After more than a year of chemotherapy, my precious veins are shot.
one of the worst parts of chemo
Those inch-long needles have done some serious damage to my once-healthy blood vessels, and the oncology nurses have informed me that they probably won’t recover.
Great. Stupid cancer is leaving a trail of damage in its wake.
Before I started treatment in 2008, though, I had juicy veins, the kind that got nurses excited. And I was not needle shy. I didn’t wince at the sight of them or groan when I got stuck. Since the times when I actually saw a syringe were few and far between, I’d decided not to be dramatic about the occasional shot.
That was then.
After a good 70 or so injections, hypodermic needles have taken the top position on my buzz-kill list. They hurt like hell, and because I anticipate the pain, I make myself anxious about it. You’d think that over time, I’d build up some sort of resistance to the pain, but the more I get stuck, the worse it gets. My veins have become extremely sensitive, and sometimes they stop working. Who knew that even happened?
There have been several occasions, for example, when I’ve gotten stuck, and the nurses were unable to get a blood return. That’s right. Needles have been inserted into my veins, and no blood came out. Talk about bizarre. Other times, the needles could barely penetrate my skin because I have so much scar tissue in my arms. The constant onslaught of chemo injections has caused my veins to harden and restrict. They’ve become difficult to find and even more difficult to access. And the pain. I whine like a baby now every time I see a syringe. So much for all my boasting about being a trouper. Those days are long over.
With all the sticks cancer patients endure, I couldn’t help but wonder how intravenous drug users do this on the regular. How do they cope with needles daily, likely several times a day, and how do their blood vessels hold up? I’ve heard about users having collapsed veins, but many manage to keep up their habit for years, even decades. Natalie Cole was a heroin addict for 15 years.
I asked one of my nurses why we don’t hear about more IV drug users being hospitalized for destroyed veins. Her answer was interesting and disturbing all at the same time. “Because they’re not putting poison in their veins,” she said. And then she clarified. “Not the same kind of poison.”
Word? Since when did chemo become worse than smack? Apparently since forever. It’s far more toxic, the nurse said, and thus does more harm. Plus, heroin addicts use any and all veins possible, whereas the veins used for chemotherapy are limited to the forearm.
Since beginning my little research project on blood vessels, I’ve come to appreciate how fascinating they are. Veins are our lifeblood, literally. They range in size from 1 mm to 1.5 centimeters, yet they’re responsible for one of the body’s biggest jobs: pumping blood to all our muscles and organs. These elastic vessels can also take a lot of abuse, but they retreat when they’ve had enough.
Two months ago, after my nurses spent more than 30 minutes and three painful tries searching for mine, they suggested (more than suggested actually) that I get a port, a device placed under the skin in the chest that is connected to the jugular vein. All my chemo goes in this way now. So instead of getting several pricks a month, I get one supersize needle that looks like a pushpin, gets clicked into place, and involves numbing cream. Not the most pleasant experience. But I have to say that it feels good to give my veins a break. Maybe they’ll come back to me. One can only hope, right?
I certainly have a newfound respect for blood vessels, as well as most of my anatomy now that cancer has forced me to get acquainted with parts I never spent time thinking about before. Over the last year and half, I’ve come to realize just how delicate the body can be and, more importantly, how resilient.
13 Comments
November 20, 2009 at 7:26 pm
You are amazing.
November 20, 2009 at 8:10 pm
Man, I’m glad they came up with an alternate plan Chana. See, proves you’re still a slayer. Keep hanging in there.
November 20, 2009 at 9:07 pm
Chana,
You are a trooper! I couldn’t imagine the constant pricks. I thought port was the norm for chemo. Even that put me in an absolute state of panic. You are always in my prayers. Both of my treatments are over and I know deep in my heart it was all those prayer lists I was on. Keep up the good work. At the beginning so many persons sincerely offered to put me on their list, and then I continued asking others. I look forward to your articles. An open invitation, come to south florida for some r&r
November 20, 2009 at 9:30 pm
“Word? Since when did chemo become worse than smack? Apparently since forever.”
umm, damn I like the way you write. prose aside, my wife has MS and I used to give her weekly shots to help slow the progression. it’s a bitch I know. hell, I never thought I’d be able to administer a shot. after the first few that I did I was like why the hell didn’t I go to medical school? damn blogging and speaking my mind.
November 22, 2009 at 6:35 pm
Chana, as an ovarian cancer survivor I know how you feel. I always thought myself a trooper also. But my course of treatment consisted of three 21 day cycles of chemo so I opted for the port. The port wasn’t as bad as I thought. But like you I am an ovarian cancer warrior/slayer. Sending you Teal LOVE and PRAYERS. (((HUGS))) Email me for some cool tips. LOL
November 23, 2009 at 3:18 pm
You are now and forever will be a trooper for the ages, Chana. You were a trooper before this even reared its ugly head. Cancer bows down before you. You are The Slayer.
December 1, 2009 at 5:42 pm
Whew…. Man! Women are mental stronger than men.
I think you should change your name from slayer to conqueror, because you’re more than slayer, but a conqueror.
Stay Strong
December 2, 2009 at 9:37 am
You’re awesome, Chana.
Nuf said.
December 6, 2009 at 11:05 pm
Only you would wonder how the addicts do it. Step away from the episodes of “Intervention.”
December 7, 2009 at 8:17 pm
Well, Chana. I have been reading your blog for months and I must comment. I am astounded that you went so long without a port. I am completing one year of chemo and got my port months ago. My veins gave out so early. My mother, who died from cancer over 30 years ago, suffered terribly from attempts to find veins anywhere on her body that were still usable: feet, groin, whatever. I am ever thankful that ports exist and that I have one. I am thankful that you finally got one. I am thankful that you are sharing our experience through this medium. You express yourself (myself) so well.
December 7, 2009 at 11:22 pm
Wow Chana! You are such an inspiration to me and others. Your courage and strength alone are a blessing!!! You give soooo much hope to those who have lost theirs and education to those who haven’t had the experience.
I feel so more knowlegable about every topic you write about, or at least your point of view gives me another perspective of viewing things.
Hope you had a wonderful vacation, you deserve it and more!! peace and blessings, Darla
December 14, 2009 at 12:25 pm
what a thought provoking post…it is also a testament to your resilience…your “trooper badge” is far from revoked!
February 26, 2010 at 2:52 pm
[...] Even for those in remission, CAT scans are a necessary part of staying cancer free. Generally, the protocol is a CAT scan every three months, then every six months for the first five years after treatment ends, and then once a year. Cancer and CAT scans go together like chemo and collapsed veins. [...]