Im-PORT-ant

My port has been bothering me of late. It tugs and pulls against the muscles in my shoulder and sometimes causes spasms. When I am walking Sugar, I often have to hold my hand over my port to ease the aching. I hope it isn't giving out. I wonder if ports rupture? Could I bleed to death before anyone could intervene? Sure hope not!


I run my finger around the circular hard edge with the three prongs sticking up, and I remember. Dad had a port. How vividly I recall a conversation with my Father. The doctors had suggested he have a port installed to make things a bit easier for him. Mom asked me what mine was like, and I drew aside my shirt to show them. Piece of cake, I told them. You will love it. So Dad had one put in.

Now as I touch my port, I think about Dad's port. I have never made that connection before. None of my siblings share this commonality, this concrete touchpoint that reaches deep into my heart. I never got to see Dad's port, and he didn't use it much. I wonder if the undertaker was surprised to discover it and what he did with it when he was preparing the body. Morbid thought, I tell myself, shaking it off.

I think about the last time I saw Dad. As I said good-bye, I kissed the top of his bald and age-spotted head, smiling at how far his ears stuck out, all Yoda like, patting his shoulder in a semi hug. It was a good visit - long overdue - and a gracious farewell. I think we both suspected it would be our last time together.

I can see him in my mind's eye as he sat in his chair, his eyes searching mine, his once energetic frame sagging wearily. How glad he must be to have shed his tired tent and be clothed with immortality. I am not ready to join him quite yet. Someday. But for now, I am happy to think of him, glad that something as simple and lifegiving as my port reminded me of how important it is to remember my Dad.