Port-o-Tara.

Left: Aunt Mary was my nurse today at the surgery center where they put in my port. She comforted me with a stuffed animal: a turkey that emits an authentic, Audubon Society-approved gobble. It cracked me up. 

Right: Port is in under the skin, dressed and ready for chemo tomorrow. After this treatment, the nurse will take the tubes out, leaving only the incision showing.

Well, the fun begins. Bright and early Graham drove me to Middletown for my portacath surgery. By 8 o'clock I was in a gown and hospital socks, lying in a gurney as nurses stuck me for my IV. Wonderful, haze-inducing medicine began to drip. (When I sat up in bed and realized how dizzy I was, the anesthesiologist leaned down and whispered with a huge grin, "Yeah, it's good shit." Hilarious.) I was happy to see my Aunt Mary there—she just happens to work at the surgery center my oncologist selected. Mary hugged me and presented me with a journal and an appointment book to fill with all things cancer-related, later to be burned after my last treatment, she said. I love that woman.

They didn't completely knock me out for the surgery, but induced a deep drowsiness. I vaguely remember them wheeling me to the operating room, transferring me to the table, exposing my ta-tas for all to see. In the fog, I didn't mind. Just drifted far, far away as they began the incision to search for a vein sizable enough to insert the catheter.

The next thing I recall is waking up on the operating table with my wrists and legs tied down, wanting desperately to move. As I was coming to, I heard a nurse say, "Well, I hope that works. It's such a small vein." I started to freak that the surgery was unsuccessful. I moved my legs against the fabric tie-downs. Started to cry. They told me to hold still so they could finish. I did. They wheeled me back to a curtained area where they monitored me until it was time to leave. I'm not sure if it was the drugs, the nurse's comment, the dread of impending chemo—I couldn't stop crying. Not a sob, just a steady stream of tears as I sipped my water, sat back against the pillow, listened to the beep of the blood pressure monitor, eavesdropped on the family on the other side of the curtain talk about their son's tonsillectomy, how he wants a purple popsicle, go get him a purple popsicle, not a push-up one but the kind with a stick.

Eventually I calmed down, and Graham drove me down the street to Dr. Gaeke's office. She wanted to check the port site to see if it would be possible to start chemo right then and there, but decided I needed a day to rest. She went ahead and briefed me on what chemotherapy is exactly, what to expect. She went on and on about side effects of ABVD (andriamycin, bleomycin, vinblastine, and dacarbazine), the chemo regimen I'll begin tomorrow. Nausea. Severe fatigue. Sores in the mouth. Have you shopped for a wig yet? Call me right away if you see red dots on your ankles. Hard to believe what's going on inside my neck is dangerous enough to warrant injecting myself with such toxicity. But it is.

Left Dr. Gaeke's office, and headed home for lunch and a nap. Graham worked from home for a few hours, then ran out to pick up my prescriptions (two anti-nausea drugs for tomorrow). He came home with the drugs and some chocolate-almond ice cream. Perfect.

It's about 10:30 now, and I'm not experiencing too much pain. Can't move my arm much, but it's not too bad. Need to head to bed to get ready for the big day. 

Thanks for reading, thanks for loving, thanks for everything. Love you all.

Tara