In order to start my chemo I had to have another peripherally inserted central catheter (PICC) installed. A wonderful device that stays in you for your chemo course (around 7 months) and means your body does not end up looking like a pin cushion with a drugs problem. I arrived for my 2pm appointment with plenty of time to spare and was ushered in about 10 minutes early. On entering the room my nasal detector was immediately assaulted by a vaguely unpleasant odour. It was like a cross between three week old dog poo and the smell left in your living room the day after you’ve left an unfinished kebab in the room the night before.
We went through the preliminaries and then it was straight onto the bed. The minor and quick procedure commenced at 2.12pm. At approximately 2.33pm the procedure to install the PICC into my right arm was still ongoing. However by now the nurse performing the procedure was getting noticeably flustered. A few more pushes and pulls and she let out a sigh and admitted defeat. The PICC was going in to about the 24cm mark and then getting stuck. The target insertion length was 51cm. Oh well I thought, I’m luckily I’ve got two arms as she moved to my left arm. At 2.45pm plan B swung into action. Things seemed to start well. Following another set of injections using a needle the size of Apollo 13, the necessary incisions were made and attempt two to insert my PICC commenced. At around 2.56pm, however things started to unravel like a cat’s ball of string having an epileptic fit whist snorting speed. After a few cries of ‘no no no’ it suddenly became apparent that things were not proceeding according to plan. At 3.03pm all bets were off. Barely controlling her frustration the nurse apologised profusely and informed me that my vein had collapsed and she could not proceed. This was slightly concerning as my first chemo session was scheduled to start the following day.
Following frantic discussions and fingers pounding on her computer keyboard it was agreed that I should return early the next day and she would try again. The thought of getting to Guy’s for 9am on a weekday did not fill me happy feelings. Standing up on a train and tube for the best part of 100 minutes, next to someone going to work who’s aftershave smelt like eau de urinal, or two hours in the car putting up with Mr and Mrs White van driver switching lanes like a whirling dervish in an attempt to get where they are going 43 seconds more quickly than if they just waited patiently in the unending queues. The car got the vote.
Just to finish off, during the first PICC insertion attempt my nurse did causally enquire whether the room smelt in anyway. She expressed how she hoped that there was no lingering smell to suggest that she had just finished eating her tuna mayonnaise sandwich in the room prior to me entering.