Well, That's Clear Now

So, there was a reason why Dr. Academic opted for moi to have a simple drainage instead of the booze-inserting procedure...and that reason is, ahem, it effin' hurts. The original radiologist wasn't kidding when she said the drainage was "more comfortable" than the sclerosis procedure. Sheesh. If someone would have explained this, yea, verily, I would have understood.

Everything leading up to the procedure was pretty much the same. The ugly gown, the nasty texturized socks, the struggling to start an IV, the wheeling of my fat ass to the CT scanner. You know, the regular. It became apparent, however, when I entered the room that things were a wee bit different this time around. This time there was a lot more equipment in the room---surgical looking equipment. There were also pads lining the CT Scanner, you know, in case I leaked. They got me set up, and I was introduced to a new radiologist. He was a nice guy, and while I've forgotten his name, he explained that he'd chatted with Dr. Academic, and they'd jointly decided that the best bet for me would be to insert a catheter into the lymphocele, for improved drainage. He said that the alcohol probably wasn't going to do the trick the first time around, that they'd probably have to take two or three whacks at it, and that having a catheter installed would a. make it easier the next time around, it would b. help us determine the amount of drainage to see just how efficacious the process had been in the first place. With that explained, they went to town, doing much the same thing as they had last time, but obviously there were more drugs involved this time because all I really remember about the whole process was that a. it hurt and b. we had an interesting conversation whilst all this was going down about the kidney guy over at Methodist. I expressed my opinion that the mistake had to have been in the chart long enough that everyone thought they were removing the correct kidney, and the radiologist agreed with me. He even added that he'd just looked over some images that morning where left and right had been mixmatched, and said it was hardly uncommon for that to happen. (Take that for what it's worth.) He said he doubted if the surgeon would ever perform surgery again, even if the guy was cleared in the investigation. Interesting conversations aside, soon thereafter I'd had another 50cc of fluid drained, a wire had been inserted via the needle, I'd had a big ol' blue catheter stuck to my belly with adhesive tape, and about 10cc of pure alcohol had been inserted into the lymphocele. Attached to the big blue catheter (it's not really that big. It's a little bit bigger than a fifty-cent piece), is a foot long bit of tubing attached to what looks like IV bag. In the midst of this is a locking mechanism that can turn the flow on or off, or can reverse it entirely. If it wasn't attached to me, it would be interesting, but it is attached to me, so it falls strictly into the "YEEEEUUUCH" category.

They wheeled me back down to my room and then it was time for the ceremonial "Rolling Around of the Patient." They have to make sure that the alcohol hits the entire inside of the lymphocele so I had to spend fifteen minutes on my back, another fifteen on my left side, my right side, and, of course, my belly. This was, to put it mildly, excruciating. Of course, I was starving by this point in time, so I ate lunch while this was going on and was called "Ernie" by the husband because of all the crumbs I left in the bed. {insert "whatever" shrug of shoulders here} Not only was I extremely sore from the catheter insertion, the alcohol stung like a mo'fo. When the nurse pulled the booze out, I was relieved. Until I realized that the pain of having the catheter inserted still hadn't let up. Another nurse, who deals specifically with drains, came in and explained all the various equipment that was now attached to my body, how to keep it clean, how to drain the bag and measure the contents. It's important, we were told, to keep it clean (lest it get infected) and to keep accurate records, because this would be crucial in deciding how many more times I needed to have the alcohol inserted. The more drainage I had, the worse it was, and the more I would have to undergo this procedure. (The radiologist suspected that, even though we were going to give this a good whack, it wouldn't close up at all. He said he thought that the lymph nodes were draining into this thing entirely and that would keep it from doing so, but he was going to give it his best shot, so we wouldn't have to resort to surgery.) The less drainage I had, well, you probably get the picture. After that, they handed me a prescription for some vicodin, all the various equipment we needed to keep the drain up and running, and we were on our way out of there.

So, that's where we're at. I'm very sore right now. Getting up and down, in and out of bed, is trying. Vicodin, again, is my friend. The husband is, poor guy, having to deal with taking care of me. Nevertheless, the pain is better today than it was yesterday, when I was seriously trying to judge just which procedure---my hysterectomy or this---had been more painful. (I've come to the conclusion that I think I just had better drugs after the hysterectomy.) Moving around isn't fun, particularly when you add in that I have to carry around this bag every time I want to go someplace. It's sort of like having an IV, and it's interesting how quickly your mind reverts to having to take that thing with you everywhere, but it's still a pain. I have to cover the stupid thing up with saran wrap when I want to take a shower, and I'm told I can lock the mechanism and disconnect the bag from the tubing when I shower, but I'm scared of doing so, lest I futz the whole thing up because we know Kathy isn't one of the mechanically inclined few. I can't remember whether I'm supposed to call them or if they're going to call me to see where we're at regarding the drainage; I just know I could be back in the radiology department by Friday to have another tete-a-tete with the booze. It's all just a big mess.

But, I suspect, I shall live. Now, if you don't mind, I shall leave you, my devoted Cake Eater readers, because I've got an appointment with my bed and some vicodin and I intend to keep it.