And so the countdown begins -- 22 days until my port comes out. On September 15 at 9:00 AM I will report to the basement of Shands Hospital at the University of Florida where I will be doped into a semi-conscious state and wheeled into an operating room. Doctors and nurses will open the skin near my collarbone and while watching their own procedure on a monitor hanging overhead will remove my port and all connected tubing. They will close my skin, leaving an incision that will quickly become a scar -- and a physical reminder of the cancer than once settled into my breast and the drugs that ran through my veins in search of it. It will be my battle scar -- second in importance only to the marks that criss cross my stomach and mark the spot where two big baby boys stretched my skin to unimaginable proportions.The state of my port has plagued me for some time now -- ever since I knew chemotherapy was fast approaching its end. I have wanted to keep it in place just in case I need it again. And I have wanted to get it out just in case I never need it again. And when it came down to making a decision, I decided taking it out was best. So I can move on. So I can move forward. So I can move away from cancer. I know I'll never move completely away from it -- and that's okay. I don't want to forget my journey. I just want to live beyond its reach. Beyond the port that pops out from under my skin. The port that if needed again, can simply be put back in place.
And so my soul searching -- chronicled in the following two posts -- is over. My port is coming out.
