I remember having to be rushed to the Er in the middle of the night, shaking so violently, from a 104 fever that 4 heated blankets could barely warm me up. I remember waking up, soaking in so much sweat, that I could see the imprint of my body on the sheets. Sometimes, my heart rate so high, and my blood pressure, scary low, I would get a headache from hearing my heart beat so loud. It was then, I was convinced the end was near. Feeling that bad, I sometimes would momentarily accept death because I just wanted a rest from all the physical pain. The worst was the utter loneliness of it all. I remember how much that Christmas sucked and my whole family stood in the doorway of the hospital room, with masks on. Watching the nurse take tubes and tubes of blood, as I shook under the blankets. I'd be so anemic that my blood would pour out like water all over the place. In those times, I would realize how alien my body was to me, and how it did what it wanted to. Much like a broken machine gone haywire.
3 Port surgeries. One to have it implanted when i was diagnosed, one to have it removed where i was told to celebrate because i was done with chemo... One to have it re implanted after I relapsed and had to start chemo again.. Although that one hurt the least, it was the saddest.
Pelvic lymph node biopsy where I was also awake and had a needle the size of a sewing needle stuck through my hip. watching on the screen was pretty surreal.