Danny became aware of my port just before it was removed. He was only 18 months old when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and my journey went pretty much unnoticed by this small boy who had no idea ports were not standard on every person he met. Now he is three years old and even though he still has no real idea why a port popped up from underneath my skin for two years, he did come to realize it was something akin to a boo-boo that one day goes away. My port went away on September 15. And ever since that day, Danny has been very concerned about the incision that marks the spot once home to a foreign device. For one week after my port removal, my incision was covered. Danny wondered why. I told him I was healing, that I had to keep my boo-boo protected, that I could not take a shower because it could not get wet. Danny was very attentive. He pulled at the neck of my shirt every time I held him to sneak a peak at the site of my surgery. He asked if it hurt, if doctors cut me with a knife, if new skin was growing underneath my bandage. "Yes", "yes", and "yes." I told him. And one day when I decided to take a shower, despite orders to keep the area completely dry, Danny said, "The doctor said you cannot take a shower." I told him, "I know." And he said, "But actually you did take a shower." I told him he was right and hoped he would not pursue my disobedience any further. He did not -- he was just checking up on me, he was just concerned about me, he was just wondering if I may have compromised something. I told him I was fine.
I did not do any damage with my rebellious shower, my bandage is off, and Danny only peeks once in a while to monitor the area. He is mostly back to his normal life, free from all nursing duties. And I am mostly back to life, free from my port and happily showered in love by my littlest guy -- the guy who was once oblivious to all things cancer related, the guy who somehow became my caregiver.
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.
