Occasional Housekeeper

            At best, I am an occasional housekeeper.  For days, weeks, even months at a time, I easily ignore the dust bunnies that multiply as fast as real rabbits.  Dishes and laundry are my specialty, but beyond that my house tends to be gritty and gray around the edges.

            However, there have been times in my life in which I have applied hard work and determination to make my home an oasis instead of a dusty desert.  Sometimes months pass in which I exercise excellent habits and maintain a place for everything and everything in its place.  But just when I begin to believe that I have turned a corner, it fills up with dust and clutter.

            Saturday morning, after buying two dozen eggs and a bag of cucumbers at the farmer’s market, I decided to cruise around town.  At an estate sale, a bright purple and turquoise butterfly comforter and sheet set caught my eye.  Occasionally over the past few years, I have looked for new bedding, but never found something that wowed me.  Perhaps I should wonder why I am drawn to the bright colors featured in pre-teen décor, but never mind that. 

            One thing leads to another, they say, and that’s what happened Saturday afternoon. Because the old hot pink and lime green valance did not match the new colors, I was inspired to hang the light-blocking drapes that have waited patiently in the hall closet for several years.  The next thing I knew, I was cleaning out my closet, dusting under the bed, changing out the funky antique California orange crates for an end table, and taking down pictures that clashed with my new bedding. 

            That evening I felt the satisfying fatigue that follows hard work.  My heart was seized with gratitude.  Not so long ago, a few hours of cleaning and rearranging was an impossible dream because of my poor health.  For the ability to spend an afternoon doing occasional housework, I give God thanks.

Port Removal

            I yell at the first slice, and the surgeon promptly doses me up with more local anesthetic.  Since the area is already mostly numb, the bee sting effect is muted.

            The nurse has already warned me about the pulling and tugging and pressure, so I am not surprised.  However, I cannot get the chest x-ray out of my mind.  Never--before or since the port placement under sedation just over two years ago--have I considered how long the tubing is.  Seeing it extend from the port just under my right clavicle, down the jugular vein, and past the bottom of my right lung unnerves me.  Pull and tug, pull and tug, and then pressure applied to my neck to prevent jugular bleeding.  I try to concentrate on slow, deep breathing instead of the long tubing.

            The outpatient surgery is done.  The second x-ray is taken, and I am glad to see for myself that the tubing is gone.  But I am still shaken as the nurse walks me back out to the waiting room. 

It’s like old times, proffering my arm to the familiar face at the radiology front desk to have her snip off my wristband.  I compliment her on her new (to me at least) hairstyle, and she is happy to see me.  We high-five over the port removal, and then my friend Mona and I are on our way, first to the check-out counter where I receive my six-month and one-year appointment times, then out to my car and down the highway to Owasso and lunch.

Today, two days since the event, the incision site still hurts, and I am still somewhat shaken.  Seared on my inner vision, the x-ray image of that long and snaky tubing still unnerves me.  In the effort to de-traumatize myself, I’ve thought of all kinds of wordplay to describe Monday’s procedure:  I was de-ported.  I am port-less.  I can refer to my ex-port while examining its import on my life.  Funny that the smallest and last bit of my cancer treatment experience has turned out to be traumatic after all the big and hard parts that stretched out over most of a year. 

Now I understand even more of how amazing God’s presence has been during my cancer treatment.  He gave me peace during all the truly difficult times:  diagnosis, waiting, chemotherapy, pneumonia, surgery, and radiation.  My quarterly check-ups since then have been marked by happiness to see those lovely souls I recognize: check-in staff, technicians, nurses, doctors.  Knowing that God is in control and trusting myself to His will, whatever that may entail, provides peace that banishes fear.  He will help me learn from this tiny bit of trauma, and I thank Him for extending my life.