It’s here, my last day of chemo. This day seemed so distant just 5 months ago. I couldn’t really picture it then as I had no idea what state of mind or body I would be in. I had always thought my last month would be brutal, that this whole process would be a step-wise decline to the finish. I had even anticipated additional time-off and short-term disability leave as a very real possibility.
Well here I am. I haven’t taken any additional time-off beyond chemo days. I’d say I’m functioning pretty damn well all things considered. Nausea and fatigue can get the best of me at times, but I manage to bounce back pretty quickly (having an awesome wife who handles the entire load when I’m down definitely helps). Most importantly, I’m been mentally strong through the process – focusing on crossing the finish line, on my amazing family, on life after.
This is #12. I can’t help getting nauseous stepping into the building, and even more so stepping into the room. If you could see this room, you may understand why. There are about 15 reclining chairs lined along the four walls of the room. They’re usually all filled with cancer patients, most of whom are reclined and sleeping (soon I will be too). Loved ones sit next to most patients (for the most part, not me. I prefer to do this part alone). 5-ish lovely nurses are running around with clipboards and masks and medicine – syringes, IV bags, medicine vials and the like – tending to the patients. There are the familiar, patterned sounds that repeat over and over, like the rhythmic pumping sound or the beeping from all of the IV machines. And then there are the smells in a room that has been filling itself with sick patients for probably 50 years. Musty, sometimes alcohol-y from the cleaning agents. It’s hard to describe, but it’s distinctive. It’s particularly noticeable when you walk in, then you just get used to it. Anyway, this is where I’ve spent 12 of my days this year. And of course, there are all just contributing factors to my nausea. The main one is still the anticipation of getting disgusting drugs that do weird things to my body pumped into me. The thought always makes me cringe.
After this last episode, I’ll be off to get my petscan in about 3 weeks. That SHOULD just be a confirmation of what we saw 3 months ago in the previous scan. That this thing is out of my body. Some time after that, I’ll get my port removed from my chest. And some time in between all of that, I will commence partying and drinking 😉 I forgot what that’s like!
I haven’t forgotten about the next 2 weeks. I’ll be sleeping off the infusion over the next couple days, my taste buds will be shot and I’ll only want to eat eggs and cream of wheat, and then I’ll be good for a couple days before fatigue hits middle of next week. That will be my low point from which I return to “normal” over the next several days.
The end of this phase is near. The next phase is remission. My doc says I’ll have to do alternating cat and pet scans every 6 months for 3 years to make sure this thing doesn’t come back. There is a 90% chance it won’t. After that 3 year period, there’s basically no chance it comes back, or so he says. I suppose that becomes my next milestone.
Ok, Ativan kicking in, drowsiness commencing….