The (Medi) Port of St. Maarten

I'm not sure how, but in less than a week I went from this, this, this, this and this.

To this, this and this.

Within 24 hours of our arrival at the homestead, I was back to lounging around. I traded my beach chair for a hospital bed and I can assure you it's not the same.

I had specifically told the tech that prepped me that I wanted the port within my tan lines, so I wouldn't be walking around the beach this summer with my third nipple hanging out for everyone to see. Unfortunately, once they swabbed me down with iodine, tan lines were hard to decipher and from the looks of it, my port may be poking his little head out to say hi to all that dare look.

I'm in a surprising amount of pain. Or more pain that I would have expected from such a minor procedure. Enough pain that Kyle had to attempt his first ponytail last night because I couldn't get my arm up high enough to do it myself. His attempt failed, and it is at this time we are grateful he doesn't have daughters.

In the mean time, I've told Merrick that the port is actually my new off/on button because they are turning me into a robot. He feigns a laugh, and I detect a slight amount of concern in his voice.

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