Setbacks, communication breakdowns, tears, frustration with the oncology nurses, anger eating at me as I fall asleep. "That's what the doctor wants." "Are you telling me I don't have a choice?" "That's what the doctor said he wants." "Well, can I speak to the doctor, then?" I'm not going to go into detail about the crap that's transpired in the past 24 hours. The end result is that instead of having a Power Port in my chest, I now have a PICC line hanging out of my arm — a 43-centimeter catheter threaded through a vein and running to a larger vein near my heart. I'll wear it for the week that I have chemo, and then they'll get the port in me for the next cycle. The nurse who put my PICC line in this morning, a motherly woman named Sally, wasn't above giving me big hugs, and that helped a lot. And they put Pride and Prejudice (the Kiera Knightley version) on a portable DVD player for me to watch during the 15 minutes it took to put it in. It hurt less than I thought it would.
What else? Chemo starts tomorrow. I got an answer to my night sweat question: Don't sleep next to my children, and wash the sheets every day. So that's one more thing to add to the long to-do list of chemo care. I'm totally overwhelmed. I'm still reading up on nutrition. My friend Shannon gave me a copy of Entertainment Weekly devoted to the new Sex and the City movie; reading it last night in the tub made me forget, for a few minutes, that I have cancer.