for Josie, who was such a good sport about it . . .
Josie has a medicine pump which she must carry around, and sleep with for about 48 hours after the Iv's are completed in each round of treatment. This "pump" looks like and is about the same size as one of the old cassette recorders that we used to use. There is a control panel and a digital display for the countdown of the remaining medicine. It is installed/connected at the end of each IV session and then it proceeds to inject 96ml of the medicine at the rate of 2ml/hr.
It clicks, I think, every one-tenth of a milliliter, and show the decreasing amount of medicine remaining. I can only imagine the fun one would have trying to board a plane with a clicking box that has a countdown to zero in it's control panel.
The term "control panel" is used rather loosely, since there is very little in the fierce little box that can be controlled by the victim. For example, when it has completed it's task of injecting all of it's content into the patient, it screams quite loudly; rudely, in fact.
Ideally, one should arrive at the cancer center for removal of this pest about thirty seconds before the last drop is pumped in. Timing is quite important since the thing can only be silenced by the quite low tech process of removing it's batteries.
Now, this evil thing comes with about ten feet of tubing, which , of course, is to take the medicine from the pump to the patient's entry port located in the right shoulder area. Since this is way too much for the eighteen or so inches actually needed, the excess is normally wrapped round and round the box before it is placed in it's canvas case. It is then secured by Velcro straps, the cover closed and also secured, this time by a zipper. Canvas case is secured to a shoulder strap as a means of carrying. Batteries are inside the plastic case of the pump with one of those "push down and slide" closures which, I believe, were designed by the Japanese as revenge on us for winning the war. Anyway, you get the picture.
Josie gets chilled easily, so on the trip up to Gettysburg to get the pump removed, she is dressed warmly with her coat zipped up to her chin, to stay. Yes, I know the car has a heater and heated seats, but she doesn't seem to be able to unburden herself of the coat. If anything she might just reduce the heat. You may have guessed by now that the pump is on it's strap which is around her shoulder and under the zipped up coat. And under the seat belt!
You guessed it. The pump ran out of anything to pump and decided to try to notify all of central Maryland and some of southern Pennsylvania.
This started a series of events and noises which defies my limited abilities to describe. Keep in mind that I am driving, and therefore somewhat limited in my capability to assist. (one free hand is all that is available)
Josie has to first open the coat, which requires that she release the seat belt which starts another complaint, this time from the car. Now we have the pump screaming, the seat belt clanging and we still have to open the case, release the Velcro and unroll the tubing from around the pump, just to gain access to the battery compartment door..
Pandemonium is probably a descriptive word somewhere close to what was going on in the shotgun seat. (There really wasn't any really safe place to pull over)
After several minutes (hours?) of struggle we have the pump exposed and the opening to the battery compartment exposed. Which Josie now cannot open due to the sadistic oriental latch mechanism and her chemo-weakened fingers.
We finally gained control by Josie's placing the pump on my thigh and holding it in place while I pried open the compartment and snatched out the batteries. This only left the seat belt,
The point? Try not to be late for appointments.
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