Today was a mixed freaking bag. I woke with more energy. I think filling my tank with stranger blood was a most excellent idea. Thanks doctors with most excellent ideas.
The first thing I noticed was my face. My mouth didn't literally crack open. My lips weren't almost dead. Translation - my ulcer wasn't on fire. It wasn't stinging the hell outta my mouth. I gawked in the mirror. It even looked better.
How is it possible that yesterday I was preparing to only have soft foods and liquids for the rest of my life, that is, until my reconstructive surgery (you know, after it ate the right side of my face) and today, today I can touch my cheek without tears, I can talk without pain, I can open my mouth wide without immediate regret and I can eat in somewhat comfort.
Is this actually due in part to the stranger blood?
As I'm scarfing the rest of my breakfast down my throat - cause lately my appetite is crrraaazzzy, a porter comes to take me for a PICC line.
YES!!!!!!! Finally. Screw you IV's!
The dude was strange though. Normally the porters bring either a stretcher or a wheelchair...this guy took my whole damn bed to the OR.
The whole bed.
Let me explain the PICC (periphally inserted central catherter). It goes in through the arm and ends in a large vein close to the heart. It is like one stop shopping. Everything can be done from this sucker. Antibiotics, other meds, fluids, blood, coffee, big macs, etc. can be given. What's awesome is that all my blood can be drawn from there - no more pokes every day!!!
Anyway, I get to the OR and we all chat, talk about how amazing and cool I am. I throw an impromptu concert - everyone is in awe and I'm signing autographs all over the place.
Finally we get down to business and I'm prepped. I'm gowned up, I'm placed on the procedure bed, warm blankets are draped on my body as I'm shaking due to the freezing temperature they need to keep it at, my arm is slathered in pink makeup (to sterilize the area) and we are ready.
The PICC specialist poked me. She was a resident. Not that that matters. It's cool; I don't care who works on me. Get it done is what I say. However, it was not meant to be; she couldn't get into my vein. Another PICC specialist (with experience) took over.
The guy poked me SIX more times. The inside of my upper left arm. Go ahead, try it. Think it's no big deal? Try it. See how much you cry and ask for your mom.
I haven't worn oxygen in 14 months. Today I did. I was so thrown off, that I had a mini anxiety attack. After I was finished my dramatic episode, my right arm was painted with the pink makeup and slapped down. Gold on the first freaking try. All good in the hood (arm?).
I've been told my veins are small and sneaky. Now I've been told that I have too much scar tissue on my left arm from PICCs and that they need to use the right arm from now on.
Good to know. Good. To. Know.
The best part of my day came a few hours later.
What I haven't blogged about is the fear that I've been harbouring for weeks...I was certain that I had cancer.
I've been convinced that I was dying. I was so afraid. It turned me into a crazy person. I was cranky, paranoid, sad, angry, frustrated. I wasn't alone in my fear. I had symptoms and we are at an increased risk of certain cancers post transplant due to the anti-rejection meds.
The biopsy results came in.
I cannot express my relief. My utter relief. The overwhelming happiness and excitement for life that I have.
We still don't have answers. We don't know exactly what's wrong with me. But, I know that I can handle it. I'm back. The old me is back.