The toughest decision I had to make Monday morning was what pajamas to wear. I played Solitaire in the waiting room with mom on one side and my Ben on the other. I had them wrapped around each arm like kiddie pool floaties. When they called my name I made my last dad joke, “Nope, nobody out here by that…”
The nurse was sweet with a faint, dark mustache and I enjoyed her gentle presence despite the fact that she couldn’t find a vein. We ran out of time because the radiology department was waiting on me, so they sent me on my way with cotton balls taped up and down my arm like a walking preschool craft project.
It was there that I met the woman who would inject piping hot radioactive tracer into my face four times. It felt like a cattle prod and was okay because in my head I thought of it as punishment for leaving a corn poop in their restroom. She stuck the needle in and offered a warning, “Solution” as the tracer oozed. She said “solution” four times and I kept thinking, “Solution for what? This is more like… a problem, lady.”
The real problem is that the only hospital gown they had readily available had a hole in the boob. Nothing a little scotch tape couldn’t solve. I tossed and turned in a tunnel for a little while and a brilliant computer found my sentinel lymph node. The radiologist marked the magical spot on my neck with an ‘x’.
We traveled back to the room where the woman with a mustache tortured me with many needles and met for a little pre-party with my oncologist, plastic surgeon, anesthesiologist, nurses, and my favorite, the woman who could properly administer an i.v. I think I told her I loved her and I was stone cold sober and sincere.
I don’t remember a damn thing after that. I woke up guzzling Sprite and confessing too loudly that my boyfriend is better at taking clothes off than he is putting them back on. Sorry, dad.
I’ll have the lymph node results back on Monday and stitches will come out.
I have to tell you now that I’m afraid the whole thing is going to split open and slide right off my skull.
Cross your fingers if you have them!
I’m glad all went well, except for the human pincushion part. I still have all my fingers so I’ll keep them crossed for ya.
I have been checking on you WAY too often so thanks for the post and the pic. Cool! Think of the stories you could tell–near misses, valiant escapades, tangles with wild animals. I met a Buddhist nun who had a head in bear’s mouth encounter in Nepal. Cuz she’s bald, you can see all the gnarly scars. Yum.
And the piping hot radioactive tracer sounds like something I’d want for breakfast!
XXXX Beth AKA Worry Wart
Every time I have ever needed an IV, I’ve had similar things happen. It sounds like it was a rough trip but you made it!
Thanks for checkin’ in on me, ladies! The good vibes are healing my Frankenface as we type.
You are beautiful. I left this post yesterday but I don’t know what happened. But it’s worth writing twice.
r
that scar is bad ass!!! i love you!
hey butterbean,
I wish my Internet at home wasn’t blipping out all weekend so I could have read this earlier and kept my anxieties at bay.
I’m so glad you’re healing up and you’re looking great. Really. (my imagination had you looking a lot worse!)
Call me when you’re ready. I’m trying to not be a bug and lay my worry eggs into your open sore. And I’ll be glad to whip you guys up some more food if ya need it.
Good luck today.
I love you.
xo Emiry
Rebecca – You are very sweet.
Kate – It was almost literally bad ass if I had let the first plastic surgeon do a skin graft reconstruction.
Emily – One day I’ll draw a picture of what I thought I’d look like afterward. And then we’ll burn it.
Big hug!
I wish you all the best, Sharky.