Admitted is a polysemous word, or a single word with many definitions. It originates from the Greeks with the root meaning “of many senses”. I’m fairly certain words of this nature, while being a word lover’s dream, are really meant to trip everyone else up. They are part of the reason why the English language is so difficult to learn. You feel like you’ve got a handle on it and boom the word you just learned really means something totally different depending on context. Take admitted for example. I have to admit that I was not looking forward to be admitted for my stem cell transplant. There it is in one sentence, both definitions: 1. a confession of sorts and 2. being permitted to enter a place. In this particular instance, I genuinely dislike both of my options: 1. because I hate to discuss my feelings and 2. because no one wants to enter a hospital and not leave for 30 days (unless it is legitimately a spa for relaxation purposes). And yet my disdain prevented neither.
So here I am, in the hospital and I admittedly feel like I already want to go outside and feel the warm sun on my face. My gigantic bay window doesn’t quite do the job, it only shows me the sun and blue skies. It’s a tease. However, I’m sure I’ll feel differently when the temperature drops back down next week and then I’ll be glad that I don’t have to go outside. I was admitted on Wednesday and my initial welcome didn’t go so well and I had such high expectations after meeting two fabulous nurses who talked wedding planning with me. My first dose of the transplant process was to have a Hickman line put in opposite of my central line port. I was already skeptical of this new line because it was going to be a gaudy accessory, one that was attached to my body with three lumen that dangles externally. The only dangly accessory I like are earrings and this is so not an earring.
Most people undergo the fifteen minute procedure without a hitch, and for one reason or another I seldomly fall in the category of most people. Part of the issue is that I have bad veins, I have had tiny child veins since I was a tiny child. I am a phlebotomist’s worst nightmare. It got even worse after my massive DVT/ blood clot on the left side in September of 2015 when my killer body tried to be literal. I had previously mentioned this incident and was dismissed that it would not cause any complications. Wrong, it did. After trying several times, I ended up with the Hickman on the same side as my other port and three hours worth of sedation in the form of Fentanyl and Versid. When I finally came to, I practically threw up all over my fiancee and my in-laws. Not my finest moment but at least they’re family so it seems more acceptable. Hell my parents have probably seen me throw up numerous times and so have some of my friends after a night of drinking in college (of course these occurrences were few and far in between). My mom probably thought I was drunk when I called her later that night. So needless to say night one, not so great.
I have to admit that I’ve never had a hangover and this was true in this instance as well. Fentanyl and Versid were no match for my schedule. I was up at five, walking the pod as the masked marauder by 6:00 and trying to find things to do, which wasn’t too hard since I brought so much with me. I had my first dose of chemo yesterday, which is part of the conditioning process and consists of Cytoxan and Fludarabine and what feels like 700 other meds to mitigate their effects. So I spend most of the day hooked up to my walking partner, I.V. Pole. We are just getting aquatinted so it may take some time to become simpatico.
I must admit that I’m nervous of what the rest of this process looks like but glad I was admitted to one of the best Cancer Center hospitals in the country. So for now, I’ll go with the flow and keep busy! Steph and I already worked on a crossword puzzle this morning.