Calling it a port flush makes it sound like some kind of cheap bathroom humor.
But that’s what they call it. I went into the Cancer Center on Monday and had my port “flushed.” To do so, they “access” my port (shove a needle in it), and “irrigate” it (push through some liquid that tastes like chemo).
I’m not 5 days away from the port flushing. Food tastes different today. It tastes like it did during chemo. I can’t explain it.
I saw Shirley at the Center. She’s dying. Faster now. She said her tumors are growing again. I didn’t react to it much then, but it makes me want to cry now. What a horrible, stupid thing this cancer is, that it attacks anybody it wants. Shirley’s husband was there this time. He seems like a nice guy. I can’t help but feel bad for him. And her.