The Borg Queen

So I am now feeling slightly like the Borg Queen from Star Trek (pictured left). I only have one portacath and it's only visible as a bump under the skin above my right tata, but still - it's a foreign body and definitely feels like one.

In about a week or two, I won't have hair and the resemblance will be even more striking. I don't expect to be wearing leather, though, and could only hope to look as good as she does in it! And although she's a bit eerie, I think she looks pretty good bald. From past experience, I know that I can only hope to aspire to those in the "bald and sultry" group, alas - and I certainly don't want to share her fate (she gets obliterated by Picard) - so I am fine with not looking too much like her!

I've been busy since I last posted with appointments every other day or so: I've had my teeth cleaned, I've had a mammogram on the right tata, I've had the port put in and I've had the MUGA - plus I've met with students and done other work as well.

The port.The most traumatic of all the health-related stuff for me was the port surgery because I'd had such a crappy time of it last time. Last time, they took me in, prepped me (which included literally taping me to the table), and then left me in the dark for two hours unable to move an inch (some emergency of which I was not told). I was very very unhappy about this and was determined to avoid a repeat performance.

Despite trouble putting in the IV (sigh) and although I was still taped to the table (across my right tata no less with three very wide and long pieces of what looked like masking tape), things went better this time but not the best. Mike was quite happy to tell all the doctors, techs, and nurses about my previous experience and they all agreed it sounded horrible and that it would not happen this time. And it didn't, so that was good!

Mike was also quite happy to tell everyone that I tend to be quite chatty under conscious sedation, which was very true the last time. This time was different, though. What I think happened was that the happy juice wore off after the first little while and because I felt little to no pain, it didn't quite occur to me to ask for more. As a consequence, I felt all kinds of icky tugging and pulling and pushing that I really wish I hadn't felt. They told me that they would be tugging quite hard and they weren't kidding.

I didn't realize how distressed I was until tears suddenly started leaking out of the corners of my eyes. At about that time, a nurse came around to look at my face and when she saw this, she spent the whole rest of the surgery rubbing my temples (there are angels everywhere). I didn't ask for more stuff because we were nearly done - just getting stitched up - and I didn't see the need. I think they all thought because I was so quiet that I had gone to sleep but I was awake through all of it.

The whole point of the happy juice is so that you forget all the unpleasant sensations but I can remember every blasted second. I don't know why it didn't occur to me to ask for more but when I get this removed you can bet I'll tell them to fill me up! I went home nearly right away after they were done since I hadn't had anything for over an hour - and the nurse remarked on how very well I did. I'd rather be a wimp and not remember a thing!

The MUGA. I learned that MUGA stands for multi-gated analysis and that the procedure uses gamma rays to take pictures of the heart. After one failed attempt to insert an IV by a well-meaning and very nervous community college student and one successful attempt by the same young woman who'd injected me for the bone scan, they took a little bit of blood. My blood was mixed with a radioactive isotope and after an hour, they gave it back to me through the IV. This was all done in Nuclear Medicine, which is the same dimly lit and depressing place I went for the bone scan. I had to lie down with leads attached and then they positioned the gamma camera over me to take three pictures of my heart. Unlike with x-rays, where the machine emits radiation, with the MUGA, you are radioactive and the machine is not. I wonder how much radiation I have accrued in the past month? Let me know if you see me glowing!

I actually dozed a bit during this procedure and only woke up because of the heart episode Mike has already described. I will say in all honesty that it scared the crap out of me despite my having had similar episodes before. I woke up with my heart literally feeling like it had leaped out of my chest and looking down I could see my heart beating way too fast through my shirt. I had trouble catching my breath and worried about passing out. I was unable to call for help (and found myself pushing a phantom call-button with my thumb) until it had subsided somewhat. The tech reacted with no concern whatsoever when I told her what had happened and suggested I just stay lying down until I felt better. I could wish that the MUGA caught it and then everyone would know I am not crazy but I'm pretty sure the camera was done taking pictures by the time this happened. I do not for a moment believe these are panic attacks since I am almost always sleeping or doing something fun and non-threatening when they happen. I really hope that someone figures out what they are some day.

Chemo. Tomorrow morning I go for my first "diffusion", as they call it. HA! Is that a euphemism or what? In the end, my doctor recommended the Plan B chemo regimen, mainly to avoid giving me any more of the scary heart-threatening kind. I am relieved about that. I will also be getting Taxotere and not Taxol and I'm happier about that, too, since the risks are slightly lower for any resulting neuropathy. Mike and I plan to stop en route tomorrow and get a "chemo kit", the essential component of which is trashy entertainment magazines. I think I'm also going to bring extra socks because I remember getting cold feet (no pun intended).

In anticipation of impending ickiness, I went to JoAnn and spent too much money on craft supplies (they were having a sale, okay?). When I got home, Mike asked how much I had spent and I said "the exact right amount for someone about to have chemo." That's a good argument, right? And just so you know how good Mike is to me, he actually asked to see what I had bought and sat through my five minute show-and-tell (okay, maybe ten minutes).