Day 62
Tomorrow, day 63, I have my last scheduled chemotherapy. I have no idea why, when I started this blog, I counted out 64 days. I was sure, and I counted several times, that it was going to be 64 days of chemo, from start to finish... but I think, it is appropriate. Tomorrow, Day 63, I will finish my chemotherapy... and then day 64, will actually be the start of the entire rest-of-my-life.
We all are terminal. I read that as the first page of a book on cancer somewhere, and for some reason, this shocked me when I first read it. I never felt "terminal" before. I always had so much to do and so many things I wanted out of life - I had never even considered that I might possibly die at a young age.... so going through this cancer process, it woke me up to the fact that we all are going to die... and that this very cancer might be the thing that ends my life. I don't want it to. I want to continue to live and to enjoy my work and my kids. I want to be a part of this world and I SO DESPERATELY do not want to leave my children without telling them everything I know and love about life. I am so passionate about BEING and the beauty of life, in all its messiness... I am not ready to let any of it go. So here I am, day 63 on the horizon, and then day 64 - the rest-of-my-life spreading vastly in front of me, like a whole world of possibility... { or conversely, it could possibly be like a novel with a tragic end that I just don't know about yet, an ending that will make me (us) cry and wreck me (us) for days, just with the unfairness and pain of it all. }
Which one will it be?
Tomorrow, after a day of lab draws and medical discussions, pre-medications and a Benadryl-induced nap... and a couple hours of infusing powerful drugs to make every rapidly growing cell in me die.... I will gather myself and my things, grab my husband by the arm and I will walk down the hallway past all the PODS of cancer patients getting the same kinds of drugs, trying their best to LIVE and not die... and I will come to the bell. There is a bell, right by the elevator door, leading out into the world... it is simple and small... but it has a mighty sound and an even larger meaning. It has been hung on the wall for the cancer patient leaving the unit for the (hopefully) last time. There is an inscription under the bell.
Life is not measured by
the number of breaths we take
but by the moments that
take our breath away.
Smile- this is one of those moments.
I am fully intending on ringing that bell. It is an enormous symbol of HOPE for me... a stand of optimism in the face of uncertainty. It is a way of saying goodbye to this journey, but also a way of saying hello, of declaring with a loud CLANG that I am ready for a new journey... that I am embracing a new life and a new body and I am celebrating the progression of one life melding into another. The bell is a proclamation of sorts... Goodbye! Good riddance! Thank you! Hello! Here I come! Get ready, life, I am on my way!
The other thing, though, (and this really bothers me... I mean, REALLY...) ~ I almost wish I could ring the bell with no one else there. The last time we were at chemo, I sat next to this young-ish girl... oh my goodness, she looked probably 20, maybe 25. She was gaunt and so tiny and frail... she looked so ill and so tired and drawn from her cancer. She looked like once, she was lovely, but now, so pale and clearly, in great pain. She had her leg wrapped and out straight in front of her, and her husband (or boyfriend) was so incredibly gentle with her, as he helped her gingerly into the chair. It was a tender moment between them, and I felt like I was intruding, just witnessing her transfer, under his gentle hands, from her wheelchair to the reclining chair two spaces away from me. I wondered what awful cancer she was dealing with... (osteosarcoma?) and I so wanted to tell her she was beautiful to me... that her pain and her tender husband moved me... but I didn't say a word and within minutes, my beeper went off and I was ushered into my pod to begin my own treatment. I hadn't thought of her until now... but SHE is one of the reasons that I am worried about ringing that bell. For I am not sure she will ever get that chance... and there are so many women, smart and strong and God-fearing and amazing and beautiful and brilliant women, whose cancer has spread ... they are the faces of Stage IV... and they will never triumphantly ring any damn bell... and their bodies will ultimately succumb to their disease and they will die and it blows my mind absolutely that up to 30% of women with breast cancer will have it become metastatic and they will die from their disease.
We can quote survival stats and spin the numbers any way we want... and at the beginning of all of this, I was clinging to my 90% cure rate. I was counting on being one of the 9 out of 10.... but I have learned, reading and listening to so, so, SO many women that it is really about 1 out of 3... that breast cancer is a deadly and insidious killer and that none of us will ever be truly free from, at least, the tiny nagging fear that it could claim us from life and take us early.... and we just never know why or when.
So tomorrow, during my last chemo, I am sure I will smile... and I will make plans with my husband for the coffee shop we are thinking about opening. We will share ideas and we will comb through Pinterest pictures, looking for just the right aesthetic. We will make our lunch order and I will slip into a doze... He will quietly take his leave and run (run!) out to get our lunch, escaping the cancer that is everywhere in those chairs... and when I awake, I will look around at the people around me in their own chemo chairs and I will salute them in my mind and I will say a prayer for them. I will visualize my meds racing through my body and barging into the corners of my body and killing off any rogue cancer cell that might try and take up residence and grow again. I will URGE those meds to chomp up those cells like a vicious and hungry shark, eating away any badness, one last time, so my body can slowly and meaningfully recover and repair and regain its strength and its beauty and its function, so I can live and work and run and hug and laugh and BE, wild and free and happy, very soon. While I am letting my shark-medication do its work, I will say a prayer for Christy... for sweet Megan... for Maggi and Neysa and Karen and Lisa... I will say a prayer for Malachi and every other child who ever has to face this monster and for every mother who watches in complete despair, as her child battles, with his life in the balance.
I will say a prayer for sweet Abby, who lost her battle at 5... and whose mom suffers every day, missing her girl.
I will ring the bell tomorrow... but it will be bittersweet. I will ring the bell for me, but I also want to ring the bell in honor of those who have died... for those who will never ring it themselves. I want to ring the bell, and send a prayer and hope and strength to my cancer sisters on Facebook who are lonely and terrified and desperate for a ray of hope... and for those women, who won't give up and are waging war and will fight and claw their way through treatment, fierce and determined not to let cancer take anything else. I want to ring the bell for my kids, my husband, my parents, my brother and give them hope and comfort, letting them celebrate the end of one part of the journey and a respite, at least for a while, from the worry.
I MUST practice my positivity... (( I have this nagging fear that it really isn't over. I have this incredible fear that we weren't aggressive enough... that we didn't do enough... that I may have to try again, do this all over again... and it makes me literally sick to my stomach to think about that... to face that possibility. )) SO I MUST BANISH those thoughts, knowing the reality, but finding the strength in my soul to BELIEVE that I will make it through... I must TRUST... I must find GRACE... I must BE GRATEFUL. I must remember- I. AM. STRONG.
I am.
I have decided that this blog will keep going, just as I will. The 63rd day will pass and chemo will be done... but I will keep going and keep living and keep writing. I will live, every moment that I get, gratefully. I will always come back to love, to gratitude. I will celebrate the moments that take my breath away and I will certainly smile.
I am ready.
I am.