10 years and 3.5 months ago while Sam and I were on our honeymoon we went white water rafting in New Zealand. It was my first (and last) time ever setting foot inside an inflated flotation device holding onto a oar and wearing a life vest. I remember the (short) training we underwent prior to getting in the raft and for some reason we were chosen (maybe Sam volunteered) to be in the front. Sam was ecstatic, I was not. Immediately after we began the course I felt completely unprepared, and I fully regretted the decision to accommodate his adventurous side. About 5 minutes in after our first wall of water rolled over my head I was done. I was scared to death, I had just swallowed water, I saw my life flash before my eyes, and I wanted nothing more than to get out of the raft. I looked over at Sam who was having the time of his life and who at first didn't notice the tears streaming down my face because of all of the water; and then I told him "I want to get off", to which he replied "this isn't a ride Randi, you can't just get off".
These past 13 days I have been learning everything I never knew I wanted to know about a central line, and specifically a port. The last time Sonzee was on TPN she had a PICC line and for some reason, maybe it was because she never went home with it, or because I knew much less, I do not remember it being as scary. Every time I wake up throughout the night I check her cords and the needle. In the morning I do the same and sit in bed with her, careful of the lines, but completely fine; by the afternoon when we do her daily CHG wipe down, change her clothing and sheets my brain remembers she is leaving the hospital with everything on her body, and by the time the new TPN/Lipids are brought into the room the panic begins to set in. As soon as the bag starts to get primed my body goes into a full blown panic attack, and all I can think of is my experience on the raft and all I want to do is scream to the nurses to remove the port, tell her doctor to stop the TPN, and run out of the hospital.
I cannot stop thinking of every way these items could potentially kill her. Changing the tubing connector leaves an unfiltered opening directly to her heart, bubbles not removed from the tubing appropriately can cause air to get into her vein, bacteria not cleaned from her skin or accidentally transferred from the tubing or the nurses, or myself can cause an infection and lead to sepsis. What if all of this does not even help with her GI issues? What if she just suffers from a potential consequence of the we have to try? What if this ends up being the worst choice? I remember our first consultation with her surgeon almost a year ago when he went through the lists of risks and then said "but just know, when it comes time and you make whatever decision you make, just remember that even if something happens it doesn't mean it was because of your decision". Those words played in my mind so many times as we made our final decision to move forward, and maybe I even told myself they made sense, that they are rational words, and I believed them. Yet, for some reason now that we are living this reality I already feel such a heavy weighted guilt over where this could potentially take her journey.
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