This admission has increased my already boundless love for my port-a-cath. The whole process would have been one hundred million billion times more traumatic without it.
I required a CT scan to visualise my innards. This meant I needed to drink 500 ml of oral contrast which prompted one of my projectile vomits. I also needed to have contrast injected into my blood stream. This apparently had to be through a large cannula in my cubital fossa (elbow region). They simply could not use another site for a cannula. Not even my port was suitable. Nuh uh. No way, Jose.
Two senior doctors trundled an ultrasound machine into my cubicle. They had their game faces on and were determined to find a candidate vein and cannulate it. Together they spent twenty minutes scanning both of my upper arms from elbow to shoulder but they could not locate a single useable vein. Not one. They didn’t try to be heros and take a stab at it (pun intended) because it was clear they weren’t going to get lucky. One of them went around to
slip a tenner to the radiology interventionalist have a serious talk to the radiology interventionalist and I was ultimately allowed to use my port due to a triumph of bribery common sense.
We have confirmed, once again, my aggressive lack of veins. Which begs two questions.
1) How exactly am alive?
2) Can I pretty-please-with-a-cherry-on-top have an official letter documenting the terrible state of my veins that I can show to all future blood collectors? Without irrefutable proof I will be doomed to endure this scenario over and over and over again.
My beautiful port has had so many drugs going into it, and so much blood coming out of it, that it completely deserves another three-year sabbatical after this admission.
If my port were a person I would take it to Vegas and marry it.
Did I mention that I love my port?