When I walk I hear it. A faint squeak squeak … reminding me I have unwelcome jewellery.
A needle with attendant plastic tubing dangles from my portacath.
This is the pathway to my veins, the pathway to my heart as it sits just near it, in the largest vessel returning blood from my body to my heart to be pumped around again.
This is where they infuse me with the antibiotics that kill the infection circulating in my blood and lodged in my sternoclavicular joint.
This is the constant reminder I am unwell, nay, deathly ill. My toddler sees the dressing at my neckline despite my efforts to hide it.
“Ow” he says, his hand reaching for the part which simply is not mum. “Ow” I repeat
