After three months it was time to say goodbye to the fuckman line. It’s been a weird relationship. I hated having a tube sticking out of me. The feel of it rubbing on my clavicle. Not being able to have a shower or get it wet. But then I loved it, because it meant I didn’t have to have any more needles or cannulas stuck in me for the rest of my treatment.
“It normally only takes 20 minutes to remove” says my Oncologist.
Unfortunately I don’t seem to do ‘normal.’
It took two and a half hours to cut it out of my chest. And I was awake the whole time. Apparently it had started to grow into my muscle. I lost count how many times my oncologist injected my chest with anaesthetic (she was almost in tears she was so sorry for hurting me.) It didn’t seem to make a difference. I could feel the knife cutting in. The poor patients in the chemo unit who could hear my cries, screams and “FUUCCCKKKKK”s. I didn’t think it could get any worse than having the fuckman line put IN. But this was by far the most traumatic of my cancer experiences.
As I staggered out, I made it clear if my cancer comes back, I’m having a portacath put in. That’s a little metal gadget that goes under the skin. And the patient is well and truly unconscious for that bad boy.
