I made it! The catheterization was Monday. Considering how much I whined about it, I felt honor bound to report back. It’s over, and—wonder of wonders!—this one was not traumatic.
In an effort to be helpful many people told me they’d had a cath and it was easy, piece of cake, like rollin’ off a log, no worries, all of which made me want to punch them in the nose! Sure, I understand that two people can have the exact same experience but perceive it completely differently. But still, I wondered, how can you live through THAT and say it was OK? Well, now I understand that the cath I had Monday—the cath my friends had and talked about—that is the kind of cath you’re supposed to have. The cath I had last August was clearly the cath from Hell.

Dooley, the Polar Bear with Funny Hair
I am so glad I had my arsenal of distractions in place. Dooley came with us and was nearly as good at comforting as my husband is. I listened to the relaxation CD in the car on the way and plugged in Mamma Mia! once I was settled in a bed in the waiting area. The nurse collected some blood and then let my husband come back to wait with me—an unexpected bonus that was very helpful indeed (especially when the procedure was scheduled for 10:30 but didn’t begin until after 1:00). The nurse let the doctor know I had some questions (and may have given him a heads-up about the “she’s a wreck” part, too), so he came back to talk to me before the procedure and assured me there would be a sedative.
I didn’t plan it this way, but it occurred to me later that when your doctor enters your little curtained enclosure and finds you clutching a teddy bear in one arm and your husband’s hand with the other, he gets a pretty good idea where you are mentally. I could see the confusion on his face and the nurse’s and could only speculate at what they might be thinking—She’s had a cath already, right? It’s the “virgins” who are usually beside themselves, what happened that she’s had one and is panic-stricken?
I downplayed this part before, but during the last cath, I was certain the doc was trying to force a foot-long piece of rebar down my vein. There was no pain, but that’s what it felt like, a lot of pressure and extremely uncomfortable. I remember feeling a trickle on my neck, and someone said, “Oops, a little liquid there.” (Yes, I’m pretty sure he said “oops.” That’s what you want to hear during your first cath ever, right?) He wiped it away, and when he pulled his hand away, I saw blood on his fingers. MY blood. That’s the stuff I discounted because I assumed everyone has those experiences. Of course it’s hard threading the catheter, of course there’s blood.
But there was more to it than that. Last year I didn’t know what was going on. To be fair, I was still half out of it from the procedure I’d had just before, but they didn’t give me anything for the cath itself, so when I was lucid, I was also scared. It felt strange to be scared but not have symptoms of fear—no butterflies or racing heart. I asked questions of the nurses and was given dismissive answers. And then there was the incident I mentioned before, when I opened my eyes and didn’t see anyone around.
This time, however, there was no runaway blood. While he was threading the catheter, I felt the doctor’s hand lightly on my neck—no pressure at all—and then he said, “Yes, that was a little complicated.” I don’t know if that’s the way it usually is, or if he was extra careful because he knew how upset I was, but either way, it was much better this time.
The nurses were great, letting me know what they were doing as they were doing it. When one nurse came along and announced, “I have cold soap for your neck,” another piped up and added, “She doesn’t have a needle—no needles yet.” I’m OK with needles as long as I don’t have to watch, but it was really thoughtful of her to let me know it wasn’t time yet.
When it came time for the sedative, the nurse let me know it was coming, and about fifteen seconds later, I felt like pudding. With the best will in the world, I could never get myself that relaxed on my own. I may have slept through part of the procedure—it seemed to go fast—but I remember most of it, including the discussion about nitric oxide. I had let the doc know ahead of time that when a mask is placed on my face, my brain gets a message that I’m being smothered, and I panic (and struggle). We made a deal: he said we could use a cannula if I promised to breathe only through my nose. We did, and I did, and it worked.
Best of all, they all checked in with me. They place a drape over your neck and the side of your head (which works well because you’re covered and therefore sterile, but it’s not over your face or in your peripheral vision) and you turn your head sharply to the left. The nurses put themselves in my line of sight and asked how I was doing, and the doc checked in, too. The other thing that was helpful is that he let me know when he got the catheter threaded and again when he was nearly done, so I had a feel for where we were in the process and how soon I’d be outta there.
This second cath was a completely different experience than the first. I felt looked after and protected, and it wasn’t scary. There aren’t enough words to describe the sense of relief that came over me when it was finished. A good thing, too, because this procedure is how the docs monitor my condition, so it was not my last one. Now I know I won’t have nearly as much anxiety next time, whenever that turns out to be (not that I’m volunteering to do it every month or anything). What a relief!