A letter to that thing under my clavicle

Dear Port-o-pus,

I know I didn't offer you any Martha-esque hospitality when you showed up.  Frankly, I didn't think I needed you and resented your intrusion into my life.  See, in August of 2008, I still believed it was all a big mistake.  When the anesthesiologist put me under to have my lymph nodes removed and tested, I was still thinking "if" and not "when."  But as I came out of the fog, I found out that it was indeed cancer; the invasive kind.  There you were, hooked into a vein close to my heart so that the poison/medicine could circulate most effectively.

That's something I still don't want to think about.

I admit that I found you annoying at first.  During my pregnancies, I'd learned to sleep on my left side because I'd read a book said that it provided the best circulation for the fetus.  When you showed up I had to readjust.  My right side was difficult too, as my left shoulder would sink forward as I would relax and again become uncomfortable.

As usual, my body acclimated to its new reality and three weeks after we met you were put to the test.  Scared and anxious, I had my first visit to the chemotherapy suite and realized that I had been too hasty in my judgment.  I sat next to a man who chose not to get a port.  Several nurses, many needle sticks and a whole lot of blood followed while I looked on in horror.  While they worked on him, my nurse stuck a butterfly needle (called a Huber needle) in my port.  I barely felt a twinge and the medicines were flowing within minutes.

That day I started to understand that you really were my friend.  I admit with some shame that you had become my scapegoat, the target for my anger and self-pity.  I have known others who have gone through the needless misery of no port because they didn't like the idea of it.  I can't help but question their sanity.  I always stick up for you (sorry for the pun).

After a few months, I had the mastectomy.  You stayed around and we never missed an appointment.  Early on, nurses noted my chart; my port was deep and needed a longer than standard needle.  But after the skin tightening from the surgery, you became prominent, even visible.  For the next 18 months, I explained to every single nurse that a standard needle was fine, that those notes were based on my pre-surgery body.  Most of them listened to me but sometimes I had to deal with a not-quite-flat needle sticking out of you.

At least that gave me some "I told you so" moments.

Every three weeks for a year a nurse "accessed my port" which isn't nearly as fun as it sounds.  But I never had pain and only had trouble the one time the nurse missed.  When I told my surgeon that, she laughed and said she could hit you with her eyes closed.  I have to agree.  Last September I had my last infusion of medicine, the one patients like me call the Holy Water.

I was hoping to dump you like a load of flaming bricks but the ninja had other ideas.   She's cautious, you know, and who can blame her.  Things weren't looking so good when you first came on the scene.

So I faithfully went to the doctor to keep up on your maintenance and you faithfully worked every time.  Every six weeks we woke you up and fed you saline and Heparin.

But now, after two years of a tumultuous relationship, it's time to part ways.  I offer my gratitude for all you have done.  The medicine worked as planned and thanks to you I avoided needless, and needleless, pain.

This Friday you will be removed in a brief, likely unceremonious, outpatient procedure.  Remember, port-o-pus, attachment is the cause of all suffering.  I wish you the best and remind you that it's not you -- it's me.  Don't take it so hard and for goodness sake, don't beat yourself up and dwell on all of the what-ifs of life.

One final thought.  Even though I appreciate all you've done for me, I hope I never have to meet another one of your kind.

Respectfully,
Katie