I arrive hours early to sign off my consent and re-learn what the protocol entails. My official cell guy is out, so I get a Brit with a deep, sexy voice paired with an anorexic-looking nurse. I have him repeat "cytotoxic t lymphocytes" a few times for good measure. The high-cheekboned nurse asks if I've ever gotten an IV before. I resist the urge to attack. She then fumbles around with the one thousand or so multicolored vampire tubes that will soon be filled with whatever blood they can squeeze out of me.
After that we play a little game called "let's find a vein". which involves heat packs, slapping, and just a touch of squirming. After that there is a round of "vein wrestling", which is surely equivalent to alligator wrestling, but with sharper teeth and (slightly) less carnage. (I've been running a bit of a losing streak lately. It seems the 2 years of poking holes in my circulatory system have started to show.) The nurse looks up at me as if the failure is a lack of will. Pushing tears back into their sockets, I have to wonder how four years swimming alongside the best and the brightest failed to prepare me for these moments of inadequacy. I am then left to muse about the practicality of ski resort warning signs on cancer patients. I would gladly walk around with a triple black diamond around my neck if it meant nonexperts would stop swerving all over my scar-ridden terrain.
Then, we pre-med and hydrate. Benadryl in the drip makes me less hostile to the nurse and generally unable to form coherent sentences. My very patient friend Dara arrives and hangs out while I nap-talk. I get "THE CELLS!!" or CTL (see above) and they are fortunately pushed in (doctor talk for "slowly injected") by the sexy Brit and not the green circle skier/vein wrestler. These cells have apparently been frozen and contain preservatives. I wonder if high fructose corn syrup is at all involved, and if they make a lean cuisine version of EBV-targeted cytotoxic t lymphocytes, and if Dara has 4 or 5 of them in her freezer. Like any lean cuisine, the preservatives make me nauseous and I am at the mercy of the green circler to remedy me via the sauciest of Zofrans. I inhale from the remaining sips of my Lemon Tea Snapple, hoping to evade the staleness of the room and constant disinfectant.
After 4 hours of observation and obsessive temperature-taking, I am untethered. My wrist is bandaged sucide-watch style and the orange taint of the disinfectant gives off the impression of carrot jaundice.
Freedom! If only til Monday.
After that we play a little game called "let's find a vein". which involves heat packs, slapping, and just a touch of squirming. After that there is a round of "vein wrestling", which is surely equivalent to alligator wrestling, but with sharper teeth and (slightly) less carnage. (I've been running a bit of a losing streak lately. It seems the 2 years of poking holes in my circulatory system have started to show.) The nurse looks up at me as if the failure is a lack of will. Pushing tears back into their sockets, I have to wonder how four years swimming alongside the best and the brightest failed to prepare me for these moments of inadequacy. I am then left to muse about the practicality of ski resort warning signs on cancer patients. I would gladly walk around with a triple black diamond around my neck if it meant nonexperts would stop swerving all over my scar-ridden terrain.
Then, we pre-med and hydrate. Benadryl in the drip makes me less hostile to the nurse and generally unable to form coherent sentences. My very patient friend Dara arrives and hangs out while I nap-talk. I get "THE CELLS!!" or CTL (see above) and they are fortunately pushed in (doctor talk for "slowly injected") by the sexy Brit and not the green circle skier/vein wrestler. These cells have apparently been frozen and contain preservatives. I wonder if high fructose corn syrup is at all involved, and if they make a lean cuisine version of EBV-targeted cytotoxic t lymphocytes, and if Dara has 4 or 5 of them in her freezer. Like any lean cuisine, the preservatives make me nauseous and I am at the mercy of the green circler to remedy me via the sauciest of Zofrans. I inhale from the remaining sips of my Lemon Tea Snapple, hoping to evade the staleness of the room and constant disinfectant.
After 4 hours of observation and obsessive temperature-taking, I am untethered. My wrist is bandaged sucide-watch style and the orange taint of the disinfectant gives off the impression of carrot jaundice.
Freedom! If only til Monday.
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