Procedures, Vol 1.5: (PSE) Oops! I did it Again

Something you need to know about me before we continue: I am not an adrenaline junkie. I've spent my entire life, more or less, attempting to keep myself from bodily harm. 

So why did I agree to do this procedure again just a few months later? Yeah. I have no explanation, aside from the observation that cancer and faith lead to strange outcomes sometimes. 

The first procedure failed spectacularly. Therefore, the reason why I had pursued that option remained: my platelets were still unpredictable and scarce. I was clocking in with 60k platelets one week, 30k the next, and 75k or so from time to time. This became the cutoff for me to receive chemo - otherwise, I wouldn't have any at all - but it still wasn't achieved on a regular basis. So. After meeting with my medical team about what had gone wrong (They had killed off part of my spleen and as everything became inflammed, my spleen pushed up against my diaphragm and had nowhere else to expand to, so that created a bad cycle that contributed to my pain...or something along those lines. I lose track sometimes.) and many, many assurances that I would be sent home with more and better pain management drugs, I agreed to a 2nd PSE. 

We waited until the kids were settled back into school; my guiding light is the effort to spare them of as much evidence of my treatment and disease as possible. They already know I have cancer and live with that reality every day of their lives. There's no reason for them to see me suffering through something if it can be avoided. 

This time, the procedure went well; I was aware enough to remember seeing digital pictures of my spleen on the big screen above my surgical table (don't worry; I couldn't feel any of it!). They rolled me in there first thing on Friday morning, and although I had to stay overnight for observation, it was basically a mini retreat, because the overnight rooms in the outpatient procedure suite are quiet and serene (no running up and down the halls by nurses being called to emergencies or patient rooms, no loudspeaker with code alerts, no patients rehabbing, no visitors) and, as long as you've been out of your procedure long enough, they don't wake you up a bunch of times to take your vitals. It's all monitored remotely. So I emerged from my stay feeling, all told, pretty refreshed. There was a small incident as I was getting ready to be released, in which a medical student (Fellow? Resident? I'm sorry, I don't remember his status) cheerily tried to go through the motions of sending me home but clearly wasn't aware of the pain management plan I had insisted upon. He tried to tell me that Tylenol should do it...upon which I tartly expelled him from the room with a request for the internist to come hither and for him to go read my chart. #Harridan? I don't care. Can you blame me? The internist gave me the prescriptions I needed and I was on my way home! Home to my own bed and a bleary but painless (well, as painless as possible) recovery. Yay! 

*needlescratch* 

Alas. Those funny, funny tricksters who keep the Universe interesting had other plans for me. Nothing so boring as pain syndrome again - no one likes a lack of imagination! No. This time, I awoke around 2:30 am Saturday morning, used the loo (no, I'm not British but yes, I will say loo - this blog is, after all, a Jessica-ocracy), stood up...and felt a *pop!* in my groin. I sat down and looked. No champagne hiding in my lap...just the spot where the surgeon had entered and exited my artery, covered by a gauze and tape but quickly swelling. I watched, a little mesmerized, as the bandage popped off on one side thanks to swelling. No blood, my painkiller addled brain realized...but this can't be good, it finally decided. I clamped my hand over the spot. It was warm and swelling under my hand. I pushed hard, bolstered by the lack of blood, and hobbled into our bedroom, calling in a loud whisper for my husband while paging through the release info from the hospital, which I *had* read. Yep, there it was! Swelling, heat, redness or pain? This could be an aneurysm! Call 911. 

My husband awoke. I explained the situation to him and we took stock. Daughter was at the neighbor's house for a sleepover. Maybe we can send little guy over there, too? I texted my neighbor and dear friend, Sarah, knowing that she was a night owl, especially during sleepovers. Thankfully, she texted right back. My sweet boy was still sound asleep. We called 911, I dispatched Nick to kennel the dogs, turn on the light, and open the door. He did so, then carefully lifted our sweet boy out of his top bunk and trundled him over to the neighbor's house while I put on sweats and then sat with my hand clamped (sweatily, it must be noted) over my incision. It didn't seem to be swelling further. No blood. The EMTs arrived, looked me over, had me hobble downstairs (keeping the pressure on) and into the ambulance. They were very young, very tired, very efficient, and so kind. The young woman looked sadly at me as we rode. I assured her that I would be fine, and she smiled in the pale and watery late night light that washed over us as we roared towards my hospital. 

In we went. Nick appeared, having driven to the hospital. A very efficient and affable fellow (really, he was a fellow!) materialized beside me in my little ED bay, removed my hand, poked around. A scan of some kind was taken. Medical personnel came and went. The verdict? A pseudo-aneurysm. (Isn't it fun, finding out about things you didn't know existed in the middle of the night? No?) My artery hadn't ruptured - it just had a huge bubble in it. Resolution? Either inject the bubble with some kind of medical glue to gum it up, or see if pressure will make the issue resolve itself. Decisions, decisions. We opted for the latter, since I'd already been going that route. The (tall, fit) fellow agreed and cheerfully leaned his entire body weight (so, ouch) onto my groin. His name was Mo. We chatted for about an hour, him never once complaining (that's some kind of resilience and strength there!) but switching his grip every so often. It was sort of like waiting for a bus next to someone with no consideration of personal space. Uneventful if slightly bizarre. 

There's no exciting end to this story (thank goodness!). The bump retreated and I hobbled to my car and went home; I hoped Mo took a day off from strength training in the aftermath. In the weeks that followed, as Mo had told me it would during our bus stop chat, a dark bruise eventually emerged - black with a subtle dark green sheen, like oil on midnight waters - first around the site itself, and then blooming like a black and crimson river all down my leg; eventually, I was deeply bruised from groin to knee, all the way around. I am not exaggerating in the least. It was truly gnarly. 

The other outcome to this adventure? My platelets found a new bottom - around 60k. Not stellar, but better than they had been for ages. I was able to receive chemo uninterrupted, for the most part, through the end of the year. And then...well, you know what happens next. I had a third PSE! (I've always been an enthusiastic gambler.*) Once you've recovered from the mental imagery of my bruise encased thigh, read on! We're just getting started!

* This is a complete lie. My brother is the gambler in the family.