If you’ve been following my journey, you’re aware that I recently had my power port removed after more than a decade.
If you’re new here or need a refresher on why saying goodbye to my port was such an emotional experience, I encourage you to read my previous entry, “Saying Goodbye to My Security Blanket,” where I share the complicated emotions surrounding that decision.
The short version?
My neurologist recommended removing my port because it was no longer being used regularly.
I listened.
Notice I said I listened.
I did not necessarily agree.
Still, after much internal debate, countless conversations, and more anxiety than I care to admit, I scheduled the procedure.
Physically, I’m healing well.
Emotionally?
That’s a different story.
Apparently, healing isn’t always about surgical incisions.
Sometimes, healing means learning to trust yourself instead of the devices, medications, and medical equipment that carried you through some of life’s darkest moments.
If I’m being completely honest, I’m still working on that part.
I pride myself on being relatively unproblematic when it comes to doctors.
I answer all the questions.
I’m nice.
I’m polite.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No, ma’am.”
All the things.
I don’t give doctors or nurses any grief while I’m in appointments or, in this case, while having a procedure done.
What does happen, however, is that I’m not always the best patient when it comes to following the discharge instructions once I leave.
As I sit here writing this diary entry, “My Way” by Frank Sinatra keeps playing in my head.
“Regrets, I’ve had a few…”
Mostly because, if I’m being honest, I approached my post-operative instructions less like rules and more like strongly worded suggestions.
The process of removing the port was interesting—mainly because it was absolutely nothing like I expected.
I was under the impression that I would be put to sleep, or at the very least given twilight sedation. After all, that’s what happened when the port was originally placed, and it’s what happens every time I have a colonoscopy or endoscopy.
I was wrong.
For the port removal, I was completely awake.
No twilight sedation.
No nap.
Honestly, after spending the previous night arguing with my old friend Insomnia, I had been looking forward to a nice little medically induced nap.
Apparently, the universe had other plans.
Instead, I received an IV for hydration, some anti-anxiety medication, and a little pain medication.
Let me just say, this experience was different.
When the procedure started, I was calm… somewhat.
The nurse was kind enough to turn on music so I wouldn’t have to focus on the beeping or the sounds of whatever tools they were using to cut into my chest.
What I was not prepared for was the burning.
The burning sensation from reopening the original scar.
Let me tell you, I was not prepared.
They assured me that I shouldn’t feel anything because they had applied numbing cream and would inject medication to numb the area.
The way they explained it was, “It’s just like going to the dentist.”
The lies.
The lies.
I felt the burning.
Now, to be fair, it only lasted about two or three minutes. Once they got past that part, I really didn’t feel much else.
Full disclosure: my tolerance for pain is ridiculously high.
Years of chronic illness have a way of altering your relationship with pain. Something that might be a ten for someone else may only register as a one or two for me.
Weird?
Absolutely.
Honest?
Also yes.
By the time I admit I’m hurting, most people would have already been on their way to the emergency room.
That’s a diary entry for another day.
Once the burning stopped, I tried focusing on the music playing in the background. Unfortunately, I could also hear the entire medical team’s conversations about their personal lives.
I couldn’t help but chuckle.
Apparently, I wasn’t just getting a procedure done.
I was also getting all the tea.
As they continued working, I asked if I could see the port once they removed it. After more than a decade, I wanted to see what had been living inside my chest all those years.
Finally, the procedure was finished.
As they sutured me up, they reviewed the discharge instructions.
Don’t get it wet.
Keep the dressing on for forty-eight hours.
Don’t lift anything.
Don’t drive.
At that point, all I heard was:
“Blah, blah, blah.”
Once everything was finished, they removed the surgical drape and finally showed me my port.
Honestly?
It looked exactly like the pictures I had seen online.
Mine was a Bard PowerPort, which had actually been recalled several years ago, so in hindsight, I probably should have had it removed much sooner.
In that moment, none of that really mattered.
What mattered was that, after more than a decade, I was finally seeing my security blanket face-to-face.
Seeing it sitting there outside of my body after all those years felt surreal.
Despite having it in my chest for more than ten years, I had only ever seen the outline of it beneath my skin.
For so long, it had simply been part of me. Seeing it separated from my body made everything feel final.
This tiny device had been with me through chemotherapy treatments, countless procedures, hospitalizations, scans, flares, and some of the hardest moments of my life.
As silly as it may sound to some people, I was grateful that I finally had the opportunity to see it and silently say goodbye.
For more than ten years, it had served me faithfully.
While I may have had mixed emotions about letting it go, I will always be grateful for the role it played in helping me survive.
Then again, if you’ve read “Saying Goodbye to My Security Blanket,” you already knew this wasn’t going to be a simple goodbye.
It’s out now.
While I’m still adjusting to that reality, I know it was the right decision.
After a brief recovery period—and a grand total of eight crackers—I immediately called Margot on FaceTime because I had promised to let her know I was okay.
Talking to Margot always lifts my spirits because somehow, everything eventually becomes a joke.
My long-term friendships are weird like that.
We find humor in pretty much everything.
After what I had just experienced, I desperately needed a good laugh.
About an hour later, the nurse returned and asked if I had contacted my ride.
Apparently, I was responsible for doing that.
Who knew?
So I called my ride home.
Her first question?
“Are they releasing you, or are you escaping?”
Honestly, I couldn’t blame her.
Those closest to me know that I have been known to orchestrate my own hospital exits—with or without official permission.
This time, I actually had permission to leave.
So, for the record, this was a legitimate discharge and not an unauthorized escape.
Once I got home, the very first thing I did was pick up my granddaughter—my assistant.
Mind you, the discharge instructions specifically stated that I was not supposed to lift anything heavier than ten pounds.
My granddaughter is most definitely over ten pounds.
So, technically, I violated my discharge instructions within approximately thirty seconds of walking through the front door.
But in my defense, she was excited to see me.
Honestly, after spending the morning being poked, prodded, cut open, and lectured about all the things I shouldn’t do, I needed granddaughter therapy.
Then I checked in with everyone who knew I was having the procedure—my mom, my sister, Steph, Troney, and a few others.
Eventually, exhaustion won and I fell asleep.
When I woke up, the numbing medication had worn off.
The best way I can describe the sensation is that it felt like something was constantly tugging on my breast.
Honestly, the itching was what was driving me absolutely bonkers.
That’s when I remembered something important.
I’m allergic to adhesive.
What had they placed directly over my incision?
Adhesive.
Needless to say, any medical procedure involving me is always an adventure thanks to my latex and adhesive sensitivities.
So, in true Kia fashion, I got in my car and drove to Walgreens.
Yes.
The same car they specifically told me not to drive for twenty-four hours.
By this point, it should come as no surprise that I view discharge instructions as more of a negotiation than a contract.
I picked up supplies, consulted with the pharmacist, purchased snacks, and headed home.
Naturally, I reported my activities to Steph, who immediately asked the question she already knew the answer to.
“Did you drive?”
Uh… yes.
How else exactly was I supposed to get there?
Cue the lecture.
As Steph continued questioning my life choices, all I could think was:
“This is going to make great content for my diary.”
Living with chronic illness for decades does something interesting to a person.
We spend years learning our bodies, advocating for ourselves, making impossible decisions, and doing things doctors once told us we might never do.
Somewhere along the way, many of us become fiercely independent.
Sometimes that independence serves us well.
Other times, it results in us driving ourselves to Walgreens less than twenty-four hours after surgery because we decided the discharge instructions were merely recommendations.
Losing my security blanket is still something I’m adjusting to.
Growth is still a work in progress.
Apparently, refusing to follow instructions remains very much intact.
Should I have followed every discharge instruction exactly as written?
Probably.
Did I?
Absolutely not.
But in true Kia fashion, I survived.
Again.
Thank you for taking the time to read this entry from The Dual Diagnosis Diaries. My hope is that by sharing my experiences openly and honestly, others navigating chronic illness will feel seen, heard, understood, and a little less alone on their own journey.
With gratitude and hope,
Founder • Author • Advocate • Future Wellness Coach
Kia Lorice
The Dual Diagnosis Diaries 💜
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