I had an appointment with Dr Birhiray (that’s pronounced Beer-Hurray! for those of you who are new here) today, and it was the perfect occasion to debut my new t-shirt. The shirt is my chemo completion present to myself. The nurses were all crackin’ up when they saw me. Dr. Birhiray liked it, too, and I even got him to pose for pictures. Everybody say, “Hi, Dr Birhiray!”
Dr B also gave me some samples of another med that’s supposed to help with the hot flashes and enable me to sleep better. Hopefully this one won’t make me feel like I’m taking hammer blows to the head. Of course, some of the potential side effects include sweating and insomnia…gee, that’s kind of counter-productive. Let’s hope it doesn’t do that. I can’t imagine sweating MORE and sleeping LESS than I am now. I really would be holding up the coffee shop at spud gunpoint.
Not to be outdone, Hubster brought his newly mountain-bike-accident-sculptured face along to the doctor’s office. Oh, sure, steal my 15 minutes of oncology office fame, Honey! Monday Hubster and G went mountain biking (those of you who know Hubster know where this is going) and within the first ten minutes he’d managed to take his face for a stroll down a big chunk of concrete. So, he comes back all bloody and Dad has to patch him up—picture Mick patching up Rocky’s cut eye for the umpteeth time so he can go back out and fight Mr. T, and you’ll have a pretty good idea what this was like.
You’d think from the picture that I’d be freaking out, but ‘tis not so. You see, with my husband, blood and mountain biking go together like peanut butter and jelly. I just expect them to be together. My fear was that we’d end up at the emergency room on a holiday. There has to be some pretty severe trauma to motivate me to do that. Like, maybe if he’d come back with a bunch of pieces of his head piled up in his helmet, or with half an arm tucked into his back pocket, or a spoke sticking out of his eye, I’d have considered it. Thankfully, Dad’s patch job worked and the ER was not necessary.
I had the MRI today. It was pretty uneventful. The most exciting thing about it was the lady who was supposed to set my IV tried to kill my hand. She put a tourniquet on the forearm, about 4 inches from my wrist. Tight. Like as tight as humanly possible. My hands were cold, so she went to get me a hot pack, leaving the tourniquet on while she did so. She was gone at least a minute.
My hand, at this point, was not the same color as the rest of me. Then she came back, and since she still couldn’t see a vein, she put *another* tourniquet on my arm, in between the first one and my wrist, explaining to me that this was a “new trick” they had for making this whole thing *easier*. (And you know I was thinking to myself, “Gee, Self, this is WAY easier than it normally is when it only takes about 20 seconds and my arm’s the right color.”) Now my hand is really feeling asleep and it’s definitely not the right color. She’s still looking at it and feeling for a vein. I’m thinking, “Make a decision, Lady, are you going to stick it or not?!” I’m also beginning to wonder if she’s A) a Manpower temp, B) on work release, C) the cleaning lady or D)she stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night. Finally, she decides to put another tourniquet on…no, I’m kidding…finally she decided to release the blood back to my digits. And, thankfully, she called another lady over to put my IV in.