Viral & Bacterial

This is one of the first moments I have had to let my guard down, to let the silent whispers of my mind ring loud. Infusion days always offer trepidation and a sense of comfort, however odd that may be. These feelings are two sides of the same proverbial coin offering little and giving even less.

I worry. I hate that I worry.

 

I have been having difficulty swallowing. Nothing outlandish or extremely painful; no fever, chills, or a cough, just a pain when I sip water or attempt to eat. I mentioned it to Jon but I tried not to complain. It probably seems to him that I complain often but I try not to. There never seems to be a point–he can’t fix it or me, so why make us both suffer?

 

Regardless, I mentioned the pain to my nurses. I don’t exactly have a great track record for my complaints being taken seriously, but I felt like it was important enough to mention. My PA offered to look at my lymph nodes with a light after my drug drip. Her compliance was actually less comforting than I had hoped.

 

My hand breathes tangible life into the phrase “blind faith.” There is an un-feel-able vein in my hand that has offered IV passage for the past two years. Yet, for some reason (probably because I needed bloodwork) the nurse decided to avoid the golden spot (permanently marked by repeated IVs) and go for the visible and bright vein above. To my knowledge, the useable vain has only failed once–to human error, no less–but I digress. For the record, the big vein failed.

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About an hour into a two-and-half- to three-hour treatment I got up to use the restroom. When I looked in the mirror, my eye was red–bright red. I remembered rubbing my eye but I didn’t think much of it at the time. Itchy eyes can be bad news bears during treatment. There is always a risk, an unspoken truth, that any infusion could be the last so I contacted the nurses. One nurse grabbed the PA and together they asked me questions. “Does it hurt to breathe,” do I itch… the questions you would expect to be asked during an allergic reaction. They ran my blood pressure and listened to me breathe. I had driven myself so they didn’t want to administer Benadryl right away. Instead, they turned off my drip and decided to wait a few minutes. My breath sounds were wheezy, but I assumed it was more to do with my lumped throat than anything else.

 

Fifteen minutes is a long time when you are thinking the worst. What happens now? Is this it? Did I really spend countless hours, pain, heartache, and years for this to be how it ends? What meds are still available and which one can I use after Remicade? Did I start with the medication that can move to any of the other biologicals or did I start with the wrong one? Like a clock hand, my mind spun and spun.

 

Thankfully, the rest period seemed to do wonders, and they were able to finish out treatment at a reduced drip rate. After the post-drip flush, one of the nurses walked me across the clinic to a patient room with a light and I felt something warm and sticky. It was an odd sensation; not unpleasant, just foreign. Blood. There was a certain beauty, I must admit, to the stark contrast as the bright red bloomed across my pale skin. My already anxious physique became even more so as the nurse helped me wash up. I noticed a mark, one perfect long scratch marring my unmarked arm. Looking more closely, I realized it was tracking along my vein. Thankfully, the mark seemed to ebb away just as quickly as it appeared.

 

After all of the excitement, the PA looked down my throat and, at my insistence, looked at my belly button. For a while now my belly button has been leaking. Sounds gross because it is gross. I mentioned it months ago to my GI doctor, but he either didn’t hear me or didn’t seem concerned.

I can’t take it anymore. Between the anal wound that won’t heal, the leaking belly button and everything else…I’m tired. I want answers. I want more than a pain prescription and a sympathetic look. I want control, I want my life back.

 

To avoid recapping the entirety of that experience, I’ll just relay the highlights. Basically, I need to pray for both a viral and a bacterial infection. Viral for my throat and Bacterial for my belly button.

Viral and bacterial, these are the best-case scenarios; the things I beseech.

 

There is a saying in Latin: “Aequam memento rubus in arduis servare mentem,” which translates to “remember when life’s path is steep to keep your mind even.” I allow myself to get bogged down with all of the things I cannot control, that I forget to breathe. I wear anxiety and fear like a pair of prized earrings. I allow them to hang from me, alter my appearance, and adorn my person. I would like to think I have gotten better, but if anything, I have gotten worse.

 

How does one go about keeping a level head, anyway?

 

 

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