01/17/2025
What an incredible day for our sweet Eleanor! Today she was able to have her port removed after a long journey. We couldn’t be happier for her and her family! ❤️
It was still dark when we left, the kind of hour when the cold hushes everything. I hadn’t made this drive in a long time—Alison had taken over most of Eleanor’s hospital trips—but this one was mine. The port had to come out, and that meant an early morning, a strong dose of espresso, and the quiet business of getting a half-awake nine-year-old into the car. She settled into the backseat with her book, and we pulled out onto the road, the town still asleep, the streetlights casting long shadows. A man on a mower traveling down the shoulder wrapped in plastic.
The drive was easy at first, empty roads and radio noise, but by five, the traffic picked up. People were already out, rushing to work, aggressive as ever, especially on the Parkway, where everyone seemed to be in a hurry to go nowhere. I remembered the last time I’d come this way, back when everything was under construction. The road had been torn up, police cars parked at odd angles, and a deep pit sat where something was supposed to be. Across from it, there had been a mural of a woman, her image stretching across the side of a building. I hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time—too focused on Eleanor, too distracted by the sight of men gathered on the corner, too caught up in my own thoughts.
Now, that mural was gone, buried behind a new building. Condos. I sat at the red light and looked up into their windows. Some had plants, some had televisions glowing blue, some had exercise equipment no one was using. The bottom floor would have shops soon enough. The city moved forward, always building, always changing. I thought about that as we pulled into the hospital parking garage, sliding into our usual spot.
Check-in was routine. The hospital had a rhythm of its own, a steady hum of efficiency. We’d done this before, knew the drill. Still, I noticed what had changed. A new development near the hospital, townhouses with some nonsense about a reservoir in the advertising. More traffic, more people. The waiting room was packed, families sitting with tired eyes, children curled up in chairs, parents flipping through their phones, everyone waiting for their name to be called.
Eleanor wasn’t nervous, not at first. She read her book, glancing up only when a nurse walked by. I went to the front desk after an hour to check in again. They told me we were next, which wasn’t true but close enough. It was a busy place, busier than anyone could know. I could see it in the faces of the staff, moving quickly, checking lists, keeping everything running.
When they called us back, we walked past the surgical suites, where the real work happened. They were doing somewhere between 65 and 75 surgeries that day. It was a machine, but not a cold one. Some friends from the fourth floor stopped by to see Eleanor before she went in. That meant something. They didn’t have to do that, but they did.
And then the nerves set in. A few tears, a glance at me for reassurance. But the doctors and nurses didn’t talk to me. They talked to her. They explained what would happen, what she could expect. I had to remind myself not to answer for her, to let her take the lead. She listened, squared her shoulders, and nodded.
They handed me the white suit so I could walk with her into the clean area. I made a joke about announcing an evacuation in the lobby. They laughed and Eleanor shook her head. Then the mask went on Eleanor, her eyes fluttered closed, and I was led out.
A kind nurse took me to the cafeteria. I bought a breakfast tray for far more than it was worth and sat down to wait. After about half an hour, I went back to the waiting room and checked the board. She was already out. Just like that. And with that realization, something inside me let go.
It took a moment to recognize what the feeling was. Calm. Real, actual calm. I had lived so long in a state of constant tension that I had forgotten what it was like to sit and breathe without the weight of it all. I had gone to my own doctor for the first time in two years recently. Everything was wrong, of course. Stress does terrible things to a person, even one with all the support in the world. But in that moment, for the first time in a long time, I felt at peace.
The surgeon came out, told me she was fine, and instead of paging me to find my own way, he walked me back himself. Another small kindness in a place filled with them. Eleanor was asleep in recovery, her face relaxed, the lines of worry smoothed away.
Later that night, we were home. She was still groggy, curled up at the table as we ate chicken and dumplings. She mumbled something about her port, and we looked at her and said, “You don’t have a port anymore.”
And just like that, she is a normal kid. A few scars, a few stories, a life that would never be ordinary—but now, finally, she gets to be like everybody else.
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🦋❤️🦋
