day

"Do you think she pulled some kind of a bait and switch?" GlamourGirl asked.

It's a good question. Little Warrior is running around, smiling, having fun. I, on the other hand, look as if I've been run over by a Mack truck.

Radiation: rather than access her port (put a needle in), they give her gas. When she comes out of the gas, she is screaming, kicking, hysterical. Some children just react this way, I am told. We will never use gas again, I vow.

She is completely out of control ... really, a wild beast. Slapping me, pinching me, scratching me, screaming, yelling. I manage to get her strapped in to her car seat and we leave. I decide to drive around a bit before we go to Children's Hospital. She is still hysterically screaming. I look in my rearview mirror. She has managed to get the top part of her seatbelt off. Find a place to park, fix her belt, just sit with her, uttering soothing words. That doesn't help. She decides she wants to talk to Daddy. I call him and he talks on the phone to her. She calms down, a bit. She says she loves him. She hands me the phone and narrows her eyes at me. Her message is clear. I don't love YOU, Mama!

We get to Children's and park. She insists on getting herself out of the car. As she's climbing down, she begins screaming. What? What??? Wait. Where's her kidney drain?

Well, between Radiation not pinning her drain back to her shirt, her tearing off her seat belt and me, not paying close enough attention ... her drain is sitting in her chair. It has been ripped out of her.

I am in the basement parking garage. UM, WHAT DO I DO NOW? ER? Surgeon's office?

I go up to the cancer clinic and ask them to page the nurse practitioner. Explain what happened. It has stopped bleeding by now. She calls the surgeon, who wants to know how much fluid had been draining. The number is acceptable, so no action needed.

Well, that's one copay saved. No need to go in for removal, since she also ripped out the stitches.

sigh.

Conversation, forms to fill out, forms to sign. This may cause your child to bleed/lose hair/pee blood/ turn orange/ have kidney failure/die/ grow two heads.

Sure, sure. Let me sign.

Several frantic trips to the bathroom, an efficient, but sad, accessing of the port. Play with some toys. Watch some video. Get chemo. Get flushed. Get heparin.

Get food. Go home.

Have margarita.

(Me, not LW.)