The last two times I’ve gone in, they’ve had problems setting the needle. The port has sunk and tilted, so it’s no longer normal to the plane of the skin of my chest, and there’s far more intervening tissue than should be present by design. This has led to some rather difficult and painful efforts at setting the needle. Intramuscular injections of saline are to be avoided where possible, I’m here to tell you.
This past time, one of the senior nurses had to take over, and go through it very carefully. I made a point of asking that she document the process for my current port position in my chart, to smooth along these next four sessions. Not looking forward to it.
In other news, yesterday was a little slow due to poor sleep, but not abysmal. And something very odd happened about 3:30 or so. I was reading Terry Pratchett when writer brain poked me and said, hey, hey, let’s revise some old stories you never sent out. So I did. Worked for about an hour, got two pieces of short SF out to be read. Weird. Writer brain has been fighting me all through April, so when I finally give it a rest, then it pipes up and wants to go party. Probably no writing today, btw, because of
However, last night’s sleep was abysmal, even for having logged some pretty good hours in the rack. Around 1 am I was dreaming about me and
The last time this happened to me was several years ago, when I dreamt
I’m usually a fairly lucid dreamer, but sometimes I’m “dreaming real”. Both of those dreams felt like real experiences in the moment. Experiences I never, ever want to repeat.