so...

I am officially terrified of needles. I never used to be, but this is very stressful. I had the chance to get a port but being the hard-ass that I am, I thought I could get through this. I am supposed to drink gallons of water (like I'm drowning) in order to pump up my veins the night before... but nothing seems to work. I am officially... veinless.

The nurses are now arguing over me. "You take her." "No, you take her." "No, that's okay... you do it." I feel so freaking special. I've learned a lot about this chemo culture. At one time I thought that certain nurses would do a better job (you know) the older ones; the more experienced ones. 

But no.

It is the luck of the poke. They warm up your forearm with a heating pad and pray for the best. These infusions are different than just having blood drawn. The chemo vampires dig deeply into bizarre places like your wrist or between your fingers - anywhere these blood suckers can get to you - they will. Horrifying. The more nervous I get, the more fidgety they become and so I like to pretend that this doesn't bother me... as I sit anxiously but calmly in my little chemo-strato-lounger-from-hell. Cold. Alone. 

 Not happy. 

I have exactly three pokes before I begin to well up with tears. I can't take more than three pricks without getting emotional. I try to keep it to myself. After all, I am a gritty, determined kind of girl. I do this very well with magazines as I put them in front of my face so they can't see me crying.  I MUST be strong or the little monsters get edgy, and begin poking quickly; inappropriately; frantically. Many times, I feel like I'm walking them through it to make them feel better. "It's okay. You're doing fine. It doesn't hurt me too much." They don't like it any better than I do, but they have a job to do and remind me weekly that...

 "You could have had a port." 

"You SHOULD have a port." 

"You can get a port now, you know, Sara."

I am vain. I like my chest. I don't want a big, ugly, mother scar on it as a reminder. I have parties to go to. I have sexy dresses to wear. I do NOT want a chemo scar. I have enough scars from this crap on the inside. I have the ones you can't see... the scars of fear; of terror. Yes. I, Sara, have the scars of an unknown future. 

Thrills.

So, Sara (my medical handle and given name) is not so happy about tomorrow's chemo. Yes. Chemo encourages me to talk in the third person. Funny. The nurse-y vampires don't even know my nickname... and I've never offered the info. It doesn't inspire me to get too personal and tell them who I really am...

someone who wants to wake up from this bloody nightmare.

Chemo Theme Song