Then we got to the hospital and we were walking very very fast down slick hallways and into 4 different elevators to get to a desk where they all spoke in Hebrew, sometimes flicking their head in my direction so I just smiled back, the smiley American who only speaks one and a half languages while everyone here speaks fluent Hebrew, English, Russian, Arabic, often more. Finally they led me to a bed and told me to put on a gown, which I didn't understand because wasn't this just an iv line sort of thing? Easy peasy, stomach no queasy? Here I am taking a picc of myself--ha ha! see what I did there?--in the hospital bed totally not understanding what the fuck is going on. Dumb American...
|My hair is just tucked beneath my head. It's all still there. Admittedly this is a terrible no-makeup pic of yours truly, but something tells me this treatment is not about looking my best.|
When they put this on my wrist I started to really question my whole "just like an iv line" theory...
Finally they wheeled me away and, long story short, took me into a surgery room where they gave me a few shots of anesthesia, punctured my upper arm and snaked a catheter line into a peripheral vein, advancing it close to my heart. Quick! I have to start a new paragraph because that last sentence gives me the heebee jeebees.
Lesson learned: watch more Nurse Jackie and/or don't be afraid to ask questions. Might as well embrace this whole Dumb American thing seeing as how I told the nurse that el papel está ahí when he couldn't find my form, and Spanish isn't even the half of another language that I speak.
Tomorrow: first day of chemo. Chemo-lite? Campath. ¡Si se puede!