Big C Update III

Today, I had a visit from a Home Nursing Service; the purpose was to teach me to take care of The Port. (Please, help me come up with a charming name for The Port. Mort? Sport? Mr. Portato Head?) I have shoes older than Nurse Bunnyface. I have fillings older than Nurse Bunnyface. But let's not hold that against her. I was supposed to learn this in my transplant class, but there was no chance of me actually absorbing information that night, especially about Portense.

The placement of the port, and the shortness of yours truly, means that any access to Porterhouse involves... well, let's just say one of the Girls can shy away, but the other has a starring role. So while we're all very focused on Cleaning and Flushing the Port, part of my brain wants to know why Rightina is so fascinated with my shoes; is Lefty likewise obsessed? Up here, Girls!

It's all moot anyways: there is simply no way for me to do this: I can barely SEE the area. And I am unwilling to try doing it by looking in the mirror and risk doing something backwards or upside-down. Nope, much to Nurse Bunnyface's disappointment, I tell her that I believe I will need help with Portofino every day. She seems to take this personally.

I don't care. I have learned to stab myself in the stomach for insulin shots. I have learned to stab myself in the thigh for Neupogen shots. And I have reached the outer limits of my squeamish threshhold. If Portimer has to be flushed every day, you'd better send someone to flush it.