Monday 7th October
OK, so my appointment is at 3pm in Penzance. I’ve done this before, I know what to expect, but that doesn’t make it any easier!
When my turn comes, and I’m taken into the room with the big revolving doughnut, I soon realise I’ve got “Miss Trainee Cannula Inserter”. Under the direction of her boss she wraps a tourniquet around my upper right arm . . . . “I hope you’ve got good veins” . . . . . I knew it wasn’t going too well when she suddenly announced “Oh dear, I’ve made a mess”. Blood was dripping down my arm, onto the bed, then to the floor. Not conducive to a calm and stress-free patient. I couldn’t stop shaking and sobbing.
Trying to control my breathing and stopping my body from trembling took quite a lot of effort. Overcoming fears of the unknown, or irrational possibilities was difficult. But the sooner I calmed down, the quicker the procedure could take place, and then I could be out of there.
Back and forth through the doughnut shaped ring I went, breathing in, holding my breath for counts of fifteen. Both CT nurses were safely ensconced behind glass, in their little office. Tasting a weird metallic sensation in my mouth, and feeling a warm rush as the radioactive dye went in, was really strange.
Eventually it was all over, the nurse in charge apologised profusely for her colleague upsetting me and not making a clean job of going into my vein. I was still shaking and sobbing as I left, found my husband in the corridor, and hastily beat a retreat to the coffee shop for a welcome cappuccino.
All over, thank goodness, now I must play the waiting game.
Ever hopeful, always positive, smiling through.