Let’s talk drains. Drains are tubes that are inserted on either (or both) sides of your abdomen during surgery and are used to remove excess fluid from inside your body. At the end of the tubes are football shaped containers used to collect the fluid. They fill throughout the day and must be emptied. It’s crucial to record the output of liquid so to monitor that the fluid is indeed dispersing. Drains usually stay inserted into your abdomen for upwards of 3 weeks. I’ve had 12 tubes total in the 2 years I have been battling the big C.
I used to conceal and smuggle my drains uncomfortably into the waist of my pants when I left the house. An attempt to hide what the rest of the world seemingly didn’t have. But I knew they were there. I felt the twang and tinge of the tubes pulling as I reached for the mangoes. I created misery within myself in order to carry out the societal constructs of the supposed image. Not no more doe. After my last surgery I went home with 4 drains. 2 tubes on either side, stuck inside my rib cage, hanging out from inside of my body with plastic grenades on the ends. When I am forced outside of my home to live my life I securely safety pin the tubes to the inside of my shirt so the tubes don’t pull on the already irritated skin and I let those juice filled bombs hang out the bottom of my shirt. I don’t owe anyone an explanation nor am I responsible to act as a shield from their discomfort. You wanna look? That’s fine. You wanna glance and discuss with your mate in the car? I’m sure it will make for some excellent conversation. You wanna ask me about them as I’m waiting in the check out line at Target? Let’s go!
Whilst standing in line awaiting my turn and mentally contemplating if I was really that good at hoola hooping as a child or if my parents were just really that bad an older woman standing behind me outwardly asked, “How are those suspended like that?” I didn’t think she was talking about me or my suspending fluid chambers dangling out the bottom of my tank but rather the ceiling suspended dogs hanging above our heads. I looked up and said, “I don’t know. Probably string. Or magic. I’m going with magic.” She looked up and nodded in agreement then said, “No. Those,” pointing to my half full ovals. “Oh these old things?” I asked begrudgingly not because she was inquiring but because they are horrid pains and recognizing their presence feeds their egos. I lifted up my tank on my right side showing two semi clear tubes inserted into the skin under my rib cage and a safety pin holding them to the fabric of my shirt, “Like this,” I replied. By the wide eyed look she reciprocated as she glanced at the reddened skin surrounding the entry of the tubes I knew she had bitten off more than she could chew. “Holy shit!” She exclaimed. “Sorry. But that looks rough.” I laughed and said, “Yeah it isn’t great that’s for sure.” She told me she had never seen a drain before and actually never knew they existed. I congratulated her for sidestepping this part of the sick journey and got her up to speed on the nature of drains, their purpose, what liquid fills them, how long I am required to keep them, how many I’ve had since being sick and my decision to no longer conceal them in public. She thanked me for the lesson. I thanked her for her bravery to learn.
I left target smiling. I looked down to see my 7 year old smiling back. I used to smile all the time. I would smile when it was ok. I would smile when it wasn’t ok. Now my smiles are congratulatory. A reward from the universe.
