The Man Who Was Worth a Ton
For a number of diseases that require repeated injections of aggressive products such as chemotherapy, one cannot rely solely on the veins in the arms, which are too small, too thin, and too fragile. If you do, you risk damaging them permanently. So I've been offered an implantable port: it's about the size of a 20-cent coin and less than 5 mm thick, made of titanium with a silicone membrane on top. At the end of the port is a flexible, fairly thin tube about 20 to 30 cm long. I have to admit, the documentation they gave me, a kind of disgusting photocopy of a poorly printed page, was more frightening than anything else. It just made me feel like they were going to stick a metal rod from my collarbone to my heart. You say yes anyway because you suspect it can't be that bad, but honestly, that document was the thing that made me feel most uncomfortable, to the point that Marie insisted on staying with me. I could have looked it up online, but I decided not to do any research myself, knowing how inaccurate the internet can be when it comes to medicine. Another concern was that it was ambulatory surgery, and the only time I've had that experience, I really felt like a piece of meat that the guys wanted to get rid of as quickly as possible: I was sent home while I was still under the influence of the anesthesia, and my stepdaughter Anna, who had come to pick me up, was left to fend for herself. Another reason not to be very enthusiastic.
To top it all off, they warn you that it can cause a pneumothorax (I've already had one and I'm not keen to go through that again) and that it can get infected (with direct access to the superior caval vein, great...), so the only argument left in favor of the thing was that it wouldn't burst the veins in my arms. And that was enough for me to say, “Okay, let's do it.”
V Day
When I got there, there was an interactive terminal, and I didn't understand a thing. I tried to scan a barcode that had nothing to do with my appointment, even though I had the right one on a wristband around my arm. I gave up, as you might say... I asked someone who was in charge of checking people in. Meanwhile, I got a call from the surgery department asking where I was. We're in da place, no stress!
We go down to level -1, more paperwork, signatures, discussions about glasses (“Pool or view?” “Well, view... It's funny, you wouldn't think so...” “Well, you should!”), etc. I let Marie go and get a sandwich and go into the waiting room where they give me non-slip socks, a shirt, pants, and a paper robe, plus a cap to cover my abundant and magnificent hair. I leave my things in a locker with two doors, one for when you enter and one for when you leave, and I sit down. Five minutes pass, and someone comes to get me. I lie down on a surgical “bed.” There are lights everywhere, a screen that will follow the progress of the procedure, and even YouTube on a computer so you can listen to whatever you want. I prefer silence, and I say so when someone asks me what I want to listen to. The nurse decides on her own and puts on some awful muzak. All in all, it's not so bad: I'm pretty sure I'll never hear it again, and I'll avoid any post-op Proustian flashbacks. The nurse and the assistant are pretty cool. When the surgeon arrives, I tell him about all my concerns (large rod in my heart, ambulatory surgery, pneumothorax, infections). He reassures me on every point. First, he shows me the device, no more rod, hello little tube (catheter). He agrees that we do too much ambulatory surgery, but promises me that in this particular case it is justified because the anesthesia is local and I will have a light snack afterwards to help me recover. He assures me that he has only had one pneumothorax in about 500 procedures of this type. He calmly defuses the situation, without dodging any questions. He's the kind of doctor I like, who bases his professionalism on transparency and simple explanations, without technical jargon. I learn from him that the chamber is made of titanium and “costs a ton".
Here we go: I have a sheet stretched out over me so that I can't see the “cut,” the blood, etc. There's a nurse on my left who has placed my left arm on a plastic splint. The anesthesia kicks in and, as expected, I tense up. I have to admit, it doesn't feel good right away. I try not to move. The nurse tells me to breathe and relax, and I realize at that moment that I'm completely twisting the gutter, which is fortunately very flexible. I tell her, as usual, that any further comment will be useless. The rest goes very well, and I can no longer feel anything in the area in question. The doctor does his job, puts me in the room, threads the tube into my vein, passing it over my collarbone, and sews the thing up after checking that it's in the right place.
— It's over, it's okay, you can go.
Little nightingale
I leave the operating room and land in a chair, where they take my blood pressure and ask me a few questions, which I answer in an unfamiliar voice. The anesthesia has spread to my larynx, and I sound like I've inhaled helium, which is a welcome touch of fun and weirdness. I find my locker and clothes, leave and head to the rest/waiting room for the promised coffee and toast. I find Marie waiting for me, reassured to see me standing and in good health, but not before being asked, “So, was the pool cool?” by the nurse who had welcomed me. The operation took about two hours in total, and we'll have to wait about an hour and a half for the report. The doc does everything himself, no secretary. Well, at least we get the word straight from the horse's mouth. The operation was a complete success. It'll hurt a little for two or three days, but nothing crazy, and the pain will gradually fade away.
We're going home with Hassan and I feel a little like Wolverine, next time they're gonna put the claws on me maybe...
