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.
