It’s about 6 a.m., and Tugboat is lying on the floor next to the bed, staring at me like I’ve failed him somehow. The list of possible infractions is long—maybe I didn’t wake up early enough, or maybe I just exist in a way that displeases him this morning. It’s hard to say.
I tried to write this post last night but got too tired to finish. That’s probably the first clear side effect I’ve noticed from chemo: fatigue. I’m sleeping more during treatment—for better or worse. Still, if this is the worst of it, I’ll take it. It feels strange to use the word “lucky” in the context of cancer, but I’ve always believed in silver linings.
Yesterday, I disconnected my chemo pump for the second time.
The first time was… a bit of a disaster. There was an alarming amount of blood coming from the chemo line—the one that connects directly to my heart. There were a few moments of panic, disbelief, and a growing sense that something had gone very wrong. It’s not the kind of thing you forget. So this time, I made sure to avoid the mistakes that led to that mess.
Still, in typical fashion, there was a complication. Wouldn’t be a proper update without one.
I’d made it all the way home from MD Anderson without the saline flush or the anti-clotting medication required to safely disconnect from the port. You need to flush the line and then prevent clotting—because, obviously, you don’t want a clot traveling to your heart. Kind of important.
I called the hospital. They called pharmacies. I called pharmacies. No one within a hundred miles had it. Because of the holiday, the earliest I could get it was Tuesday. At one point, the only real option seemed to be driving all the way back to Houston—an idea that was only slightly more appealing than ripping the thing out and hoping for the best.
Fortunately, a friend of a friend—who also has a chemo port and happens to be a nurse—had exactly what I needed. Total lifesaver.
By that point, I was more than ready to get the tube out. Having a line connected directly to your heart is… unsettling. I prepped everything carefully, determined not to repeat my previous mistakes. And for the most part, things went smoothly.
Mostly.
I forgot to remove the air from the saline syringe before connecting it. Somehow—through luck, divine oversight, or sheer grace—I avoided injecting an air bubble into my heart. I’m still not entirely sure what would’ve happened. Google’s range of answers goes from “nothing at all” to “instant death.” Which is always fun to read mid-crisis.
One of those moments where the phrase “What’s the worst that could happen?” deserves a pause.
It’s still surreal to realize that there’s a tube running from outside my body directly into my heart—and that this is, somehow, the safest and most effective way to receive treatment. I can’t help but wonder who first pitched this idea. How do you convince someone to let you stick a line into their heart to deliver poison, with the promise it might heal them? That person was either wildly persuasive… or a master of the dark arts who used voodoo, hypnosis, or some unholy combination of both to get someone to agree. Either way, I’m grateful they did—because I’m not sure what the alternative would’ve been.
Round two is done. Tugboat is still mad that I interrupted whatever vacation he thought he was having while i was gone. But I’m home, the pump is off, and for now—hope is still holding steady.