I tried to make my chemo port into a Christmas ornament

It was a bad idea (too much blood)

Feb 16, 2025

Welcome to Am I Cured Yet? I’m so happy you’re here—my sincere thanks for hanging out in my little corner of the internet.

There is a small scar on my upper left chest, beneath which a small medical device once lived.

My Power Port was sewn neatly beneath my flesh, connecting to the vein in my neck and, thus, to my heart. He was an amiable fellow.

He had one main job: to be the first port of call (pun intended) for twenty rounds of chemotherapy, plus plenty more rounds of IV hydration. He saved me from having repeated catheters placed in my hand and protected my veins from scarring.

I wasn’t keen on my port when he first came to stay. Having him surgically installed was unpleasant. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that his arrival meant I must indeed have cancer—that my diagnosis wasn’t a horrible mistake after all.

The idea of a needle connecting with him did not spark joy. No, it sparked terror. A very macabre kind of coitus.

A large needle protruding from a tube at a violent 90-degree angle?

You mean to stab this into my chest?

Are you absolutely sure?

Image courtesy of www.legalhelpadvisor.com

Despite the lidocaine, it hurt a fair bit at first. After all, someone was pushing a needle through my already unhappy skin, still bruised black and blue from the unwelcome houseguest.

But the act of connection hurt less over time. As my fear diminished, tiny pinprick scars built up where once unblemished skin had been.

I grew to like my port. He was my safety. My comrade in battle. My friend.

When all my treatment was complete—and when enough time had passed to placate my anxious superstition about evicting my port prematurely—my surgeon removed him.

Could I keep him? I asked, to my surgeon’s evident surprise.

I had read on Facebook about a woman who turned her port into a Christmas tree ornament. I thought it was a marvellous idea. After all, my port had been with me all this time! Oughtn’t he be celebrated?

Several weeks after my surgery, once pathology had been run and forms had been signed, I went to collect my friend from some forgotten corner of the hospital.

He was in a biohazard plastic bag. And he was covered in my own blood.

Was cleansing him of my biological waste a step too far?

I was rather afraid it was.

And so he has sat in the back of my closet for three years—this thing, which had been such a helpful part of me, became discarded and forgotten. And as the scar on my chest becomes less notable, so too does the memory of my cancer.

Is there anything in your life that became an unexpected symbol of your journey? Tell me in the comments!

Thanks so much for reading! Please hit the heart button if you made it all the way to the end; it really helps me out :)

And if this is your first time here, I’d be honoured if you considered subscribing. You can expect always thoughtful, occasionally funny, weekly essays about health, happiness and mortality.

I’ll be back next week—with more to share. Until then, thank you for reading, and take good care of yourself :)

Emma