I can hardly believe that eight rounds of chemo have finally come to a close! Another chapter has concluded and I am slowly readying myself for the next one: six weeks’ worth of radiation treatments (5 days/wk) and one final day surgery. Then -- maybe then -- I can begin to put the pieces of my life back together, in both a literal and figurative sense. There’s no real rest for the weary quite yet. But almost. For now that will have to be enough.
As with so many endings, I’m reminded once again of the beginning. The first consultation with my wonderful oncologist that took place shortly after the holidays back in early January. Truth be told, it was one of the most emotionally draining days of my life. And though I liked Dr. P. and his staff immediately, I did not want to be facing the next steps to recovery. I wanted to run, hide, and pretend that this wasn’t actually happening to me. But it was and I had to face it. Head on, immediately, and for the entirety of winter.
After exchanging pleasantries and getting up to speed about my own particular journey, Dr. P. gave us a quick but thorough tutorial about breast cancer and chemo, looking all the way back to the early 1960s when surgeries and treatments were new, untested, and rather gruesome. He explained that women who discovered a lump back then were scheduled for surgical biopsies. Just before surgery, they were told two things: (1) If you wake up with a small bandage and it’s still day time, then your lump was benign ... and ... (2) If you wake up with a large bandage and it’s night time, you’ve had a radical mastectomy because your lump was cancerous.
Can you imagine how awful that must have been? How archaic, cruel, and unnerving?
He then talked about those early treatments, their immediately violent side effects, and spotty cure rates. Followed quickly by a clear and detailed explanation of how far these treatments, medications, and cure rates had come over the last 40 years. We learned that my treatment plan would span roughly sixteen weeks from start to finish with a total of eight sessions. “Dense and Intense” was how he described it. Then he smiled warmly and assured me that I would do very well and leave his office with a cure come May.
I didn’t say much, but I soaked in every one of his smiles and attempted to find hope and positivity in his clear expectations, forthright manner, and genuine optimism. And I said many a prayer of thanks sitting there -- even though my heart and spirit were disintegrating yet again. It was a lot to absorb, especially after we toured the treatment room and met the rest of Dr. P.’s topnotch staff. Their kindness and compassion put me at ease, but it also left me feeling incredibly vulnerable and emotionally raw. Especially after leaving the office with a fistful of prescriptions, including one for a wig. (For some reason, that particular prescription bothered me most of all ... and it was the only one that remained unfilled.) What had been theoretical up to that point suddenly became incredibly real. Surreal, in fact, as the roller coaster ride rolled on.
Needless to say, the ride home was not a good one. Far from it, in fact. My anger and frustration exploded to the surface and whatever I had been holding back came flooding out. I yelled. I cried. I hit the inside of the car door with my balled up fist. All the while pleading with Todd to explain why this was happening to me and to us. I told him I couldn’t do it anymore and that living this way was not actually living. It was not one of my finer moments, but he took the long way home and, as so often happens after an outburst like that, the storm passed, the venom dissipated, and I regained my composure.
Even though I felt like a cornered animal, I realized the only way to go was forward. I didn’t have to like what awaited, but I had to persevere -- and hope -- anew.
Little did I know that reinforcements were on the way. But we'll get to that part of the story next time ...
