Announcing the Port of Frauenheim

A new opening. Physically and metaphorically. The ouchiness and amazement that comes from vulnerability in this cancer adventure. Plus, another poem from Rowena Richie!

The Port of Frauenheim

Ports are doors. Openings. Liminal spaces from one thing to another. Places of exchange and possibility. Where the risky and the remarkable may take place at the same time.

I’ve got a new port. Or maybe more than one.

Cancer has led to a literal port in my upper right chest. Put in yesterday. As the photo above shows, it is kind of dramatic. Not an unnoticeable little bump. But a hill that transforms my chest. Plus a visible tube that leads up toward my neck before disappearing into a vein that leads to my heart.

I feel a bit like a cyborg. Maybe not as fit as Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator, but man-machine nonetheless!

The port’s purpose is to enable the easy and effective infusion of anti-cancer drugs. Clinicians will poke through my skin at the port every two weeks over the next three months. Sending the cell-killing medicine close to the heart dilutes it quickly in my blood stream and avoids wreaking havoc on any particular vein.

The chemotherapy also will get distributed throughout my body efficiently, potentially wiping out cancer cells that may have migrated from my appendix elsewhere.

What’s more, the port makes it simple to draw blood, so docs can monitor my health.

The new Port of Frauenheim is a bit sore today.

But like all openings, there are benefits and costs. The Port of Oakland, for example, brings in goods than could conceivably include awful things like bombs and deadly doses of fentanyl. But those shipyards also allow in awesome things from around the world–works of art, delicious food, comfy clothes.

The Port of Oakland

This pros-cons equation applies to the figurative port that I’ve been building since I was diagnosed with adeno carcinoma last month.

I’ve chosen to reveal what I’ve been going through to a wide circle. That has been painful at times. I’ve felt some shame in asking for financial help–especially given my relative privilege. I’ve felt a bit embarrassed to admit feeling fear and to worrying I won’t be a strong enough warrior as I face cancer.

But those hard emotions are ones I believe we men, especially, have to face. The discomfort is part of breaking out of the cramped version of manhood so many of grew up with.

What’s more, the pain I’ve experienced has paled in comparison to the healthier, happier feelings that have come from getting vulnerable, from opening up.

I have been bowled over by support. My closest friends and family have rallied around me in ways I can scarcely believe. Offering to fly in to San Francisco to take me to chemo treatments. Cooking up or providing healthy meals. Joining our weekday Prayer Porch. Sending the sweetest cards with messages of hope and love.

The amazement hit another level with the gofundme that pals Kira, Colette and Jason created this week. We set a goal of $50,000—a number my wife Rowena Richie and I felt ambivalent about. The figure does speak to the financial need we expect to have in the coming 12 months. But we didn’t want anyone to feel bad about not contributing money, or feel bad about contributing just a few dollars.

We still feel that way. Yet it seems like our worries may be overblown. People have contributed everything from $10 to thousands of dollars. And we’re grateful for each donation.

In fact, Jason and I had the same thought as we watched the donations flood in this week. It was the scene in It’s a Wonderful Life, when friends and family pour money into George Bailey’s lap when he faces financial ruin.

Jason couldn’t keep up with thanking folks. And I couldn’t believe the range of people who were supporting us. People from different chapters of my life, of our life. My childhood friends from Buffalo. College pals. Neighbors. Friends from our kids’ schools. Work colleagues.

Rowena and I have chosen careers that have been more about intrinsic rewards than extrinsic riches. Or maybe we didn’t choose. We’ve tried to answer the calls we’ve heard–to be an artist and educator in Rowena’s case, to be a writer in mine.

Especially in the expensive city of San Francisco, those professions have come at a financial cost. I’ve mostly thought I was living the “Richie life”--one where the non-material benefits were greater than anything money could buy.

At times, though, I’ve thought of myself as George Bailey stuck in Bedford Falls. With some self-pity, I’ve watched as others around me soared to great financial heights. Rowena and I remained in our one-bedroom apartment, living a version of hand-to-mouth.

But this week, my hand has been over my mouth in astonishment. Years of Rowena and I trying to follow our internal compasses clearly have taken us to the right place. A place where so many people whose lives we touched are holding us up. Are elevating us at a time when it looked like the bottom might fall out.

The Port of Frauenheim is bustling. And it thanks you.

***

A Port Poem from Rowena

My wife Rowena Richie brought the house down with her poem in an earlier edition of FrauenTimes with her “Blueberries” poem. This one also moves me. May it move you too.

*Every time I try to write 'chemo port' autocorrect types 'chemo poet'

"Port au my Prince"

Port authority, portal most important,

Gently funnel the healing.

Decancer decanter

Flush out the ill, flush in the well.

Portal of giving life

Portal of health

Portal of cancer cells surrendering, dissolving, fizzling out,

Rinse the rogue, replenish the good.

Support us, port-a-cath, Give us more opportunities to love what we love.

Dare I say we love you, cancer, we love you for this opportunity to grow closer, feel better, love harder.

Life lessons.

Now lessen your grip, please,

Pass.

Gently go away from Ed

For good.