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My Surgery And Recovery Experience
Last week, I got a port placed. Of course, prior to the procedure I was Googling, making pros and cons lists, watching every TikTok under the sun, and pretty much came up with a book of excuses for why I shouldn’t (yet) get one. At the same time, I wanted to get the surgery over and done with (the impulsiveness in me, perhaps?!).
I had the standard instructions: no eating or drinking after midnight, wear comfy clothing, and no driving yourself to the hospital. The night before my surgery, a lovely nurse named Rosemary called me. I picked up on an English accent almost instantly and found out she was from Birmingham. This immediately made me feel better, as I was looking for any sign that I was making the right choice in going through with the procedure.
In the morning, I took a shower, washed my hair, and put on about four different outfits before it was finally time to get in the car and go. My mum picked me up, and we drove to the hospital about 48 minutes away.
When we got there, I checked in, complimented the administrator’s Disney tumbler (which somehow turned into an entire conversation about Chef Mickey’s at the Contemporary Resort and how expensive Disney has become), and then went back to sitting in the waiting room.
Before I knew it, I met Rosie, got called back to the pre-op room and was introduced to another nurse named Anne from Ireland. Rosie introduced me as her “Essex friend” and said it’s not every day she has a patient from England. There was an overwhelming amount of medical supplies on the table laying at the end of my hospital bed, and once I sat down we went through the standard paperwork before I was given a hospital gown, teal grippy socks, and a hairnet.
I walked to the bathroom to get changed and tried not to laugh when I looked at myself in the mirror. There was already a lady in the bed next to me waiting to go in, but the anesthesiologist had an emergency and was therefore running behind schedule.
Rosie and Anne were like a sitcom, which really helped calm my nerves. Rosie explained that she was retiring the following week—this upcoming Friday, to be exact- after years in the field. She used to be a midwife in the UK but came over to the States in 1998, got married, had two kids, got divorced, and then fell in love with her childhood sweetheart back in the UK, whom she had known since she was seven.
I sat myself down back on the hospital bed, and Anne turned around and said, “Oh! OH! You look so cute, like a muffin.”
I instantly started laughing (see photo attached) and said, “A blueberry muffin” because I was all blue. She said, “It’s not every day we have young patients from England,” which made me laugh even more because I felt anything but young, especially in the hairnet.
They took labs, and then Rosie told Anne to go and get me a blanket. I quickly said it was fine because I wasn’t cold, but she told me it was a special blanket. I was expecting one of those rough, off-cream hospital sheets that they call a blanket and reuse until it looks like a rag. Instead, it was a brand-new royal blue fleece blanket with the hospital’s name on it. I was delighted, and my mum kept laughing at me because I was so thrilled by the entire thing.
Given the delay, we spoke about English shows (like Doctor Who), English food (like pineapple cubes and custard creams), and the drastic differences between American and English culture. Throughout our many conversations, Rosie asked if I wanted lunch afterward. I initially declined, but she told me to order something anyway and offered me an array of options. I went with a turkey, lettuce, and tomato sandwich on wholewheat bread and an apple juice (a post-op tradition).
This helped pass the time, as I was originally scheduled for 9:30AM, but the lady next to me ended up going in at that time because she was having her port removed after eight months. Rosie and Anne kept referring to the anesthesiologist as “Dr. Lamby,” so when she came to introduce herself, I confidently said, “Dr. Lamby!” only to notice her identification clearly said Lam, not, in fact, with a B or Y at the end.
I will say she handled this very professionally and didn’t correct me. Instead, she just said yes and went over the usual pre-op questions, including my past surgeries and anesthesia history.
I opted for twilight anesthesia, which is commonly used for this type of procedure. She explained that she would give me medication through my IV that might sting when it went in, and that if I felt any pain during the port placement, I should open my eyes wide and she’d make sure I got more medication. She said she’d see me in the OR.
Around 10:30, they were ready for me, and Rosie started wheeling me into the operating room (with the disclaimer that she was a terrible driver). I joked that this would be the most dangerous part, and she agreed.
They told me to shuffle from the hospital bed onto the operating table, and I remember one of the nurses in the room (there were four) talking about how a dog had irresponsibly gotten pregnant at a dog park. I made another joke, and before I knew it, Dr. Lam had attached the IV medication, which burned like no other. She also gave me oxygen, and from there I don’t remember much else.
The next thing I remember is waking up on the operating table with my head turned toward the right and no nurse in sight. I wasn’t in any pain, but I could hear the doctor operating getting irritated. I told myself that it was probably a stitch he was having difficulty with and that it would be over soon. I closed my eyes, and before I knew it, I was being wheeled out by Rosie, who took me to the recovery room.
My recovery nurse, Jeffery, gave me the remote control, and I decided to watch Friends. Unfortunately, my mum had all of my belongings (including my beloved phone), so I couldn’t scroll or text which was probably for the best.
After about 30 minutes, Jeffery asked if I had ordered lunch and called the cafeteria to see where it was. He then told me they were having technical difficulties (only me), but confirmed it was on its way. Another 30 minutes passed, and he asked his assistant to go and get my mum from the waiting room. He kept saying that my lunch was on its way, but I told him I really wasn’t fussed and just wanted to get home, to which he obliged.
Picking up the car from the valet ironically seemed to be the longest part of the entire day. Despite it being empty, it took about 30 minutes. As soon as I got home around 2ish, I put on a pair of PJs and DoorDashed my favorite Greek salad with chicken.
The next day, Rosie called to see how I was feeling. She said that whenever I’m ready, they’ll be there to celebrate with me when I get the port taken out—and that she might just have to fly back for the occasion.
I didn’t tell her that my treatment is indefinite. I just smiled and said thank you.
Because really, I was so thankful that I had such a wonderful nurse and such a positive experience. I was thankful that my body was strong enough to get me through another procedure, and that the treatment I once dreaded is keeping me stable.
Getting a port was something I had built up in my head for months. I had convinced myself there were a million reasons to wait, and I don’t think I could have anticipated how emotional it would feel to actually go through with it. A port isn’t something I ever imagined I would need, and I still don’t particularly love what it represents. But for now, I’m choosing to see it for what it can give me rather than what it symbolizes: easier access to the treatment that keeps me stable, fewer battles with my veins, and hopefully one less thing to dread every few weeks. Sometimes the things we’re most afraid to do don’t suddenly become less scary—we just reach a point where doing them makes life a little easier. And for me, this was one of those things.
