A Pain in the Neck

I am starting this post by stressing that I am fine. Monday morning, I was on my living room floor being examined by EMTs. One of my cats kept sniffing my eyelids. (There’s always one pet that would be the first to eat you should something happen. I know it would be the soft little black cat, who I’m convinced kept checking for movement to see if it was safe to take a little nibble. He doesn’t enjoy cold food.)

I had showered and set up my IV like normal that morning so I could finish my infusion before I go to work. My boyfriend set up the bag and tubing, and I’d asked if it was all ready to go. I meant that it was ready to be hooked up to my port and already primed, the saline at the end of the tubing. He said it was ready to go, but he meant something different. When I hooked it up, it hadn’t been primed, and so it was just air not liquid. I unhooked it right away, but soon I felt like I was going to pass out. I slumped to the floor and couldn’t say much. Unfortunately, what I did manage to say was, “I can’t breathe,” right before I started vomiting bile. I was still holding the IV, which was still running. As I lay on the floor, I could feel the saline pooling around my hand, but I couldn’t move.

I heard my boyfriend call 911, but it seemed far away. I also managed to say, “No. Too expensive. COBRA. No.” We got the notice the other day that our insurance cards would start working again on Monday after 5 pm. (Since we’re on COBRA, I’ve had to pay up front and then try to get reimbursed from the insurance company, so I’ve been avoiding the doctor and prescriptions. This is hard to do when you have cancer. Currently, I have two potassium pills left and I’m supposed to take four per day, and I have two syringes left for my octreotide shots and then that’s it. I made a flurry of prescription calls Monday and Tuesday to try to get more medications.)

I wonder how many people’s last words in the U.S. have to do with insurance coverage, or lack thereof. I felt like I would be fine with time and I’m not looking forward to the bill, even with insurance, and I’m so annoyed with myself for allowing this misunderstanding to happen. I should have just double checked the line.

By the time the EMTs arrived, I was feeling a little bit better and I told them what had happened. They said they wouldn’t be able to take me to Sloan-Kettering and a hospital sounded even more expensive. (I still owe for my January ambulance ride.) I insisted I would be fine, and they did some vitals and an EKG. I kept finding those little round gel stickers on me for the next 24 hours. One EMT told me that it’s smaller air bubbles that are dangerous. I honestly hadn’t been worried about air bubbles, with all the IVs and chemo I’ve had. I just felt faint and weak and couldn’t express that I would eventually be OK. They said something about the air bubbles being scary. I wasn’t scared though, just faint and nauseated.

Before they could leave, I had to talk to a doctor to confirm that I didn’t want to go to the hospital. I could hear the EMT talking to the doctor, and he basically said I panicked when I saw air in the line. Maybe he was trying to downplay it so the doctor would sign off on letting me skip the hospital. But it was very much like: Oh, this hysterical woman thought that she was dying and panicked.

First of all, I am dying, but slowly. But I am not panicked, and I was not panicked on Monday morning, even when I was laying on the floor in a puddle of saline and bile.

“That’s not what happened,” I said. “That’s not what happened,” I repeated. No one responded. I sometimes feel as if I’m already dead, but somehow still here. I wondered briefly if I had died and no one could hear me anymore. I would have tried to clarify more, but then I threw up some more bile and decided that if being dismissed as a hysterical woman was going to help me avoid going to the hospital, then so be it.

Otherwise, I’m waiting on prescriptions that have been delayed because of COBRA. I am taking out my port needle today as soon as I’m done infusing since I’m worried my dressing got wet, and it smells mildewy. I hope it’s not infected, because that’s a whole other pain. It’s nice to be free of the needle for a bit, even if the weekly needle placement is tender for a few days.

Since my symptoms aren’t letting up, I’m having a scan on Friday. For the first time, I’m not nervous, since I know it will show that I have cancer. If the Dacarbazine and octreotide have been working, I’ll be surprised; maybe this new treatment might work. (If I am eligible, if it doesn’t cost too much, if, if, if.) If a lot shows up, then that makes sense, and I’m not too upset if the end is nearer. The end is the same. Hopefully the scan will give me a better idea of at least what to expect in the next few months.