Saying goodbye to my friendly little port

I have scans next week. They’re always unsettling – but this time, the stakes feel higher.

If my scans are clear on Thursday, they will remove my chemo port on Friday.

I should be optimistic, celebrating. Instead, I feel like I might be sick.

This port has been in my body for just over seven and a half years, arriving just days after my diagnosis and becoming a companionable bump somewhere along the way.

Unlike the hockey-puck-sized HAI pump that I carried in my abdomen (and couldn’t wait to have removed), my port didn’t really bother me. It never got infected. And once I realized I was allergic to chlorhexidine, it didn’t get irritated either. It didn’t get in the way of clothing, and I never felt like I had to hide it.

Mostly, it was a helpful little guy, braving the quick punch of a needle and saving me the intravenous invasion of my arm. Even after treatment, he was useful: every few months I got blood draws and radioactive isotopes and dye injected into my veins for each scan. It just made sense to keep him around.

Or maybe that’s just the story I told myself.

Because my scans have now slowed to every six months. That’s not often enough to justify a port. In fact, it’s not medically advised to go more than three months without flushing it. I have (ahem) not kept up with this – and my compliance is even less likely in the future. There are plenty of logical reasons why it’s time for the port to come out.

And yet…

The idea of my port being removed suddenly feels terrifying.

What if I need it?

What if the cancer comes back?

What if, the moment it’s gone, the cosmos looks down and asks, “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”—and spanks me with a recurrence?

That last question is almost word for word what I articulated in therapy: what if this act of hubris gets me spanked?

Oh, well, hello! Here comes my inner child: fearful and for some reason ashamed, as if I have done something to bring this on.

“What if,” my therapist asks, “you approached this moment as a ritual? What if you thanked your port for its service—acknowledged the role it played in this part of your life, as you’re ready to let it go and begin the next?”

My eyes well: her words have hit home.

It’s ok to feel fear, she reassures me.

I nod and take a deep breath. I feel a little silly feeling this scared. But the intensity of my emotional response makes me sure I’m not the only one who has felt this way.

I’m bracing myself. I am not ready for next week.

And maybe I don’t have to be.