The night before my final oncology appointment, I had a dream in which I won the Powerball. Not the real one, the 3 a.m. knockoff version that clearly runs on off-brand caffeine and poor decision-making.
The jackpot was simple: unlimited money, an A-frame in the hills, and freedom from every minor inconvenience, including, and this part felt very personal, lumbar punctures. I woke up irritated that the universe hadn’t held up its part of the bargain. I’ve paid my dues. Good karma should be accruing interest by now.
Instead, I had a full itinerary:
My third bone marrow aspiration and biopsy, an IR lumbar puncture with chemo, and the last hurrah, central venous catheter removal with port. If this were my graduation ceremony, the dress code would be hospital socks and intentional vulnerability.
Getting… De-Ported
I’m aware “deported” isn’t the softest word in the current political climate. But in oncology? It’s the word you wait for. It means you’re exiting the nation you never asked to live in, Cancerland, and returning home with your passport stamped “negative.”
The port didn’t glide out with a polite tug. It dug in. It acted like it had squatter’s rights. The doc gave me the obligatory “you’ll feel some pressure,” which is a medical phrase meaning prepare yourself, we’re about to violate several laws of physics.
Then he pulled. Nothing. He followed it up with, “This is just giving you a little hug,” and if I hadn’t been slightly sedated, I would’ve asked whether I’d accidentally wandered into the children’s hospital. Because whatever that port was doing, it wasn’t hugging me. He adjusted the angle, braced a little more, and pulled again. Still nothing. At this point, we were both too committed to quit, and the pain meds were… let’s say not calibrated for a device this emotionally attached to me. There was burning, there was pressure, and there was one particular yank where I genuinely wondered if he was trying to extract my sternum as a bonus.
When it finally tore free, it felt less like a medical procedure and more like evicting an angry tenant. But once it was out, the silence was unreal. No tug. No line.
No plastic port announcing itself through my shirt.
For the first time in a year, I wasn’t connected to anything but my own breath.
Just like that, I was de-ported.
The Procedure Tour (For Those Who Enjoy Discomfort)
The IR suite was cold enough to store meat, which immediately felt rude.
They positioned me into my usual stance “facedown a$$-up” a setup I hadn’t experienced since 2 Live Crew made it a cultural directive. Not exactly the posture of dignity, but it gets the job done. On the third marrow aspiration, you’d think I’d be stoic.
Nope.
That familiar pressure… pop… pull still hit like someone was vacuuming the secrets out of my bones. The biopsy followed, a mix of pressure and indignation.
The lumbar puncture was next, delivering chemo directly into my spinal fluid, as if my nervous system hadn’t already submitted its resignation.
Goodbyes I Didn’t Want to Say
Finishing treatment is a victory, but it’s also a kind of grief. These nurses saw me wrecked, nauseated, scared, sarcastic, stubborn, and trying too hard to be brave. And they always met me with kindness. Leaving them felt like leaving the only people who spoke the language of this last year.
You don’t expect to get attached to the people who stab you for a living.
The Thaw
Now a month out, something strange is happening. Life is thawing, even in winter. My body feels like it’s waking up after a long freeze, a hand here, a feeling there, a part of myself I thought I might not get back. My people showed up.
Friends I hadn’t heard from in years.
Coworkers covering shifts.
Meals were dropped off at my door.
Messages that landed on the right day at the right hour.
How could I not be grateful?
I cried, I raged, I broke down, I rebuilt.
And somehow, gratitude keeps sneaking in through the cracks.
And Now… the Return
As I re-enter my life, the timing feels almost scripted.
The charity jiu-jitsu tournament isn’t just happening; I’m stepping onto the mat for it with purpose. A round fought for the people who kept me here.
No Quarter is growing up, moving from an idea to a full-fledged publication. The podcast is rebooting, coming back louder and cleaner than before.
There are new projects, new stories, and new fights worth training for. Not because cancer gifted me some enlightened “perspective,” But because surviving stripped away every excuse I had left.
And since I’m already back in the fight:
I’m raising $2,000 for Tap Cancer Out.
If you train, roll with me.
If you can support, sponsor me.
If you’re in my corner from the sidelines, that counts too. Every dollar helps choke out the thing that tried to take me off the mat.
I’m de-ported now.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m walking back into my own life without permission slips, tubes, or conditions.
No quarter.
~Tyler