Yes, I still have the drains. I don’t want to talk about it.
But there is cause for celebration this week. I saw my oncologist and she ordered my port to be taken out. This was big news for a few reasons. It means I definitively don’t have to have any more chemo, and I get to evict at least one of my constant companions. (The drains are next, but we’re not talking about them.) To be clear, exactly no one has even raised the possibility of more chemo, but I don’t know, I find myself still steeling myself against the worst possibilities.
On that note, I had to ask my oncologist if a “cure” was still the aim and within reach. The need for my second surgery caught me off guard and I started to wonder whether I was going to need to worry forever about more tiny spots of cancer cells in places I had never considered before. My oncologist looked me in the eye and said, “A cure is still the most likely outcome for you.” I cried and loved her all over again.
So, I got my port out. It felt really symbolic because the port was the first physical sign I had of the treatment that was to come. I honestly hated the feel of it on my chest and up in my neck. But I am also really glad to have had it, if I had to go through 20 weeks of chemo, which I did. Sixteen times, I had blood drawn and chemo administered through the port. I sucked on Jolly Ranchers to mask the taste from the saline flushes and I iced it on treatment days because it always got bruised. It served a great purpose. And I’m so glad to be moving on from it.
Other cause for celebration? My hair is really starting to grow back. It feels really soft. The girls say my head feels like our cat Sydney’s fur. I almost look like I have a stylish pixie. Almost. The young woman who brought me my grocery pickup order at Safeway said, “Oh! You got a new hairstyle! I like it.” I must have been wearing a wig before. But I appreciated the thought, even if she made me wait 30 minutes for the grocery order.
So, now I’m headed back to my Netflix. I’m completely into all British reality competition shows, including the Great British Bakeoff, and I realize I’m super late to the game with this one. Someone tell me, is his real name Paul Hollywood? Because there’s nothing better than a guy with thinly veiled contempt for everything American (baking, anyway) who is named Paul Hollywood. And no one told me how many inappropriate jokes they make on this show and I am. Here. For. It. Those saucy kittens.