The physician begins the procedure. He tells me he is going to inject lidocaine into my arm to numb the area in which he will be working. He tells me it is going to feel like a bee sting, but then the procedure will be painless. (A side note: I do not know why doctors and nurses always tell me shots feel like bee stings. I have been stung by a bee. Bee stings are shallow. There is a burst of pain, but then it fades into a burning, aching pain. If shots are to be liken to a bee sting, I would say, "Look out! This bee has a two foot stinger!" And that's how shots feel to me. The pain radiates deep within my muscle. The sharp burst of pain lingers for a long time. Then, it eventually begins to feel like a burning, aching pain.)
The doctor injects lidocaine into my arm. I nearly jump off the table! He gives me a couple more shots, and I am shaking uncontrollably. The pain is so intense! The lidocaine does nothing to deaden my nerve endings. Tears stream down my face. I am crying, and mucus is building up in my airways. I do not have the strength to cough up the mucus as I am using nearly all my energy to breathe while lying flat. The doctor stops and asks if I want to continue. I nod my head "yes", and my message is relayed to the doctor on the other side of the sterile sheet.
(Side note: I have had issues with lidocaine being squirted down my throat and trachea in the past. Doctors often do this before they perform a bronchoscopy. I have had far too many bronchoscopies done that now whenever my trachea or throat are exposed to lidocaine, my airways swell up, and I start coughing uncontrollably. I am fairly confident that this is an allergic reaction to the lidocaine, but I do not dare list this as an allergen. Doctors will not believe I am allergic to lidocaine. Furthermore, there are few alternatives to lidocaine...and the alternatives are often far worse than my body's reaction to the lidocaine. I have never had issues with lidocaine being used during a PICC line procedure, but now, it seems, my body no longer tolerates this medicine in any form.)
My arm screams in pain from the lidocaine. I try and try to steady my breathing. The physician begins the procedure. I can feel him working on my arm. The doctor gives me another one or two shots of lidocaine. Finally, for a brief time, an area of my arm goes numb.
The intense pain from the lidocaine has caused a large amount of adrenaline to course through my veins. I am fighting and fighting to steady my body, calm my breathing and lower my heart rate. The doctor continues to work on my arm. I can feel the lidocaine wearing off. My arm is slowly gaining feeling. Little by little, my arm feels as though someone has stabbed it multiple times with a knife.
I can feel when the physician is done inserting the PICC line. Now, the lidocaine has completely worn off. As the doctor secures the PICC line to my arm using tape, I begin crying again. Tears stream down my cheeks. I do not have the energy to make audible sounds. Instead, mucus accumulates in my airways, threatening to block my ability to breathe. The doctor finishes the procedures and leaves the room.
As soon as I am told I can move, I bolt upright to a sitting position, gasping and shaking. My head is spinning from an accumulation of too much carbon dioxide. My body is shaking uncontrollably from the intense pain radiating from the PICC line insertion point. Tears cascade down my face. I cough and cough as I attempt to clear my airways of a massive accumulation of mucus.
The radiology team is shocked at my sorry state. A nurse asks, "What's wrong?" Another nurse replies, "She's crying. I think she is in pain." With weak respiratory muscles, I attempt to speak over my coughing spells. "I...am...in...PAIN!!!" Sobs overwhelm my vocal cords. "Where is the doctor?" a technician asks. "He is in the reading room," another radiology staff member replies. "We need to get him ASAP!"
The physician is summoned. The doctor is flabbergasted that I am in so much pain. The physician asks if I have any allergies to pain medicine. "Yes. Morphine and Dilaudid." The radiology nurse tells the doctor, "Toradol would work. That is in a different class of drugs." I know what the nurse is thinking. Morphine and Dilaudid are opioids. Toradol is a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug, i.e., it is glorified Advil. I want to scream, "Please don't give me Toradol! I am in sooooo MUCH PAIN!!! Please give me fentanyl! Please, fentanyl!" I remain silent and plead with my eyes for the doctor to give me fentanyl. The doctor decides to give me 50 of fentanyl. The nurse scurries away to commandeer some fentanyl. The doctor returns back to the reading room.
The rest of the radiology staff remain by my side. No one does much of anything because I am shaking uncontrollably, and my heart rate monitor is alarming because my heart rate is in the 140's. The nurse returns with the fentanyl. He asks if I want the fentanyl now or after I transfer to a bed to be taken back to the recovery area. I mumble, "Medicine." The nurse infuses the fentanyl into my newly placed PICC line. I can feel the drug race through my body. Within a minute, I feel the sedative effects of the fentanyl attempt to drag my body off to sleep, but the pain is too severe. My body fights the fentanyl. I continue to fight back the tears, my heart continues to race, I continue to gasp for breath and my body continues shaking.
(Link to Part Three, click here)
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