CVL

A view of my Borg implant. Every day I have to pump 3 ml of Heparin and saline into each of the three lines, and twice a week I have to replace the blue tips. The red and blue lines are easy but for some reason the white one always sticks. I have to get two pairs of pliers to break it loose, which makes me feel a bit like I'm a rusty old tractor. A little Liquid Wrench, some torch heat, and a pair of Vise-Grips and I'm good to go.

The central line enters my skin in the middle of the dressing, just under the white circle. Now and then it itches like the dickens, but at least it doesn't hurt. My port, on the other hand, is on the other side of my chest in almost exactly the same spot. It isn't visible except as a date-sized swelling under my skin (the skin over my port has been penetrated with those L-shaped chemo needles so many times it's taken on a permanent purplish hue, sort of like a hickey in a weird spot). Now that they've got tubes down both of my jugular veins, I don't think there's much more they can do to me tube-wise. Oh, I shouldn't tempt fate or pretty soon I'll have a catheter in my bladder too.

The hospital gave me a plastic urinal and a couple of plastic jugs. One of these days I'm supposed to collect a whole day's worth of urine for their analytical delectation. I'm strongly tempted to buy a case or two of the cheapest, nastiest beer I can find so when urine collection day comes, I can present them with two jugs of the nastiest, foamiest beer pee known to man.

Would I really present them with such offensive matter? They're only trying to help, after all. All I can say is that going through ESHAP chemo will make even a meek person vengeful, and the fact that I'm currently listening to black metal (Mayhem, De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas) isn't helping either. Maybe come urine collection day I should listen to an hour of Alan Parsons Project to anesthetize my instinct for revenge.