The last infusion

Hooray! My last chemo is finally over!

When I arrived on my first day of my last round, I found my chemo unit decorated by Sharon. It really brought tears to my eyes, because it really felt like I had won this war- i just had to get through this last battle, with my team.

My sweet Sharon

Wednesday night was the hardest night of my life. The pain, the nausea, the neuropathy -- all were worse than before. I just wanted to die. I took some medicine, and just passed out. It was the most merciful thing I could have done for myself. I wanted so badly to go out to eat, to celebrate, but I simply could not.

Thursday and Friday's infusions were nerve-wracking. I seriously thought that my veins would not hold up. But I think my sister was more stressed out than I was. Just before Friday's infusion I told my sister that I was planning on using the same arm I had used on Thursday, which we never do. It's always one arm on Wednesday, the other on the Thursday, and then back to the first on Friday. It gives my veins an opportunity to recover, which is no small matter. Catherine had done a lot of research into vein pain,  and vein collapse, after the trauma of my previous round of infusions. But my veins were already seriously damaged from months of infusions, and Wednesday's was the worst. So I was doubling down on the same arm for Thursday and Friday. It was a gamble, but one that Joe and I had decided was worth taking.

During the infusion, Catherine spent a lot of time engaging Sharon and myself in a conversation about a situation she was trying to understand. Her voice and reasoning were measured, but I could tell how tense she was throughout the discussion. I really have not seen Catherine that stressed out in a long time. I initially thought she was stressed out about the situation, but as we were going home she let out a long breath and confessed her relief that my veins had made it through to the end. That's when I realized she'd simply been trying to distract me from the infusion and the vein pain. The situation she was describing, while disconcerting, was only a cover for her concern for me.

I honestly don't know how she does it. She is so supportive, coming here every weekend all the way from Washington D.C. No other sister is this dedicated and loving. And my veins, as much as they hurt, made it through this last infusion. My body has stuck by me, and for that I am so grateful. As we expected, the bone pain and nausea is the worst it has ever been, but I am so happy that this will be the last of it that I don't even care.

This has been a rough winter, but I still feel so lucky. There are so many more winters ahead for me, and spring is finally here. This was the winter of our little community's discontent, made bearabale by the warmth of their care. Ranging from the constant comfort of friends like Sharon and the generous souls of our MOM's club, to the steady support and care of my family, and of course, the calm love and support of my husband Joe and the effervescent joy of my little boy, Evan, they turned a situation of pain and horror into an expression of love. I feel so light, so positive. I have so many people who love me, and care about me. I cannot help but feel happy.

Every Easter, I usually make my special all-day ham, cheesy scalloped potatoes, baby carrots, and rolls. But because I was having such a hard time with this last chemo, my Dad bought a ham, ribs, turkey, and a million sides from Honeybaked Ham, and we had a feast. We had Easter brunch at Evan's favorite place, The Coliseum at Pelican Hill, and he wore his suit and bow tie. He was so cute, I could hardly stand it!

Hmm... The IPO set the stock at $15 a share but I'm pretty sure their primary competitor is going to go under by the end of the third quarter. Their fundamentals are good, but they have a major cash flow problem. Maybe I should increase my bid. Damn, I got 99 problems, but my breakfast ain't one.

How could I feel sick or in pain when I have a boy like this? So Easter was low key for us, but it was a happy one. But by Sunday afternoon, the pain hit me like an avalanche. The bone pain was so intense, I couldn't even move. I just lay there, feeling crushed, my bones leadened with pain. I was so thirsty, but couldn't drink until my sister watched me for a moment and then appeared with a glass of water and a bent straw to help me drink. She could tell I was in more pain than I was willing to admit. Which meant, of course, that we danced the little "Dance of the Medications" that Catherine does to make it rain pain meds.

Catherine sits down on the couch beside me.

"It looks like you're in a lot pain."

I make a non-committal noise. I am in pain, but don't want to admit it. That being said, I'm hurting too much to have the strength to deny it.

"Do you want to take some Norco?"

"No, it's okay. I don't want to get drowsy."

"You don't have to be in pain, though. Maybe just a half a pill?"

"No," I repeat. "I don't want to get drowsy."

Catherine stays quiet for a moment, before responding.

"How about just a quarter of a pill? The half dose worked really well at the hospital, and we have the pill cutter they gave us. It'll be really easy."

Silence.

"I can just go ahead and cut it and have it ready for you. You don't have to take it now."

I shift slightly. "Maybe later."

"Okay." She gets up to cut the pill. "I'll set my timer for five minutes, and we can see how you feel then."

I nod, and Catherine sits down with the timer on her phone. Five minutes pass.

She cuts off the timer before it can shrill out its alarm. "How do you feel?"

Catherine waits, quietly, as I struggle between my pain and my dislike of the medicine. Finally, I look towards her.

"Am I stressing you out by not taking the medicine?"

"Yes. I just don't think you have to be in pain when we have ways of relieving it. It doesn't help anyone."

"Okay."

Catherine hands me the pill, which she's had ready by her side, places the end of my water glass' straw against my lips, and down it goes.

A few minutes later, Joe comes in and weighs in on the Medication Dance. "A quarter pill? Liz, even one of those whole pills is just a half dose, which is practically nothing." I don't respond. "Take the other quarter pill, at least. Come on, Liz. It's not a good idea to just sit there in pain." Catherine weighs in with her agreement, and they both offer the timed waiting option once more.

Ten minutes later, too tired to argue, I take the second quarter of the pill -- and, of course, I'm drowsy. But, the pain is a bit less, and I'm able to actually sit up and engage my dad in conversation when he comes by. In spite of it all, I'm actually glad I took the medicine.

I honestly don't want to be difficult. But a part of me doesn't want to mask everything with medication. I take so many pills, so many times a day. Pain is a part of this process, and I have to accept it. It gets tiresome always medicating myself. Life is short, and Evan changes and grows every day. It's hard enough to give up this time with him and my loved ones. Giving up even more to the medication is hard to take.

Another day down, and another day of pain that I will hopefully never have to go through again. In the long run, it's all worth it. And it's the last infusion! Hooray!!!!!!

Happy Easter, everyone!