It is done.

On Friday, April 28th I finished (what I hope is) my last round of chemotherapy.

I struggle to find the words that will fully explain what the last four and a half months have been like. What they have meant to me. What they signify.

I’m not exactly sure what to say which is more likely because I haven’t even begun to process the depth of trauma that has occurred.

The last few days have been so unbelievably hard and this last round of chemo destroyed me until eventually there was a light again. A twinkle. A glimmer of hope appearing in the distance, anchoring me back into reality.

In the darkest moments this past weekend, when fever crept in and a rash so dark and red, swelled my face and body so I felt unrecognizable, I kept telling myself it’s done in an effort to stay above the surface. This part is done now and I’m grateful for that.

As joy washed over me because of that very reason, I also realize how much grief and sadness sits in my chest too. That and the recognition that I am going to have to figure out how to navigate this in a way that doesn’t swallow me alive.

I will not lie. I feel a wave of horrible sadness and emotional pain that frightens me. I feel exhausted. I feel overwhelmed. I feel confused and numb. The last five months I have been in soldier mode just trying to get through the side effects of chemo all while trying to still work a bit here and there and stay as present in my life as I can.

I have so much to write. So much to say but the words still evade me and I’m left doing the delicate dance of processing while also moving on, moving forward.

I know my physical self will return. My hair will grow back, I’ll lose the ten plus pounds of chemo weight I gained, I will regain my strength, my stamina.

The hardest part, in my opinion, is lingering in the near distant future and can no longer be avoided by telling myself I’ll just deal with it once chemo is over. Navigating the emotional stuff.

Trying to figure out how to be in the world again. To deal with the aftermath of what I just went through and will continue to go through over the next few years with immunotherapy and scans and just, well, waiting to see what happens. This part is the hardest. This part hit me like a Mac truck last time, sideswiping me from out of nowhere, dragging me miles into the painful places I didn’t want to go.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like a big part of my life was just one of constant waiting. Waiting for cancer to sneak back into my life the way it does every few years, and, like a wrecking ball, leveling my world to the ground once more.

The constant stop-start of it all is so exhausting. The expectation to “put it all behind me now” weighs heavy on my shoulders because that part has never come easy to me.

I’ve talked about it before as feeling like I am standing in the middle of time square as the world rushes on around me. I feel like a fish out of water, trying to take in a deep breath of air only to realize I don’t know how now that I’m am above the murky, wet layers that have, in a way, kept me safe for the last few months.

The next step is to get scanned in three weeks and then from there, continue on with immunotherapy for two years but I already know I’ll have to take this treatment-by-treatment. I’m tired of feeling sick and I’m tired of feeling like a stranger in my own body. I’m tired of giving my time to sitting in a chair and then to being hit by the side effects a day later.

I want to live which is ironic because immunotherapy is the best chance of me doing that for the longer haul yet, I fantasize about quitting it all every single day. Ripping the knobby port out of my chest and never looking back.

I’m exhausted.

And scared.

Because as much as I hated every minute of treatment, there is a protective layer being in treatment brings with it.

A hope.

A comfort that this thing that is poisoning you, altering your appearance, your stamina, your whole life, is also poisoning the cancer. It makes you feel safe. Like for the time being you have tiny workers inside your body fighting on your behalf and now their job is done and you have to wait and see how well their work will hold up. You wonder and hope they laid a strong enough foundation.

And, only time will tell.

But history and time have shown me what happens.

When my tiny monster returns.

And those are the fears I must grapple with.

On my own.

Chemo, Covid, and No Eyebrows. Oh My!

It’s 2:30 a.m. and I’m wide awake. I guess that is what happens when you go to bed at 7 p.m.

My dog, Baker is curled up beside me. His heavy breathing tells me he isn’t budging. When I woke he was sleeping half on me per usual. His head and half of his body weight were resting on my back as I laid pressed to the edge of the bed. This is normal though. Part of our nightly routine. I wake, have an internal debate on how uncomfortable I am and determine whether or not I muster up the energy to push him off of me and over to the other side. He’s pretty damn cute though so it’s a hard decision to make.

I know he is just trying to protect me. My own little alarm system. Already a very protective and attached dog, when I had surgery and even more so when I started treatment, his protective instincts reached an all time high. Nobody gets past him, not even my mom when she comes down to my place. He stands on guard, barking and jumping up and down in front of me as if to say, “try me mother ‘f&$ker! Try and get to my mommy!” That is, until she pulls out a some kind chewy treat and his defensive demeanor melts into a puddle in front of me on the floor. Thanks buddy.

It’s day five in this chemo cycle, the third cycle of six, and yesterday I tested positive for Covid. Let me tell you, I’m feeling pretty darn great right now. This coupled with my bald head and almost non existent eyebrows, well, I’m ready kick ass and take names. (I know, I hate that expression too but it was the only one I could think of right now with the two brain cells I have at the moment). As long as I can do all this ass kicking and name taking from the comfort of my paisley sheets, wrapped up in a mix of my dog and my duvet.

I’ve had a cough and stuffed up nose for a couple of weeks now but I just figured it was due to the side effects of treatment and my non existant immune system so I just watched it and told my oconologist at our visit two days before this last chemo cycle. I already mask up wherever I go so I feel good about that.

Let me just say though, the level of vulnerability you feel when you test positive for Covid when you literally have next to no immune system is something I’d rather not experience. Alas, here I am.

Yesterday, Monday was the worse. I woke about 5 a.m. extremely nauseas which I think is more a side effect from chemo and the fact that I never woke up in the middle of the night to take another anti-nausea pill. I found myself hugging the porcelain throne, dry heaving, sweating and alone. Another new low. This was the first time my nausea had reached this level. I’ve been lucky being able to manage it with the medications my doctor prescribed at the beginning of chemo.

I thought maybe I would be spending my morning curled up on the linoleum floor but I managed to find my way to the kitchen, feed Baker and Louie who were both eagerly bouncing up and down signaling to me that they really didn’t care what I was going through, they were hungry and their needs come first. Blissfully unaware of the fact that I was mere moments away from losing whatever remained of my dinner from the night before.

After choking down my anti-nausea pill, my pill for nerve pain and something else I’m taking for some other kind of bodily discomfort, I found my way back to bed and fell asleep for a few more hours.

I woke moments before my phone started ringing and I realized my mom was calling me. From upstairs. Something we both are guilty of doing because neither one of us are able to climb the stairs that separate our two places easily these days.

Apparently, I had also managed to send her a text before I fell back to sleep. “I’m not doing good” was all it said. I picked up the phone, “Honey I have the flu.” Selfishly my first thought was great, my caretaker also needs a friggin’ caretaker. I hung up the phone and slipped dipper into the depths of my uncomfortable vulnerability and aloneness.

I still had hope though. I could call someone and they could come help me if needed. That was, until my mom called back a short while later. “Honey, I have Covid.”

“F&%k!!!!” I screamed in my head.

"Great. I better test too.” Was all I could actually get out.

In the three years that Covid has been in our lives I have never tested positive. There have been several times when I swear I should have but no matter how many times I tested, every one came back negative. Until yesterday. Those two red lines appeared quicker then I’m comfortable with and I thought about how ironic it was that I always hoped one day I would stare down at two red lines on a little test but these are not exactly these ones I was hoping for. Staring back at me, I mumbled, “well, I’m definitely not pregnant so I must have Covid too.”

You know that vulnerability I felt earlier, well, that has now reached a level I never knew was possible.

Covid and chemo. Not the best companions I would say.

Then, this morning, I looked in the mirror and saw that now, I almost, have no eyebrows. That coupled with no hair, I realized I’m starting to resemble a naked mole rat.

And I sigh.

Three more to go. I can do this.