Being a cancer survivor is about marking time. Nearly two years since my diagnosis. A year and a half since my surgery. A month until my next scan. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Today’s milestone was finally getting the chemo port extracted from my chest. It was a no-big-deal surgery—wide awake, lots of lidocaine, 40 minutes total in the O.R. And it was the first time I’d actually seen the plastic cherry-tomato-sized orb through which they poured chemotherapy drugs into my body. I could have left it in there “just in case,” my oncologist said. Just in case I ever need treatment again.
I was initially reticent about removing it, as if doing so would jinx everything. But protruding below my collarbone and visible in the mirror every morning, the port bound me psychologically to the past. Taking it out signifies our shared optimism that I will never need to visit an infusion clinic again.
I joked with the nurses about whether or not I could keep it as a souvenir. In truth, I’d be thrilled to watch them incinerate it. I am all about scrubbing my life of the unwelcome traces of that time.
Goodbye, little guy. I won’t miss you.