All in Vein

          Folks, I just had an ultrasound and I can tell the gender! For those of you who think I could be pregnant, THANK  YOU for thinking I’m young enough. For those of you whose mouths have fallen open in shock (including St. Bob), here’s the skinny:

          I just had my final reconstructive surgery after breast cancer and a mastectomy (all went well, happy with results), but it took A SOLID HOUR to get an IV into my arm. My veins want no part of this. They scoot around, they collapse, and they finally play dead like an opossum.

          First, the nurse takes a stab—pun intended—at this goal. When that doesn’t work, she tries another spot. Then another. Finally she brings in a vein-finder machine and an additional person. Another swing and a miss.

          Eventually an ultra-sound machine is wheeled in, complete with gel. Now a new technician stares at the screen as he feels around in my arm with a needle, looking for a vein that will allow the storm troopers to breach the castle wall.  And, finally, it works.

          I told him if he sees a baby in there kicking around, there’s going to be trouble. Oh, and my gender is unchanged.

          However, my arm now looks like a new bakery item: Eggplant Muffins. Sure, they’ll probably taste weird, but the dark purple splotches definitely grab the eye.

          Meanwhile, how about we add a new category for the Olympics: Getting a needle into Joni’s veins? Although I’m not sure I want to volunteer for this.

The best thing to do when recuperating (or just self- isolating) is to read a great book. Find my faves right here!

Happy Chemo-Tines' Day!

          Did I actually move to Joniopolis? Or did Joniopolis just sort of spot me in the distance and then flow over me like sneaky lava, just because my name was Joni?

           Because something weird is going on here, and it isn't just having to have chemo. WHICH, by the way, is the very, bottom, last item you should put on your bucket list.

            You'd think having cancer and then chemo would be plenty of holiday cheer, right? But no. I had to BEGIN chemo right smack on February 14th, the day of hearts and roses, love and chocolate. You look up irony in the dictionary, and there is a photo of me on that day, hooked up to an infusion tube leading to a port in my chest.

             This port looks like a Lego buried under the skin (make that purple and green skin) and it looks like a tiny jack-in-the-box which, if presented with enough Pop-Goes-the-Weasel music, might suddenly burst open to reveal a creepy little clown.

              But this is not all. Are you kidding? You think Joniopolis would end right here? No, the nurse who has to infuse my little jack-in-the box notices that I'm pretty swollen (NO KIDDING) and leaves to get A LONGER NEEDLE.  That's right, A LONGER NEEDLE.

             What are we talking, here, a knitting needle?  No; just an inch-long one since the standard 3/4 inch one is too short.  This is exactly like meeting some shady guy in a dark alley and having him say, "Hang on-- I need a longer knife."

              Oh, by all means, get the proper tools in order. We don't want to skimp at at time like this! So now I sit there and await my stabbing -- which I will later learn is the rock bottom least of my worries-- but at least I can reflect upon a grand gesture this morning. My hilarious kids gave me a humongous bouquet that says, "Happy Chemo-Tines' Day."

               Thank goodness they live in Joniopolis. 

You, too, can glimpse my crazy world by ordering my books right here. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Shots on Me

          First, I am not complaining.  Okay, I’m complaining a little bit.  I just had the second set of injections from harpoon-like needles that look like this:

          One of the techs at the medical office said these are the largest needles they have.  This came as no surprise whatsoever.

          In case you are new to this blog, I am part of a clinical trial to try out a shot that is supposed to reduce my breast cancer tumor.  And trust me, I am excited and grateful that I don’t have to do chemo.  BUT… or I should say, BUTT… these are shots I have to have every two weeks (and then every four weeks) for six months, one in each hip.

          Why not just one, gigantic shot?  I’ll tell you why.  Because there is no needle in existence-- outside the profession of whaling-- that humongous.  So they have to give me half in one shot, and half in the other side.

          But wait, there’s more!  The liquid in them is so thick that they can’t just give me the shot in the usual few seconds it takes.  No, no. Each shot takes a full minute and a half to inject it all. 

          Think about standing there in excruciating pain for 90 seconds as the nurse slo-o-o-owly injects the liquid.  NINETY SECONDS.  You can’t even find a bad commercial on television that runs that long.  And then doing it again.

          Of course, I’m grateful this stuff exists and I’ll be even more grateful if it shrinks the tumor.  But my back side is not particularly grateful right now.  Just saying.

          Have you watched my YouTube Mom videos lately?  Check ‘em out here—hundreds of life hacks in short videos that thankfully do not show my injection sites.