There are moments in a recovery journey that feel like true turning points—quiet milestones that whisper, You’re moving forward. This week, I reached one of those moments: I had my port removed.
It felt like déjà vu from the moment the day began. My dear friend Melissa pulled up bright and early, ready to chauffeur me just like she did the day the port was placed. She was there at the beginning of my chemotherapy journey, and now she was here to help close that chapter. Full circle.
Checking In: A Quick Start to the Day
I checked in, barely found my seat, and was immediately called back. Bay 4 became my home for the next couple of hours. I changed into my ever-fashionable gown and socks (hospital couture, if you will), and within seconds nurses began pouring in—asking their hundred rapid-fire questions while maneuvering an ultrasound machine to hunt down a vein for my IV.
And while all this was unfolding?
I was plotting a joke.
In my mind, the plan was simple: after sedation, I would pretend I didn’t know who Melissa was—assuming the nurses would picture a Black woman based on my description. But since Melissa came into my bay before sedation, the setup didn’t work. Still, I mentally bookmarked it… because I was determined to make some kind of joke.
Into the Procedure Room
Soon it was time for the main event. The team rolled me into the procedure room where an all-women crew worked with calm precision. The anesthesiologist gave me “a little something to help me relax,” with the promise of more once the doctor arrived. I felt the drowsiness wash over me but stayed aware—the light, the movement, the murmurs.
When she leaned in and said, “The doctor’s here,” she gave the rest of the medication. I watched her use two small vials I didn’t recognize, followed by a saline flush. After that, the world softened and then… nothing. I vaguely remember trying to help them get me back onto the bed. Sedation naps hit different—and I welcome them every time.
Waking Up to New Beginnings (and My Joke Attempt)
Back in Bay 4, my “Hispanic” Melissa greeted me as my senses slowly returned. And this—this was my moment. Half awake, still floating between worlds, I made my joke:
“I don’t know who this is… my Melissa is a white woman, not Hispanic.”
If you know Melissa, you know why it landed. She is regularly mistaken as Hispanic. A few nurses got a good laugh, and honestly, laughter feels like medicine too.
Heading Home
Once I fully came back to myself, I changed out of my gown, went over the discharge instructions, and waited for my luxurious Bentley wheelchair escort. I rolled out, hopped into the car, and finally arrived home, where my couch welcomed me like an old friend. I sank into the four-hour nap of my dreams—pure bliss.
Farewell, Ms. Port
When I woke up, I felt lighter. The port that had been with me for 15 months—a tiny piece of hardware that delivered life-saving poison, monitored my blood levels, and accompanied me through some of the hardest days of my life—was gone.
I didn’t like it at first. It felt foreign, uncomfortable. But over time, it became part of my story. A symbol of battle. A symbol of survival. And as odd as it may sound, letting it go felt bittersweet.
So farewell, Ms. Port.
Thank you for doing your job.
Thank you for helping save my life.
And thank you for stepping aside so I can walk forward—lighter, freer, and healing more every day.
