Guess who's got a port now? I'll give you a hint...he's got two thumbs, one ball and cancer.
Had a busy day at hospitals today. I started out at Mary Greeley, getting baselines for hearing and pulmonary function before heading back to the office for a solid 45 minutes of work before my surgery to have my port put in. You know what makes surgery even more fun? Having your insurance company not give you a clear A-OK on the procedure before starting...that's just a running kick to the nut. (Half-metaphorically)
I got a call last night from a nurse in my surgeon's office telling me she was fighting with my insurance company because they still hadn't given pre-approval for my port to be "installed." (Makes me sound like a robot). She said she'd get it taken care of this morning, and 1 hour before I had to show up for surgery she called back letting me know they had given her an answer of "maybe," but nothing definitive. "So, it's up to you at this point," she said. Great. How expensive is this? "Very. The device they're putting in you is two grand by itself, not to mention surgery and anesthesia."
A quick call to my HR head went unanswered...she was in a meeting. Another quick call to her secretary informing her, politely, to find her got her on the phone.
"I have cancer and start chemo Monday, for which I need a port. Our insurance company apparently believes this port is a luxury. Should I just skip the chemo and try to ride this out with some amoxicillin or something?" Ten minutes and a phone call to the national HR and I'm given the green light. "You do what you need to do to get better, don't worry about it," she said. Our HR head is actually pretty awesome.
I head into surgery, where I'm briefed by the nurses. I should use this opportunity to say how cool the nurses at BCH are (Boone County Hospital, for all you laypeople). Yesterday, one of the nurses called to confirm and mentioned, "I'm a cancer survivor myself. You actually interviewed me and wrote an article about me last year for Relay for Life. Maybe I should interview you tomorrow." Was that a cancer burn? I believe so.
They asked me to wear a button down shirt with no shirt on under it so the surgeon could get to my chest with ease. I found out quickly that they must have done this to mess with me, because as soon as I got there they made me get in one of those ridiculous gowns. I'm not sure why I thought it would be any other way...you don't often see television shows about surgery where the patient is on a table with a button-down shirt spread open like Scott Stapp.
More paperwork, questions about allergies, and an IV is started on me. I show her my veins, figuring she'll be impressed with how bulgy and visible they are through my pale skin. She is impressed. Win.
Lauren's hanging out with me in the room when my surgeon shows up, rocking jeans and a polo. He's visibly angry and starts going off on a tangent about how much my insurance company sucks and how I deserve so much better than that and compares the entire experience to beating a dog. That's no joke...I laugh genuinely, but I'm scared. I think about every time I've tried to assemble something when I'm pissed off. I'm not sure I want a pissed off surgeon's hands inside me trying to get a plastic tube into my vein. If it's anything like when I tried to put together my barbecue grill, he'll get to the end, notice an extra piece lying on the table and say, "To hell with it, it should still work." (Although, to be fair, my grill still works marvelously)
My surgeon calms down and begins joking with my wife and I like he did a couple days earlier in our meeting. He's hilarious and just a genuinely nice guy. He leaves, and returns five minutes later. I was at the hospital two days earlier taking photos and writing an article on a radiology doc that shaved his moustache for charity. One of the surgery nurses remembered which shoulder I had my camera bag on and suggested I get my port put in the other side of my chest. This is why small towns, and the hospitals they have, are awesome.
The nurse comes in and grabs my IV so I can shuffle past the entire nursing staff wearing a stupid gown and socks. This is exactly what a dog must feel like being taken on a walk.
I get to the surgery room and, like my orchiectomy (read: half-neutering), it's packed. I'm put on a table, given the good anesthesia, and just like last time it's like all of a sudden I'm in recovery.
When I had surgery to remove my cancer-infested ball, they gave me pudding. Now, getting a port put in me, they brought me pork chops and mashed potatoes. This is the greatest thing ever, and I tell them that. There must be a pattern here...lose a ball, get pudding. Get a port, get pork chops. I assume if I'm ever castrated I'll be given a "Fun Size" Hershey's bar, and if I'm ever given a prosthetic hip I'll get filet mignon.
So now I'm the $2,000 man with a port leading directly to my vein, sitting conveniently under my clavicle just under the skin like a weird lump. Man...I've got one nut, a lump under the skin on my chest and I'll be bald in two weeks from chemo. It's a good thing I locked down my wife when I did.
Tomorrow I've got one last meeting with my spermatologist, a meeting with my oncologist to finalize everything, and the chemo starts Monday. Five days of poisoning myself, throwing up and sleeping 14 hours a day...it's going to be just like college, only with less sleep.
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