The last cycle

It's Tuesday night, and tomorrow marks the first day of my last chemo infusion. The worst day. As the time of the infusion draws near I can feel my emotions coursing through me, leaving behind streaks of pain like the blood pumping through my charred veins. The last round was pretty rough, even for me. The toxins have left their mark. My veins still hurt, even now, and I wonder if they'll manage to make it through these last three infusions. Just one last round. That's all I need.

Why just one? Well, it turns out that -- after suffering through a PET and CT scan -- my cancer is now officially in remission. A part of me feels happy for the news (it's certainly better than the alternative), but I find it difficult to truly celebrate until I'm well and truly done with chemo. At least this round of it. Now, it's just a matter of keeping it away!

My friend Sharon asked me what I wanted to do with all my "cancer stuff." I have three wigs, countless scarves, and a ton of literature. My mom and Sharon bought me all my scarves when I shaved my head, knowing that I needed a way to look and feel relatively normal, even without any hair. Now, when I look at those scarves, I don't think cancer. I think of Sharon and my mother, and how much they love me and how they've been there for me throughout this whole ordeal. How Sharon cut her own hair off in solidarity with me, and it turned out to look so beautiful. When I look at the plethora of pamphlets and books, I think of my cousin Christine, and how she went to the Lymphoma Conference, taking copious notes -- even recruiting her friends to take notes and ask questions -- while gathering all the information she could from all the speakers. When I look at my humidifiers, and my heating pad, I think of my sister and Joe, taking care of me every day and every weekend. I don't think cancer. I feel love. So I am going to keep all of my scarves, bought for me lovingly by Sharon and my mom; I am going to keep my heating pad and humidifiers, bought for me by Catherine and Joe; and I am going to keep all the literature, lovingly gathered for me by my cousin Christine.

Time is ticking away, and pretty soon I'll be hooked into the IV at the infusion center, wondering if my veins will last. It feels nearly over, though, even if it's not. So the other night I turned to Joe, and I commented, "It will be so nice to finish this last treatment, huh?"

He replied, "Oh yeah, for sure."

"I hope I get through it okay." Who knows what the next few days will bring?

"You will, honey."

We sat quietly for a while, each of us reflecting on the cancer and what it took from us. I looked at him with a crooked smile. "It wasn't so bad, was it?" I asked, smiling.

He looked at me square in the face and replied, "Are you f*-ing kidding me? It has been totally awful! Take your pick -- the 12 straight days of nausea, the bone pain, the vein pain, or the neuropathy. It's been hell!" We looked at each other and laughed.

The smile faded away from my face as I asked, "It's been hard for you, hasn't it? Watching a loved one in pain, and feeling powerless to stop it. I don't know if I could have been strong if you were the one in pain. It would have killed me inside. Thank you."

He grew quiet before replying, "Well, it's not nearly as hard for me as it is for you. You were the one going through all of that."

Joe has never talked about how he felt about all of this. I have encouraged him to talk about it, but he doesn't find it easy to share. It's odd for him, as he really likes tackling problems and issues through dialogue. I've asked Joe, along with my sister, to share some of their thoughts here on this blog. I hope they do. I have a feeling they have a lot to say.

Now for Round 6 tomorrow!