Bye Implant
Surgical removal
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I write to express my feelings, and today, I have many emotions.
I’m having a minor surgery tomorrow, one I have been looking forward to for some time. Now that it’s here, I feel a touch of sadness.
Two years ago, I had a life port implanted in my chest because I experienced painful side effects to intravenous administration of chemotherapy. This small device sits above my left breast and has settled into my body.
This port is like an ex-lover who hasn’t ultimately left your life.
It helped me cope with cancer, and was a lifeline. I have learned to accept it’s awkwardness and no longer notice the attention and curiosity it attracts when it shows. I have repressed it to a certain degree, but it lingers and occasionally triggers emotions I thought I had overcome.
Every morning, before the sun rises, my cat visits me to cuddle, and as he nuzzles my face, he accidentally steps on my port. It sends a sharp pain through my chest that wakes me up. I push him to the side, irritated that he climbed on my port. When the pain ceases, I scoop him up and hold him to my chest, feeling sad that he doesn’t understand the reason for my discomfort. I continue my morning and enter the bathroom to wash my face. My face wash smells of peppermint and gives me that morning boost to start the day. I look in the mirror, and my reflection triggers a feeling of frustration. I see a bulging circle protruding from my chest; a thin layer of skin covers it. I can make out the circle so well that I begin to think of how easy it would be to carve it out with my kitchen knife.
I tell myself, “It’s not a big deal; you are alive, don’t be ungrateful.” This mantra has accompanied me for some time, and I lift myself from that moment of frustration.
I have my morning coffee with my fiancé, and we continue our morning routine. We prepare our things for the gym as we listen to a morning café playlist on Spotify. When we arrive at the gym, we separate, we spend an hour individually dedicated to our workout. I mentally turn off at the gym; it’s a place where I rehabilitated my cancer leg, a place that challenges and encourages me to grow stronger. On upper-body days, I usually listen to Nirvana or a similar 90’s genre. The music fits my current feelings as I am distracted starring in the mirror. My sports bra doesn’t cover my port, and I see it move up and down through my skin as I do a shoulder press. I notice the thin line of the port and imagine the blood flowing in and out of my heart. I wonder what would happen if that small pipe somehow dislodged from my artery. Is it possible? Would I internally bleed?
The first week the port was implanted, I felt disgusted at how it malformed my chest. I disliked the considerations I had to make on its behalf, like taking extra fabric to wrap around my seatbelt because it causes discomfort. I hate that it interrupts my sexual intimacy because the pressure on the left part of my chest causes uncomfortable pain.
And yet, as I prepare for tomorrow’s fifteen-minute surgery. I am amazed at how many daily interruptions will simply vanish, how a fifteen-minute operation will remove a device that reminds me every day that I had cancer.
Sometimes I see a bald version of myself, a woman in a wheelchair wondering if she will get a second chance. She is strong; she is fearless; she is part of me. And as much as I am looking forward to this implant removal surgery, I feel a need to say goodbye and thank this device for her sake because it helped her cope with cancer and feel less pain.
This port is a symbol that keeps her close to me. But it’s time to remove this thing in my chest, time to move on and continue living in the present.
I cry and smile because I know she understands that she will always be a part of me and that I will never forget her.
