Post Chemo

Good morning one and all. Here is the story of my first trip to the General for chemo. I arrived on time (through some traffic miracle because I still had quite a few things to do at home and left a little late) and headed upstairs to the chemo unit. The receptionist met me and asked me whether I had received training on the computerized Interactive Symptom Assessment and Collection (ISAAC) system. Nope! Bummer, because she had no idea how to use it and usually the volunteers were there to show new patients but they were all off due to the holiday. No worries, I blog now so I can figure this out.

I went over to ISAAC, sat down and pressed "Start". So far so good. The system then asked me to swipe my health card. Again, no problem. Then the damn thing asked me for my password. Hmm. There was no option for "Don't have an account with us? Press here to set one up" or "New patient? Set up your password by touching here". Stumped, I entered a password that I would like to use, hoping the system would pop up a screen that says, "That password is not recognized. Are you a new user? Touch here" Nope. It just told me that I didn't have the proper credentials to log in. Back to the reception desk.

"Ah," she said, "I recall receiving an e-mail with the default password a while ago. Let me check." and she started searching her e-mail. My hope was not high. What if her e-mail looked like mine at work? That would mean about 6,000 unread messages in the in-box and about 100 electronic folders to search, totally tens of thousands of e-mails!! I'd be here until Christmas and I haven't made the blueberry muffins yet!! Apparently her e-mail doesn't look anything like mine because she found the e-mail she was looking for in relatively short order and proceeded to scan through it. Sadly, the e-mail did not contain the necessary information. I glanced back at the computer booth and noticed some papers on top of the desk. "Maybe they have the info." I told her and walked back over. Sure enough, taped to the wall of the kiosk was the default password if you are a new user. Now, while this is helpful and I perhaps should have spent more time sitting and searching the walls of the kiosk for the info, in my defence, the walls were covered with various flyers for various goods and services. Also, who buidls a compputer system that doesn't include all the necessary processes - requiring paper to go along with the paperless system?? In any event, it took less than two minutes, once I had all the info, to fill out the form. I was impressed by the paperless system. So far I have been inundated with paper from the hospital. Tons and tons of information on all kinds of things. I can't imagine why they don't just select from a menu everything that applies to my cancer when I first meet the oncologist and then print it all to a CD and just give me that (with an index that's searchable and user-friendly, of course) and stop with all the paper! Sadly, ISAAC let me down again, it's parting words being "Your report is now printing". After all the computer stuff, I had to take the paper in to the chemo nurse, who was sitting at a computer.........

The receptionst had my chemo paperwork but not the bloodwork that I was having done first for the D-sab clinical trial of which I'm now an official member. She called and they said for me to come on back. I keep calling the place "Pathology" which cracks up the receptionst. Apparently the blood sucking unit of the chemo lab is called "Pharmacology". I understand why not "Pathology" but I don't understand why "Pharmacology". In any event, I explained to the receptionist my noun handicap (I never get them right!) and I just got a strange look. I was once told the name of this brain block that I have (I'm assured it's a real thing), but it was a noun, so I forgot it.

I meet a new tech in the blood section and she is pleased to see the bulge of the PICC in my arm(which I looked up and which stands for Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter - which totally explains the half meter of tubing in me). I sat down and rolled up my sleeve and the tech just said, "Uh oh". These are words that should never be uttered by anyone in the medical field, a tatoo artist or a hairdresser. There may be others, but these are the ones that I have encountered in my life. Apparently what I thought was the pink dissinfectant that they used during the PICC insertion seeping into my jacket and all over the bandage was actually blood. In fact, the bandage was huge with dried blood. No question, it needed to be changed. And that sparked what would be quite the debate!

The tech proceeded to take the six vials of blood from the PICC. When I saw how many vials she had I was glad I had prepared food b/c I was sure that I was going to pass out. (Sadly, as it turns out I had left my food and phone at home together on the kitchen counter. Gladly, I didn't feel faint.) She then told the other tech that she was going to change the bandage. "No way" came the reply. "There is a procedure to doing this. We need to get a nurse. We're not trained. I don't think we want to touch this. We should call the PICC team." That caught my attention. Yes, please get a nurse. Yes, please call the PICC team. I didn't say anything, curious as to how this would pan out. The younger tech was keen to prove her mettle, clearly. She told us both that she had changed a PICC dressing at Bruyere when she worked there and at the General while she was a student. If she wanted to give it a try I would let her - until she hurt me of course - and I could always have the chemo nurse check it to make sure that it was done properly. This was not to happen however as the older, extremely sensible tech went to get a nurse. While she was gone I re-assured the younger one not to worry. "The procedures are there to protect you. I'm a dreadfully mean lawyer, so you really do have to be careful. You'll get your training and then you can explore all the disgusting PICC dressings you want." She laughed and in the result was very helpful during the process, always ready with the saline to help un-stick the dressing and getting all the supplies to hand.

My PICC debacle resulted in three nurses and the two techs coming to my rescue. Everyone was circled round. I felt like human carrion. Slowly, gently, and with the aid of much saline, they managed to peel away the putrid dressing. "Ech!", said one of the nurses. "Ech?! You can't say "Ech!". I'm sitting here. I can hear you." She quickly responded, "Not you, just the PICC!" Ha! not helpful! I told her that I was just ribbing her - mostly to keep my mind off the goo that was my arm, but (and I didn't tell her this part) because you shouldn't say "Ech!" in front of the patient!

Eventually, the techs and one of the nurses went for lunch, the Ech nurse went back to her bay and I was left with one lovely nurse who did a fantastic job. There were major blood clots gooing up everything, I was still covered in pink dissinfectant and you should see the bruise! It's even better than the one I got from the unfrozen biopsy that I survived. The biggest irony in this entire saga is that I had no symptoms from the cancer itself, but the medical profession is now trying to kill me. At this rate, there is a slightly higher than de minimis chance that they will succeed. Off to the chemo bay! (Actually, now I am off to run some errands - only medical and not Christmas b/c I'm ready!!! In the result, I'll have to finish this blog a little later - but I'll do it today - promise.