In The Sticks
Today was my last chemo treatment. Amazing! One leg of this journey is behind me and we are moving forward. Thank you for being here with me: it truly warms my heart each time someone tells me that they are following along and they’re reading the blog. It boosts my spirits to hear that what I write serves you well. Thank you for continuing to read. I will continue to try to make these writings worthy of your time.
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I started chemotherapy in September and here we are in February, so close to the finish line I can taste it.
I go to chemo every week (read more about that from my last entry). About 5 weeks ago, the nurses started having trouble accessing my port. (Side note: if you don’t know what a port is, you’re not a dummy. I didn’t either until I had to have one put in. It is a little device that is put under the skin, usually on the upper chest. It enables the direct application of infusions and drawing blood.) It was taking multiple efforts by multiple nurses. One week led to another; it was harder and took longer each time. Finally, I was scheduled for a “Portogram”, a scan that showed my port had flipped upside down and backward. Well: that explained that.
Using their hands and watching on the live scan, two doctors and a nurse used what I can only call a very uncomfortable amount of pressure, and they re-flipped the port. Yay— success! But by my next chemo treatment, it had flipped again. Back to the drawing board.
My surgeon—who is a seasoned expert and the Director of the Cancer Institute at UT—tells me that in his entire career, he’s only had this happen twice. Lucky me. I had a choice: I could do another port surgery, or I could do the rest of my chemo directly through my veins.
I’m so close; I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. Another surgery feels like a step backward.
So, we’ve been going through my veins. And these toxins—which are simultaneously saving my life and poisoning me—weaken my veins. At first, it was fine, but with each treatment, it is getting more difficult for the nurses to access a vein. I feel like I jumped from the frying pan into the proverbial fire.
Each week, I brace myself for at least 7-8 ‘sticks’ trying to get a vein that will hold the flow of chemo. I have bruises all over my arms where the veins are collapsing. It’s been the most defeating part of this entire journey for me. I have gained weight. I have been sick. I’ve been fatigued. My hair has fallen out. My appetite is weird. I can’t sleep. But for me, this has been the most crushing.
These oncology nurses are giving it their all. I walk into that infusion room and I swear their faces fall just a little because everyone knows where this is going: three nurses trying for it, tensions building, difficulty finding the veins; then veins blowing once they’re found. It’s a trial for us all.
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My 14th chemo session—the third-to-last chemo —was particularly bad. Three nurses tried in each arm, two veins had blown, entire vessels seemed to disappear in plain sight. Almost an hour had passed with all of their efforts, but no success.
Tears stung at the back of my eyes. I tried to hold them in but could not. I was beaten down and exhausted. I texted Ty: “I wish you were here with me.” A few tears dripped down my cheeks.
That was when Tasha entered my line of vision. Tasha was Nurse 4. She isn’t normally in the infusion room—she’s in the lab drawing blood, but someone had gone and retrieved her. I supposed that we were all tapped out and needed a fresh approach.
She quietly pulled up a chair and sat down. She looked at me. She looked down at my hand (which was the next place to try). She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled, and said in an audible whisper: “JESUS.”
And she stuck me. Boom: She got the needle in the vein on her first try. It stayed solid.
I was reminded again that we are asked to pray. We are asked to ask.
That session was fraught with tension, nerves, and tears. (One of my nurses said, “I’m sweating. I’m literally sweating.” And she was.)
The thought came to me that this needed to be a very specific prayer point. So, I asked everyone on my Facebook cancer update page (aptly named, “Keeping You Abreast on Sarah’s Cancer”) to pray for the upcoming Tuesday. Pray for easy vein access. Ask with me. Like Tasha: invoke the name and presence of Jesus with me in this trial.
Because prayer changes things.
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I do not understand prayer. I participate in prayer, but I do not claim to understand it. I also don’t understand (really) how planes fly or how the sun makes plants grow, but I’m still happy to get on a plane for a trip and plant my peony bushes by the mailbox. I have experienced air travel and I know it works. I’ve cut my peony blossoms and enjoyed them on my kitchen table, even though I don’t know how those blooms came to be.
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The next week, on the morning of my 15th session, the second-to-last chemo treatment, I had texts flowing in. Friends were wishing me luck with the veins; affirmations from my people: they were praying over these veins, that they had been praying. But honestly, I was filled with apprehension as I walk into the Infusion room. I was mentally and emotionally preparing for another hour of defeat. Here we go again.
I sat down, and Nurse Alex approached. Phew—She’s a good one at sticking. She didn’t look as nervous as I felt.
Alex, I said, I have to tell you that I have a lot of people praying for you to get this needle in my vein. So, between you and Jesus, you’ve got some work to do. No pressure.
She looked me up and down. Don’t worry, honey. She sat beside me. I looked away because watching these efforts only makes it worse. I focused on my neighbor, Debby. We chatted for a moment. Alex got up and walked away.
The needle was in on the first try. I didn’t even feel it.
I cannot explain this. I can only tell you the story and let you come to your own conclusions.
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We are all “in the sticks” in some way: the situation you have no control over. You try all the things, and you keep coming up dry. You’re weary of it. You feel defeated by it.
A lonely marriage, a chronic illness, a wayward child, financial insecurity, anxiety, mental illness, body image issues, addiction, job problems, singleness, infertility, divorce. A cancer diagnosis. Veins that won’t take.
These come to mind. Of course, there are many, many more.
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Today was my last chemo treatment. Friends and family flooded my lawn. We drank hot chocolate (because it is 24 degrees outside). My house is chock-full of balloons and flowers. I love flowers. I love them: I can never have too many. I have flowers in the kitchen, flowers on the mantle, flowers in our living room, flowers in the powder room.
Maybe this is just the reminder I need, peppered all over my house, in every room: there are some things that I may not understand, but I sure can appreciate the beauty.
