A Gun Shot Wound and View From Rock Bottom

"What's so funny?" 

Those were the first words I heard from my surgeon when I woke up from my port surgery.  Apparently I was laughing when I came out of anesthesia.  I'm not sure why because there was nothing funny about it.  A freezing, cold room, bright lights, hard gurney, ridiculous gown, and five different people in my face asking me how I was feeling. 

For anyone who has ever been under anesthesia, you know what I'm talking about it.  It's a lot to take in when it feels like you just finished your eighth losing game of beer pong, and the only thoughts that come to mind are, "Who are you?  Where did Brad Pitt go? And why did you shoot me in the chest?!?"

When the anesthesia finally wore off and I realized I was no longer at a fraternity party, they assured me that the surgery went well.  But the next several days seemed to prove otherwise. 

The pain was excruciating.  Since my surgeon was able to tuck the actual port into my axillary, the tube (which carries the chemo to my veins) stretches from my armpit to the main vein in my chest.  What does this mean other than gnarly bruising, multiple scars and raised skin (from where you can see the tube and port)?  Every single time I moved any portion of my upper left body, it felt like someone was shooting me in the chest.  And the worst part?!?  Every type of pain medication I tried made me sick so I was forced to suffer the pain without any. 

But as I have learned the hard way, cancer does not take a day off, so neither could I.  Less than 14 hours after my surgery, I was back at happy hour getting my first dose of the new chemotherapy.  And just getting to the bar alone was a battle.  Between the stabbing pains triggered by every tiny bump we hit, to the vomiting from the pain medication (before I finally gave it it all up), nothing about that day was happy.

But not even that week of extreme pain, nausea, vomiting and insomnia (all exacerbated by the fact that I had three days of appointments to go to) could bring me to rock bottom.  Nope, that day would come exactly one week after my surgery...

The first day I went to have my blood drawn directly from my port.  You know the whole reason I got the port in the first place...to make things easier to draw blood and get chemo since all my veins are filled with scar tissue.  But after 45 minutes, of two different nurses repeatedly poking me under my arm (which was still extremely sore from the surgery), all while I tried my best to put on a brave front for my mom who seemed to be doing everything she could to hold back tears, they ended up having to draw the blood from my hand.  The port didn't work...or so I thought. 

As we left the hospital, I was overcome with emotion.  I was in so much pain.  I was scared.  And I was pissed.  I had done every single thing my doctors told me to do.  I endured six months of chemo, two surgeries, physical therapy, all while never losing the smile from my face.  But yet, somehow, that still wasn't enough. 

The cancer had made almost every decision for me for the last seven months.  But now it was my turn to make one.  I vowed that if my port didn't work or if my chemo nurses couldn't access it on the first try the next day for chemo, I wasn't going to go through with the rest of my chemo.  Enough was enough and I simply was not going to endure anymore pain. 

Fortunately for me, my chemo nurse had absolutely no trouble accessing my port.  And as of this week, I finished my first of three rounds of chemo (each round is three weeks).  Let's hope there really are only two more rounds left this time!

You know, I've seen a lot of different things with sayings of all of the things cancer can't do...like, it can't cripple love and it can't shatter hope.  But let me tell you what it can do.  It can cause you to look inside of yourself and see what you're really made of.  I'm not proud of how I was ready to give up that day.  But I am proud of how I bounced back and continue to fight like hell each and every single day.