port removal
no more devices implanted in my body!
Names have been changed for the sake of privacy.
Can I touch it?, Luke asks as I crawl into bed. He reaches for my chest. It’s like a third nipple, he says, laughing as he pushes lightly on the place where the port protrudes.
It’s Monday night, and I’m getting my port removed on Tuesday morning. It feels like a milestone: I’m really and truly finished with treatments.
It’s producing a bit of anxiety, too. I’ll be getting anesthesia. Sometimes bad things happen. What if it gets infected? A woman at church who is also a cancer patient told me recently that she didn’t want her port removed: she considered it a good luck charm. Like how bringing an umbrella guarantees it won’t rain.
Am I tempting fate by getting the port taken out?
Initially I scheduled the procedure for 8:30 on Tuesday morning, thinking that would align nicely with school drop off for the girls and Luke wouldn’t have to be too late to work. But then I got a call back that they had accidentally double-booked. Would 9:30 be okay instead? I said it would.
It worked out fine because, to our surprise, Luke went to request the time off and learned his office would be closed for Veterans Day. (Thank you to all our veterans and service members, especially those who have been working without pay during this shutdown!)
On Tuesday morning Luke takes the girls to school then brings me to the hospital.
I arrive at entrance two in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. I brought my headphones and my book. I was told that this should take about three hours from arrival to departure.
Good morning, I chirp at the woman behind the reception desk. She is struggling to contain an expansive yawn. Ah, sorry, she says as she finishes up. Checking in?
I give her my name, confirm my address and birthday. I use a stylus to initial and sign documents on an electronic pad. She prints out a wristband and asks me to confirm my name and birthday again before she adheres it around my wrist.
I sit and look around. There’s a surprisingly chic painting of a woman wielding a fly rod on the wall across from me. The other artwork on the walls is more expected: photographs of the mountains, a rainbow, an elk.
A man with a white Santa beard is also in the waiting room reading a book whose cover I can’t see. I try to subtly crane my head to get a sense of his reading taste, but I can’t make it out. He wears sneakers and high white socks. It’s a 350-ish-page paperback, so not a war historical or presidential biography. I wonder if he’s reading a pulpy mystery or if it’s something less predictable.
A youngish guy in a grey sweatshirt with a mullet and a mustache walks past, checking his phone.
I realize as I sit there that I’m quite hungry—I had an early dinner last night of a slice of freshly baked sourdough bread and leftover tomato soup, half of which Sylvie devoured. More! she cried each time the spoon left her mouth. I couldn’t get it to her fast enough.
I had a first friend date last night, and by the time I got home from drinks it was too late for a second dinner. I wasn’t allowed to eat this morning (no food after midnight), so I haven’t eaten since about 5:30 last night. I even missed my last chance to chug a glass of water. My cutoff for clear liquids was 8AM. I forgot to look at the clock when I woke up, and by the time I remembered to drink something it was 8:15. I risked a sip of water anyway, rebel that I am, but I didn’t want to bend the rules too far.
A man approaches the reception desk to check in for an MRI. His voice is loud and carrying, and I’m not the only one in the waiting room to glance his way. He wants a full body scan to check for cancer. I’m 65 and wanna see if death is trying to sneak up on me, he tells her.
Julia? a woman calls and I stand up. The nurse who collects me is the same one who helped me when I had the port installed. I don’t usually remember patients but I remember you, Chrissy says. You were so chill about it. Some people get really anxious.
Oh really? I say. Well yeah because you’re not supposed to have to go through this, she says, perhaps referring to my age. Though I suppose she could be making a larger commentary on the oddness of modern medical technology.
She already removed one port this morning. She tells me she doesn’t like putting ports in, but it’s fun taking them out.
She’s slim with long brown hair and light blue eyes. She’s wearing black athletic clothes.
I think this is the same room you had last time! she tells me as she opens the door and ushers me inside. At first I think I won’t possibly be able to confirm this, but then I look at the under-the-sea collage on the wall and agree: this is the same room.
I didn’t dig through your chart but hopefully you’re getting it out for a fun reason and not a bad one? she asks as I put my bag down on a chair and hop up on the bed. Yes! I tell her. All done with chemo!
That’s great, she tells me. Did you have blue hair? I confirm that I did. I tried to dye it back to brown when it didn’t fall out during treatment, but it’s still kind of blue.
Chrissy leaves me alone to change into a green patterned gown. It should be open in the back, she tells me. I can leave my sweatpants on. When she returns, she brings me a warm blanket and tucks it around me before gathering her supplies to connect an IV.
We chat about the unseasonable weather. It’s so warm out today, I observe as she bustles around the room. The temperature is already in the 50s, and expected to climb as the day progresses. I knew it was warm because my tire pressure light didn’t come on, she tells me.1 She has a lot to say on this subject: she could fill her tires herself, she assures me, but thought she’d just get it done when she has her tires rotated. But then she learned that the first available tire rotation appointment isn’t until December—December! So I guess I will have to do it myself, she laments.
She looks for a vein and thinks she finds a juicy one in my left wrist. It doesn’t work. Sorry Julia! There’s going to be another big poke. You might have a bruise there, she tells me as she removes the needle from my arm and examines my right hand instead. I know hands hurt a little more but these veins look pretty good.
She finds a vein she likes—that’s the one I want—and this time her attempt succeeds.
You have daughters right? I don’t know why I remember that! Are you creeped out? I don’t normally remember things like that!
I assure her that I’m not creeped out and confirm that her memory is correct, I have two daughters. I tell her their ages. You’re busy, then! she exclaims.
I feel bad now, I tell her. I’m trying to remember what we talked about. Were you going to a wedding? Or no! I say, remembering. Your sister was having a baby!
Yeah! Wow you do remember! See! Okay so I’m not weird. Well now my other sister is having another baby.
And you have a bunch of other nieces and nephews already, don’t you? I ask.
Yes! Seven nieces and nephews from two sisters. They’re a fertile bunch. They’re making up for me, she says and laughs. I’m remembering now that this is a source of sadness and disappointment for her. She’s looking for a partner but hasn’t found one. I don’t bring this up.
Wow your blood pressure is perfect! It’s like textbook, she says, and I feel a gush of unearned pride.
We go through my medications and I answer questions about my medical history and allergies. She tells me she loves Unisom and used to take it every night, but then someone told her it causes early dementia. I don’t even know if that’s true but someone told me that so I stopped using it. Only if you use it like regularly, though, she adds. Oops! I’ve been using it every night lately to try to turn myself into a morning person. Definitely a losing battle, but that’s what the world seems to want from me so nevertheless I persist.
Chrissy tells me that she’s been turned on to a calm powder from Amazon. It has thiamine and magnesium and maybe melatonin? She recommends it. Oh yes I’ve heard magnesium is really great for sleep, I say.
She talks me through the procedure. The sedation will be a little lighter than it was for the install. It’s hard to get you perfectly sedated before he’s finished because it’s so quick. It takes like ten minutes, she tells me. I’m surprised to hear this because the scheduler told me it would take an hour. Oh yeah, they book the room for an hour but it actually only takes like ten minutes.
Chrissy leaves and the doctor comes to talk to me and get my signature on more consent forms. He’ll make the incision right along the scar from the last time.
Your body makes scar tissue around any foreign object, so I’ll dissect it out of that and sew you back up. It should only take about ten minutes. The biggest risk is the risk of infection. So when you get home don’t shower.
Don’t shower for about two days, actually. And when you do, make sure you keep your back to the water. Keep it covered and don’t let the water hit you directly in the chest. No baths, hot tubs, or standing water for two weeks.
I sign the consent form.
I leave my phone behind with my clothes and bag and Chrissy wheels my bed to the operating room. I climb out and walk into the cold, institutionally white room.
I climb up on the table and tuck my hair into a blue cap. There’s a woman in the room already, preparing for my procedure. She drapes more warm blankets over me and asks if I have any music requests. Oh, anything, I say. Do you have a favorite artist? she asks, not letting me get off the hook that easily. I tell her Lana Del Rey or Noah Kahan.
Stick Season begins playing and I resist the temptation to sing along. The blonde surgical assistant does not, and I hear her humming to herself as she unsnaps the gown and exposes my chest. I allow my toes to bounce to the beat.
There’s a large white rectangular object above my face, slowly lowering closer. We’ll take x-rays before and after, the blonde woman explains.
Chrissy is adhering monitoring devices to my chest and sides, and accessing the IV in my hand for medication. I grow drowsy.
I don’t remember much after this.
I feel the sharp sting of the injection of local anesthetic in my chest. That does not feel good, and I suffer a moment of fear that I’m going to be one of those people who feels everything despite the anesthesia. I want to tell them to stop, to wait, to make sure I’m really out before they start cutting into my chest.
Then I doze off.
Chrissy wheels me back to my room. She brings me apple juice. Tells me they’ve called my husband to let him know he can pick me up.
It’s only 11:45, and I had told him (based on the scheduler’s information) that I would most likely be ready at around 12:30. He had plans to go for a run, then bring a book to a diner for a nice leisurely breakfast. I hope he had enough time to enjoy his morning.
Chrissy gives me a red plastic bag with my port inside. I get to take it home as a souvenir. She reminds me not to drive or operate heavy machinery for the rest of the day.
After another twenty minutes or so of waiting, during which I get dressed and scroll my phone, Chrissy goes to look for Luke. He has a beard and is usually wearing a baseball cap!, I call after her.
I text Luke to see where he is. Turns out he’s been sitting in the waiting room for twenty minutes, and had checked in at the desk. I look up from my phone and hear Luke and Chrissy coming down the hall. I slip on my boots and stand up.
How was your morning? I ask. Were you able to go out to breakfast?
He was. I’m jealous you get this three days a week! he tells me. I do work, you know, I remind him.
I crawl into bed when we get home, though I’m actually feeling pretty good. Not sore at all, and not as out of it as I had anticipated. Luke goes to pick up Chipotle—a treat!—and I snooze until he gets back.
Cold weather causes the air inside the tires to contract, which is why your tire pressure light will likely come on in the winter.
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