chance to look at my port in front of the mirror.

Oh, good grief, I couldn't believe it! Matt, my immunologist, said it would be about the size of a small egg-or a button. Most of the "egg", he said, would be inside the chest. And the surgeon who installed the thing said that he was going to use the smallest pediatric port he had. I can imagine if he put one of these in a baby-you would need a hoist just to carry it around. This Porta Cath is about the size of a double-stuffed Oreo. And there is a huge tube that runs from the Oreo up over my collarbone and down into my chest. My goodness, I look sexy. To a blind person, maybe.

I was nearly in tears. All the nurses came over and said how good it looks-and John said that it is really quite small-but it sticks out because I have no fat on top. So couldn't they have put it in my thigh? Plenty of fat there! So I have been grumpy, tired and in pain all week. And this thing in my chest looks like it is an alien ready to jump out (I knew I shouldn't have watched that movie again!).

I'm told that it will look better after a few weeks, and will settle down and be a lot less painful. After awhile, the doctor said, I wouldn't even know it is there. Hah. Of course he would say that: he isn't the one who is walking around with a double-stuffed Oreo in his chest.