A Good Goodbye...

Dear Chemo Port,

A few days ago you left me, thank God and the angels, my doctors and healers too. Like my tumor and my leg, I'm not sure where you are now.

Some goodbyes must happen.

You had a job, you did it well. Pumping poison through my veins, battling a tumor and misbehaving cells.

Then you stayed, watching and waiting, a good friend.

Sometimes I would glance down to a tiny bump in my chest. Your tip, the rest of you winding to my heart and back again. At least that's where I think you spent your time. Once I typed "chemo port" into my phone, then stopped to remember why I was a patient who Just Said No to googling.

Because at night a sigh or a tear might come when I let in those dark fantasies, those what ifs.

In the morning I would pick a shirt that hid you.

From myself, because I didn't want to think of hard returns or bad surprises, at least in daylight hours. From experienced warrior friends, for they would remember, perhaps too much. And I didn't want to be too much for anyone. From naive (and lucky) ones, who would think you a creature rising from my chest, an alien...

...what is that weird thing?

And to hide you from my sons, mostly. Because I didn't want them stuck by that bed...where they used to find me day after day, when they just wanted their mom.

But after all that hiding and waiting, waiting and hiding...came the video call when my doctor said:

YES...

...you can have surgery to remove your chemo port, Julie. (And we laughed a little, it was all so good.)

And I said thanks to the heavens, upon learning of your departure.

Please don't take it personally, Chemo Port.

After scheduling the surgery I got a little nervous, because you couldn't leave without some pain. Goodbyes are like that sometimes, chased by memories of beginnings...

...and I remembered your arrival.

When I had been overwhelmed and broken, five appointments in one week. I would get used to that number, but I wasn't then. A PET scan had wanted to meet my whole body, just to be sure that my tumor was an introvert who kept to itself. But then I spent some time with a brain MRI that needed reassurance, to be the real know-it-all in the bunch...

...well her head is okay. (Except it wasn't, confused and bewildered.)

The echo cardiogram chimed in...

...well her heart is strong. (Which I knew to be true.)

So off we went to the cancer clinic where a cheerful nurse drew a curtain and I whispered goodbye to my before. There had been no chemo buddy to distract me; Covid took that luxury away. It was you and me, Chemo Port, with the pounding of my good heart and a pen to write down potential side effects.

Shaking then, I had looked up to the orange bag of poison, my unsteady gaze traveling down the tube to the needle into you. And you had worked tirelessly that next week, pumping a 7 lb. bag of chemo into me, 24/7, as I hugged my infusion bag, lulled into a stupor by your...

...whir, whir, whir. Don't stop, can't stop, won't stop.

Yes you were with me through a lot, Chemo Port.

For the bad blood draws that reported my potassium as near zero, except it wasn't after all, decided at that bleary midnight hour in the emergency room. Twice. The home health nurses loved you, because you made it easier to get my blood, so often it seemed I might run out. Then you brought me new blood, from heroes, when my red cells had run away.

But you didn't leave, never ever, until it was the right time.

Because of you, I will live.

And I'm ready for blouses, light and free that don't hide something. More like the

her who didn't know you, who would have thought you an alien.

The one who took baths with no thought of mortality, as she lazily glanced to her chest and blew off bubbles.

But even as I loved that old her, the innocent me, I can't forget that I knew you. Like the scar on my chest, my memories will fade...

...but I will remember that you loved me well, Chemo Port.

Pinky swear, friends forever.

Love,

Julie