A Little Picc Me Up

So today. Ahron, the driver who looks like Robert DeNiro circa Meet The Fockers but has the crazy kinetic energy of You Talkin' To Me DeNiro without any of the rage, only sweet, sweet positivity and boundless charm, Ahron, the driver took us to the hospital for me to get my picc line. I didn't understand why we needed to go to the hospital for this. I thought it was a simple thing like an iv line they keep open, but no. We sped across Tel Aviv (I think), all while Ahron rapid fire told us about the city and why it's important to stay positive, always positive! Very emphatic like that, interspersed with him suddenly yelling in Hebrew on his headset. At times I thought maybe he was still talking to us--you talkin' to me?--and then just as suddenly he would switch back and yes, he would be talking to me.

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.

I mean, this is what I was surrounded with. Is this sign telling me to wash my hands? Slippery floor? Emergency room? You tell me what is about to happen.

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!
xo,
S