Tomorrow I am going to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Very, very early on Monday morning I will be getting a fistula done to my left arm. This is a means to get my thrice-weekly dialysis treatments in a safer way than I have been, which is via a chest port that goes to my heart. I got the chest port put in back in January while I was spectacularly ill. So ill, in fact, that I legitimately do not remember the port being put in. I remember before-port times, I am aware of after-port times. No awareness whatsoever of the port being put in.
Anyway, the fistula goes in…there’s a waiting period to make sure it’s functioning properly…and then, the chest port will be removed. And I will be able to take showers again. It’s a good thing.
There’s just this…..one little thing.
When I had my consultation for this thing, the doctor explained that there was a 1% chance of stroke or heart attack. And that’s all I can think about. The one percent. Now, if you tried to sell me a raffle ticket where I had a one percent chance of winning a prize, I’d say “Nuts to you!” or some similar phrase. 1% is nothing, it’s bupkis! But when it’s a stroke or a heart attack, all of the sudden one percent is like……massive.
I’m just not built to handle all this medical shit. Everything stresses me out. I’m going to Denver in October to get a handful of medical tests and exams…this is the first step down a long, long, long road to get a kidney transplant. And I’m convinced they’re gonna find something bad in these tests. Some cancer or disease or something, my family medical history is lousy with cancer and heart problems and on and on.
So hey, maybe the fistula surgery won’t give me a stroke or a heart attack. 99% is pretty good odds. Not good enough to make the next 48 hours free from anxiety. But pretty good.