Today was deportation day.
Not in a crackdown on illegal aliens, but a crackdown of another sort.
Since my heart has shown “no improvement” over the last 4 months, I am officially off chemo.
Done with importing un-desirables who suck up all the resources (and nine times out of ten leave the area worse off than they found it), that little super highway is shut down, obliterated, gone. A fence is constructed and baby, it’s live fire. No prisoners.
The actual deportation is 30 minutes long tops, usually done by the surgeon who placed it, an easy in/out procedure, little pain.
Uh-huh.
Medical jargon translation in my world of treatment: Will take at least an hour and frankly, you better plan on an ER visit or two out of this. First and third year interns are performing the surgery without supervision, NOT a real surgeon. And, since it doesn’t really hurt, we probably won’t numb you very well, so you’ll feel pretty much everything. Don’t be such a baby!
This is how the surgery is supposed to go. I watched it and was prepared. Even, might I say, looking forward to it?
Just a few differences. True to jargon, interns performed the surgery. My port, placed by a real surgeon (who is deployed to the desert), was sutured into the tissue. The two interns yanked on it half a dozen times before discovering, um, we can’t just pull it out? Have you seen any sewn in like this? Who put it in? How did he get that suture in there on the bottom? And the conversation flowed over my breast. The only thing missing was a little wine and some cheese.
And the numbing thing? Didn’t happen. You’d think they purchased the meds right out of their Xbox funds. Three little shots. Great for skin, not so much for deeper.
Each yank tore a little tissue inside. (Gross I know! Try laying still for it!)
Much cussing ensued.
Third year intern took over at the 60 minute mark because strangely ”the scar tissue was robust" and “fighting” them. What the hell does that mean? Lots of pulling, scraping, cutting, and yes more cussing.
Though I’ll be honest, that was my biggest contribution.
Well, besides suggesting several times they go get a real doctor.
Each time they assured me “almost done.”
Uh huh.
Medical jargon translation in my world of treatment: Listen here guinea pig. You’re done when we say you’re done. Suck it up. And stop saying you can feel it! We know you can’t!!
At 90 minutes the original incision (from placement) was twice the size, and sutures began. I couldn’t feel those.
Much.
Fifteen minutes to sew internal/external stitches, a little glue, and I am officially de-ported!
Sore and bruised, but back in the land of the living.
The alien is ejected. The hole to the superhighway is officially CLOSED.
Deportation Day was, in the end, a success.
Medical jargon translation in my world of treatment: Barring infection, suture failure, or general wonkiness, you will probably be ok.
For awhile.