This morning I walked into my sixth and final chemotherapy treatment gearing up for that last delicious and deadly cocktail of Taxotere, Carboplatin and Herceptin. My small world of people have been sending me cyber hugs and friendly emoticons in anticipation of this day being the end. Texts, emails, phone calls and in-person conversations saying "Congratulations you're done!" or "Congratulations, Wednesday is the last day!" And as friendly and supportive as it has all been, it's been incredibly hard and even alienating to accept these notes. Because the real end on this cycle is not today's visit but following the three weeks of side effects that come barreling on its heels. I feel ungrateful and caught in an unnecessary trap of denial for not focusing on the love people are showering on me now. Who cares if the end is today or three weeks from now. The end of chemo is definitively close at hand. I struggle to put my attention on their good intentions even if the facts are incorrect. But even if I do that I still know and feel that February 20, twenty one days from today, is when I plan to pick up my peloton.
Chemotherapy creates rituals.
Last night and hours before today's treatment I prepared by taking my steroids and antihistamines to help smooth the intake of Taxotere. My body was being geared up as the host. The ritual adrenaline started to secrete. This morning, even knowing what was to be expected and even accepting it all, my movements and attitude changed. More clipped, tighter, less at ease. I packed my water bottle and small bites. I grabbed my detox tea bags and magazines that I would never read. My phone was charged. Comfortable loose layers and finished it all out with a nice little bit of pecking at Bill. Oh rituals, how I love thee.
We got to the office. First ones there this time. With these five hour sessions it was nice to think we'd be out before dark. In this last go around I came to realize how little I understood what was going on backstage, medically speaking. What was being monitored? Is everything as expected? How do we know the chemo is working? I'd been moving through these months discovering and responding on the fly to each unique side effect. I surprised myself how little I'd been checking in on my over-all medical progress. So for 25 minutes Bill and I talked with Garrett about the new pulsing eye syndrome, my weight gain hypothesis (aha! I simply had been eating a lot. Who would've guessed?!) and the continued achey bone issues but then turned the conversation to blood cell counts, cure rates and the role of Herceptin. All to find out that there's no way to know if things are working. We can only monitor side effects not the efficacy of treatment. It's really just a waiting game and numbers racket. But this far in, my innards are holding their own. It looks like I'll get to that finish line without anemia, bone loss and hopefully anything irreparable.
And then off we went to the reclining lounge chairs with their panoramic view of a misty San Francisco Bay. Nestled in with blankets and pillows. Bill prepared my tea as I lean back.
Ready. Set. Go.
Garrett wheels in the first of four bags--a cocktail of analgesics to minimize the side effects.
"Well it looks like a short day for you today." says Garrett. Confused, Bill and I look at each other.
"What are you talking about? Why is this a short day?" I say.
"Oh we said we were going to do 5 treatments instead of 6. We're just doing Herceptin from now on. We decided last time I thought."
Laser beam to brain. Stunned. Silent. I stare at Garrett then at Bill trying to understand the gobbly gook coming out of Garrett's mouth. No more chemo? I just got a fucking get-out-of-jail-free card!? It's over. It's really over. This step, and hopefully the biggest one of this ride, is over. This moment, whatever I feel like or even smell like for that matter, this is the worst of it right now because the truly worst of it is in the rearview mirror. My head will grow hair. My fingers will feel again. My physique will lump less. My muscles will strengthen. Hopefully my joints will stop aching. No more chemo brain. No more bloody noses. No more insane GI tract nonsense. No more nausea. Shit no more teenage skin though, but hey it was nice while it lasted.
Chemotherapy. Is. Officially. Over.
I won't lie. There are a pile of entries before this that explain how hard this is. But in this second and the seconds since Garrett said, "Oh sorry I thought we had agreed that it would be five treatments instead of six." that I have been on a fluffy cloud drifting down to earth. In this moment, I don't care what comes next. I'll save that for later. I know this process is not over. I have not been cured. There is more in front of me than there is behind me but for some reason the hardest feels like it has passed. It may not be true. But in this moment I don't care.
I think I'll eat cake.
