After my Whipple and before chemotherapy began I had a port catheter surgically implanted in my chest. The concept is simple. Around the size of a bottle cap with a catheter to my main artery, the port is a permanent easy connection to my bloodstream.
In practice it hasn’t worked out that way at all.
What is supposed to be a convenience has turned into a royal pain. I have become a head case over it. Some of my fears are irrational. That doesn’t mean they’re not real.
A quick recap for those of you who lived through the sixties. After its insertion the area around my port remained bruised and sensitive for a few weeks. I avoided touching it at all costs. After my last chemo treatment we had trouble controlling its bleeding.
At first today the port allowed infusions but no drawing of blood. A few hours later it was doing neither. Why? No easy answer.
I am upset but I will get over it. Being angry won’t help. That’s the natural inclination, of course.
Tomorrow it’s back to the Treatment Center. I never got the chemo today! Unless something radical changes they will have to tap my arm — exactly what a port was supposed to prevent.
As for the port, it might need to be seen by “Interventional Radiology.” Sighhhhhhhhh.
Did I mention I’ll get over it. Just not yet.