Streeeeeee-ike Three? Or, here Pussy.

Because of my tiny deep veins I am left with massive bruises each time a Vampire comes to take blood, it was decided that I should have a PIC line installed...a permanent line inserted beneath the skin from an arm along the Brachial into or near the heart. This was to be done two days before Chemo. So, last Wednesday NOAOs took me over to the hospital for what should have been a quick routine job. Turned out to be another four hours before we left and as I was washed out went straight home.

On Friday I noticed that my left hand was swollen [the side where the PIC line had been inserted] and my heart sank and with good reason; what should have been at the most, a three hour stay ended up to be six and a half plus some bad news.

By the time I was first seen, doctors consulted,  scans decided, waiting times counted, scan completed, colleagues consulted and decisions made and finally passed on to me, and two hours had past. Seems that the Line was in three centimetres too far, that I now had a blood clot or two and...icing on the cake kiddos...would have to inject myself into my abdomen once every evening for...whistles bell and drum roll here please:

THE NEXT SIX MONTHS


You couldn't make it up, could you.

By the time the chemotherapy had run in and we were finally home and was still murmuring 'six months, I should live that long.'

But then I thought...strike three...you are out kiddo. But NOAOS son said
'What if all this time you are not that strikee, but the cat with nine lives? Still got 6 for the feckers to feck up.

There's a thought.