As I caught a glimpse of my very short chestnut hair with (what I’m calling) blonde highlights ;) I was reminded how different [and similar] things were in our household one year ago. I certainly didn’t think I would be sitting here during what feels like an apocalypse on THIS date. I was, after all, quarantined for a much different purpose one year ago...
I had walked in and out of that clinic at least 47 times [I have the parking ticket to prove it], half of which were for Chemo infusions, another handful for scans, several more for check ups, four more for surgeries, and few more beyond that for diagnostics, nurse education and post op visits. In total I’d gone to over 100 appointments. I just stopped counting my records after that. I had a mile high of paperwork, each one representing another appointment and I'm quite certain that if I laid each piece of paper out in a line it would literally be the outline for a 5K fun run- minus the fun.
Just a few from "the stack", along with my blue journal that I took to every appointment and bright yellow tabs calling out yet another study I was "invited" to participate in.
I’d found my way around Mayo pretty well alright. I knew which ramps were full at certain times of the day. I knew the maze of the subway that could get you anywhere on campus in a hurry. I knew there would always be music in the main lobby that echoed throughout the vaulted ceilings as people from all over the globe (patients, interns, drs, nurses, politicians and celebrities) bustled about with intent. I also knew that those melodies would always be supplied by a pianist, vocalist, choir or orchestral member made up of senior citizens who volunteered their time and never, not once, left that lobby without music. That music is what lifted me up as I left the lobby on April 4, 2019.
Chemo Accomplice:
Several of my biggest supporters (whom I refer to as my chemo accomplices- mom, sister and husband) had all wanted to come to that last chemo infusion, but I requested “to not make a big deal” about finishing treatment. Not because it wasn’t a HUGE deal (it definitely was) I just didn’t feel like celebrating. I had a hard time putting my feelings into words.
Anxious? No. Stressed? Not really. Worried? Eh. Complacent? Well, Yes... kind of. I know, it must seem incredibly odd that I didn’t want to pull out some champagne, ring a bell and eat some cake. I just didn’t. Had I accomplished something major? Absolutely. Was I elated it was over? .... Over.... was it... over?
It would be weeks before I started feeling like myself again, my hair still gone, my nails falling off, I had constant pain in my fingers from neuropathy (something that had gotten so intense during chemo I couldn’t even open a baggie), my eyebrows and lashes had JUST started to thin (at the END of treatment which was a REAL Kick in the Breast). I still had an ultrasound, a PET scan, a MRI, a surgery, a port removal, and a bilateral mastectomy all ahead me. And newsflash- I hadn’t even been declared cancer free!
One of my chemo accomplices
Complacency:
You learn to just sit back in these experiences and take it in stride. One day at a time, hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. So why complacent you ask? Well, it settles in nicely between worry and celebration. It’s almost like shock, your mind is somewhat numb, you don’t know how or where to place your emotions. It provides a shell from the uncertainty of it all. I recall that one of my DR’s put it very well during my “check in” appointment on my last day of chemo. She had said,
I know a lot of times friends and family members expect a celebration when you finish chemo, but a lot of women just feel uncertain. Because the future can hold so much uncertainty when you’re a breast cancer survivor.
I remember my face softening as she told me this, “Yes, that’s exactly how I feel. How did you do that?” I’d been trying to explain that to everyone without making those closest to me assume that I was worried or depressed. She’d harnessed my intangible emotions and put it into context with just two sentences. I finally felt justified that my [non]reaction to the "celebration expectation" was normal.
[You see, when you reach a year, five years, then ten you’re not “in the clear”. No. The longer you go on, the higher the odds of recurrence. It’s a “smart” cancer, it can morph and reappear in many forms like a wizard, angrier than before. That’s what most don’t know and one of the reasons why we need constant research to battle this relentless disease.]
Mind Games:
My brain certainly wasn’t telling me that it was time to celebrate. I kept thinking, “ok, when I finish chemo. Ok, when I have a clear scan. Ok, after I have surgery. Ok, after my port is out. Ok, after I have a clear path report. Ok, maybe on the anniversary of my first surgery, then the anniversary I was diagnosed, the anniversary I started treatment, New Years Eve, Valentines Day, then... maybe April 4th…on my one year anniversary since I finished treatment.
I’ve always enjoyed the thought of a celebration, throwing some big bash where I don’t have a care in the world and I celebrate the sh*t [sorry mom] outta’ being cancer free. But the truth is, every time I get closer to an anniversary or reach a milestone that thought gets farther and farther away. And as I sit here, contemplating this one year anniversary (which will happen in 9 minutes because I’m writing this in the middle of the night when my two sweeties can’t bother me) I’m really not sure why I keep avoiding it.
My Sweeties- who won't allow me more than 5 minutes to write this blog while they are awake.
I know that I have absolutely no control of what will happen in the future, I know that I can’t jinx it by celebrating. But still, there is a small voice that says, “…don’t do it Katy. Don’t draw attention to how lucky you’ve been or it will get taken away.” Silly, I know, but it was also that same voice that made me follow my instincts and quite literally saved my life.
My nightly revelation is this...I just need to get over it like any other fear. Not the fear of something coming back, but the fear that I can somehow negatively alter my path by celebrating the mountains I’ve already overcome. I need to rip the freaking band aid off and go party. But, not because you expect me too, or because I feel ready, because I want to let go... through more than just avoidance. And so I’ll share with you that day I left the chemo chair on April 4, 2019 and do my best to let go and celebrate…
The Last Day:
As I rose from my chair, IV free and left the chemo clinic on the 10th floor, I said goodbye to my favorite nurses, receptionist and made my way to the vast windows overlooking the “city” of Rochester. I paused just for a moment before getting onto the elevator. It felt like every other day. Why did it feel like every other day?! It wasn’t! But I felt nothing. As I stepped off of the elevator music vibrated and bounced off the walls as the word “hallelujah” danced off the keys of a grand piano and into my ear. Of all the songs and all the times, I’d never heard them play that song. Hallelujah- Piano Cover [This link is for reference only, I am in no way endorsing or promoting this artist.]
Jake and I stopped in our tracks, looked at each other and a stream of tears ran down our cheeks as we embraced each other in the middle of the busy lobby. [I’m sure everyone who passed us not knowing the context thought we had just received horrible news]. It felt like a sign from God saying “it’s over” and I needed to live that way. Let go, continue to focus on the joy as I had been throughout this journey because there is so much of it in my life. Even still, it felt like celebrating a war, knowing that your enemy could execute a surprise attack at any time.
Last day of chemo April 4, 2019 #seriouslyunfiltered
Chemoversary:
You can’t control the situation but you can control how you react to the situation.
We’ve all heard that at one time or another. I think that my action to react through avoidance was my way of trying to control the situation. To NOT give it my attention was my way of NOT giving it power. But I have to ask myself; who’s controlling who by doing that? By not allowing myself to celebrate the mountains I’ve climbed.
That same song that Jake and I heard as we left Mayo on April 4th qued up randomly two nights ago as we ate dinner as a family. It seemed like a gentle reminder that I'm still working on letting go and needed to celebrate the victory, even if it was one year overdue.
So, as I sit here on my one year chemoversary, FaceTiming my sister (who is also a breast cancer survivor and understands this hesitation better than anyone) we virtually cheered our drinks and decided to celebrate this day [quarantined and all] in each other’s company and be grateful that we are on the other side TODAY.
It was Truly time to virtually cheers
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