Coming at you this morning from Chemo Bay 01, Chair 2, University of Vermont Medical Center.
It is my last day of treatment...exactly a year ago today, I started chemo (first phase of treatment, followed by a mastectomy, then radiation, and rounding out the year with 3-week infusions of Herceptin).
I wasn't in THIS chair on that day a year ago, but in one across the room from where I'm at now. One second...I have to give Stephanie (chemo nurse) my cancer credentials before she hooks up my IV: Helfrich 11/18/xx. You have to
Signing out from Chemo Bay 01, Chair 2.
report your last name and birthdate to every medical professional who touches you, talks to you, takes your vitals, looks your way, etc. (it's okay, it keeps me from getting someone else's chemo cocktail or having the wrong body part zapped or removed). I joke with Stephanie that I'm going to have a T-shirt made: "Helfrich 11/18/19xx" on the front and "Fuck Off Cancer!" on the back. In.big.bold.letters.
Looking across the chemo bay, there's the chair where this all started last year. Today, there's a woman in it getting her treatment. We're part of that club you don't want to really be a member of, but you are--and when you see people without hair, you have a new awareness of what that means. Sometimes you make eye contact and there's a knowing. Sometimes that's pretty damn cool.
She's slumped over, a restless sleeping (these chairs are comfortable, with heated seats and vibrating cushions, but they are still chemo chairs). She looks tiny, swimming in the green heated hospital blanket you get tucked into when you're having treatments (that part is nice, I'll miss that). Her hair is patchy and looks like it's just started falling out. I imagine she's at the beginning of the chemo process (I hate the word "journey"...leave that for Hallmark, okay)? Back then was tough...more days of chemo, side effects, tests, medication, needles, fatigue, weakness, uncertainty--more of THOSE days ahead than behind. But, today, those days ARE BEHIND, DONE, CHECKED OFF THE CALENDAR...being here feels like a European vacation, pasta, puppies, fast cars, wine, limoncello, and shooting guns all rolled into one wonderful cocktail of WAHOOO.
But, I'm remembering. The diagnosis and my first day at the cancer center. Stage 3. Aggressive large tumor. Difficult chemo regime. Radiation. Mastectomy. You will lose your hair. Give up dog training. You probably won't be able to work. Putting a port in. Better not to talk about odds. Chemo starts NEXT WEEK... I left that day with a bag full of pamphlets and some very frightening reading. I suddenly had knowledge of where to buy wigs and fake boobs, and protocols for controlling explosive, persistent diarrhea. A whole cupboard in my kitchen was emptied of small appliances to make room for medications, puke bags, medical equipment, and bandages. My life had changed. But, one thing that stuck with me was my oncologist leaning in to me and saying in my ear "We're GOIN' FOR A CURE".
I didn't think today would be a big deal, mentally, you know. After all, the BIG stuff, the rough times, the worst parts of treatment, the anxiety around tests indicating results (or lack of)--that's many months in my rear-view mirror now. And, the great news--that it was all WORTH IT--and I'm cancer-free. (Wouldn't that have sucked...yeah, haha cancer still there, hit me with another round of chemo, please!).
Then Laurie, who has been at the front desk checking me in for every appointment for a year, disappeared from her behind her computer and popped up behind me, with open arms and big hug. Laurie was always a kind, warm first contact of every visit. The days I practically crawled to the check-in desk, barely upright in the chair, she made sure I didn't have to wait, that I could find a quiet place to crumple in a chair, that the nurses knew I needed some attention, and was always encouraging and warm. Suddenly, this last visit felt like a very big deal, but I'm finding it very difficult to capture the experience in writing.
And, having my survivor-ship visit...and seeing all my nurses. I think a little kid leaving the safety and structure of preschool--but excited about big girl pants and new school supplies--may feel like this?
I'm still recovering and I've not escaped unscathed. I'm down a boob, my hair looks gray and Kewpie-doll like, I'll have cancer in my mind at every screening, and I've got chemo brain. But, I'm okay, better than okay. I feel tough and capable. I sort of feel badass!
I'll leave you for today with a little breast cancer-related humor (a true story)...
I'm underwear shopping. I'm at the counter, and the saleswoman (I can't help but notice she has very big 80s hair, and boobs to match) asks (perkily) if I'd like a custom bra fitting. I ask if that would work for someone with only one boob. She looks very confused, so I whip out my fake boob (a beautiful knitted knocker) and show her.
She cocks her head sort of like my German Shepherds do when they are noodling something perplexing.
"We can totally work with women who have had vasectomies!" she pipes enthusiastically.
"You mean mastectomy', right?" (I gently ask)
"No, vasectomy, when you get a breast removed." She sounds very very certain of this.
As she continues to prattle on about how great their custom bras are for women with vasectomies, I am struggling every time she says VASECTOMY not to giggle and pee my pants...
At least I just bought new underwear if I need a quick change.