PICC (Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter Line)

Oakland, 2018

How often can you hold in your hands something that was literally inside your heart?

This PICC line was fed through a vein in my right arm, and wiggled up the blood vessel into my own heart’s right atrium. For six weeks, once every eight hours, I used the port end of the PICC line to “push” a powerful antibiotic into my body.

All of this began with a routine spinal epidural I received in mid-February 2018, with the hopeful goal of alleviating the persistent discomfort in my lower back and left leg. But the epidural, unbeknownst to me, seeded a staph injection in my lumbar spine. That spring, as I traveled to Nepal and Thailand, the infection spread. It consumed one of my discs, ate away at my vertebrae, and poisoned my bloodstream.

I had imagined—during the months of pain, night sweats, and fevers—that the issue was mechanical: my chronic back problem was getting worse. My doctor wasn’t so sure. So after returning home, I had my blood tested. When the rheumatologist saw the results, he ordered me to the ER. I spent a week in the hospital, touch and go, before being sent home with this PICC line in my arm. It was removed two months later.

I’d never been seriously ill before, not in a life-threatening way. I’d never even spent a night in the hospital. This scary affirmation of my mortality was a deeply humbling event, which I hope I met with grace and some humor.

Among its other gifts, the crisis also served as a proof-of-concept for me. All my life, I’ve worked to build and cultivate friendships, and to show up for the many people I care about. I guess that on some level I was building a foundation: a community of interrelated friends who would, if needed, show up for me.

“If” became “when.” And they did. Nothing in my experience prepared me for the level of support I received from family and friends. Their generosity reached deeper than any PICC line, and will remain in my heart forever. I don’t need this macabre souvenir as a reminder.