"You have to get your port flushed every six-to-eight weeks," the nurse scolds, referring to the port implanted under my skin they used last year to administer my chemo. She's right, of course - if it isn't flushed often enough, it can get all clogged, which is gross, and maybe a little dangerous.
I acknowledge that I have not been taking care of things, and we lapse into companionable silence as she prepares the saline solution to do the flushing. They're leaving the port in for a while, I suppose, just in case anything comes back, but I can't say I much like thinking about having to use it again, and as she pushes the saline into the tube dangling from my chest, I shudder a little.
One year ago: Heckling
Three years ago: That's MY Problem
Four years ago: Moving the House - Tourette's Style
Nine years ago: 3-9-08 Liminal