I wear a mask; they wear a mask; I get a port

Yesterday at 6 in the morning I caught a bus into downtown. I hadn't slept well the night before, so grabbed the first available seat. I had my mask on. I sat on the bus, coat and hat on, satchel in my lap, arms across my satchel, and rode with my eyes closed the whole way. Mighty tired due to lack of sleep, not the chemo. As I sat there, I wondered if I was more unnerving looking asleep than if I was messing with my cell phone.

Shortly after noon I caught a bus from Union Station into the downtown. I forgot to put a mask on because as soon as I got on the bus, a visitor started talking to me. I didn't want to be rude, so chatted. It wasn't until I got off the bus that I realized I had neglected to wear a mask.

The bus dropped me off at 6th and Pike, and I waited to transfer to a #10 up to Capitol Hill. It didn't take long. I put a mask on and got on the bus. No one paid much attention to me because there were plenty of people on the bus clearly heading to Group Health. Canes, walkers, etc.

Once off the bus, I pulled off the mask and headed into the hospital.

I checked in and changed into a gown from the waist up. An IV was put in. Someone came with a wheelchair and ferried me down to surgery.

Having a procedure done wouldn't be complete without being left in a wheelchair in some lonely, bleak location. My wrangler left me in a very small room in the basement. No windows. It was decorated with a folding chair and a small table, a poster about uterine fibroids, linoleum floor, eggshell-white walls, and fluorescent lights.

After a few minutes, the Physician's Assistant came and told me what he was going to do. None of it was new information. He was going to make an incision, slip the port underneath it, string the catheter into a large vein and sew me up.

I was wheeled into surgery and hopped up onto the table. The procedure took about a 1/2 hour, most of it prep and post-procedure clean-up. I didn't feel much, and chatted throughout the surgery.

The port will be a bump under my skin, and it has a catheter that leads directly into my heart. That was a little creepy to understand. The chemo will go straight into my heart.

I'll probably not see these people again, and if I do, I may not recognize them because they were in masks (and for once, I was not). It's strange to think about how inured I've become to strangers handling my body.

I was wheeled back upstairs, given Group Health's version of a vegan lunch, shown how to care for my surgery site, and told I could leave. I texted my husband and after changing, went outside to wait for him.

From now on, when I receive chemo, the staff will access my body via this port. When I'm done with chemo, they'll remove it.

At some point, I'll get my body back.