After three rounds of chemo, where my arms and hands were sore from all the needle sticks, my doctor persuaded me to have a port put in. She, as well as the other nurses, assured me of the following: that it would be under the skin; I wouldn’t even notice it was there; and that it would make chemo a lot easier. The first and last thing was true; the middle one—one big lie. Yes, it was under the skin, unlike the ones that have tubes coming out of your chest. And yes, it made chemo a lot easier because they didn’t have to access any veins and I could walk around while attached to a huge pole with bags of chemicals. But the “I wouldn’t even notice it” part. Come on, like I’m not going to notice that there’s this huge metal thing in my chest. Under two big scars. Right. For the longest time I was worried I was going to set off metal detectors. I had no idea how I would explain that one: “Um, all my jewelry, keys and belts are in the tray and I’ve now taken off my shoes and hat and everything but see, the reason I’m setting this thing off is that I have this round disc thing in my chest, hooked up to a major vein and I’m pretty sure that’s what’s doing this. Oh, you want me to show you? Take off my shirt? In the middle of the airport? Am I being Punk’d? Cause I really do not like Ashton Kutcher at all. Stupid trucker hat trend. Oh I’m sorry did I just go off on a tangent?” Happily, it does not set off the airport detectors. Now, come to think of it, I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Anyway, the surgery was short. I hate surgery. I hate all those people in one room who are inevitably going to see you naked on a metal table and they’re trying to talk to you and make you feel more comfortable. And I’m like, no you’re all going to see my breasts pretty soon and not in a sexy way, so stop talking to me. And then to make matters worse, my surgeon tells my mother in the waiting room, “Well your daughter has a small frame, but a really big chest, so it was a little difficult. And I know that she’d probably want to wear a bathing suit, so I put it as far down as I could, but man, it was well,…” To my mother. In the waiting room. With other people around. Who were listening. She relayed this entire conversation to me later when I was on pain killers so that news went down much easier. Otherwise, I think that I would’ve freaked out a bit. I imagined the conversation that they were having in the operating room, “wow look at those! What the hell are we going to do?” And I’m sure it’s much worse than whatever I was imagining and should be happy that he didn’t say “Well, we gave her a reduction so now she can both have the port and wear those shirts that only B cups and lower can wear without looking like hookers. I’m sure she’ll be happier. Plus, it’ll be easier to find a bra!” God. This wouldn’t be the first (or last) time that cancer took a shot at my dignity. I remember when I asked my doctor the question that I’m sure lots of young people at least think, even if they’re too embarrassed to ask. “When will I be able to date, or you know, kiss someone again.” Her answer? “But you don’t have a boyfriend.” I said, “No, no one at this time.” “So why are you caring about kissing someone?” I was thinking, well for the future or in case some ex-boyfriend who I don’t despise takes some pity on me and wants to make out. Seriously, it was just a question. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t headed for some asexual existence. She continued, “As long as these people aren’t sick, you can kiss whoever you want. But just don’t go having sex with random people that you pick up of the street.” Yeah, because that’s always been my MO. Especially now that I look and feel ultra-sexy. The hell? She continued to lecture me on safe sex and I was suddenly transported back to high school, when one of the nuns cornered me in the hallway. We had a sex-ed quiz and I had done the big Taboo of answering the question, “What are the forms of birth control” with actual answers of condoms, the pill, diaphragms, etc. Apparently, she said to me, I hadn’t done my homework and I was ignorant. The answer, according to the Catholic Church, is Abstinence. That is the only form of birth control. What was I thinking? She saw me at the play rehearsals laughing and joking with boys. I was too boisterous for my own good. I swear these were the words she used. Because I knew that there were other forms of birth control. But my experiences with Catholic High School are a whole other thing. Anyway, I let my doctor finish her speech, and laughingly relayed the story to the nurse later on. She said to me very seriously, “Well, we all have needs.” Not wanting this discussion to go any further, I smiled and said, “Oh, I really need some water. Thanks.”