Yesterday, my wife Erika finished what we hope will be her last ever chemotherapy treatment.
Here’s how she feels about it.
Yesterday, I completed my final chemotherapy treatment. I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t that. When chemo ends, it just ends. Well, that’s how it goes in my case – a very lucky case, I know. I had a successful surgery back in July, and the chemotherapy was prescribed to knock out any cancer cells that dared to linger or have the chutzpah to rebuild cancerous empires in my body. There’s this tiny invisible person inside of me saying, “Okay, so you finished 5 months of chemotherapy. You’re done. What you you want?!! A prize?” Uh, yeah – damn straight I do! Where’s my certificate of completion? My extended warranty? I want the laminated card that states my achievements and a declaration… I want the lifetime guarantee; signed, stamped, and sealed with a golden emblem. Where’s. My. PRIZE?
The clock gets reset and we start something new; follow-up. A CT scan here and a check-up there. I actually flipped out. I cried. I shook with emotion. My questions and demands don’t really have Human answers. Not the fair kind. I was forewarned by my oncologist that it would be a process and I should have listened to his gentle kind words. I left the oncology day ward feeling empty and lost and even a little bit doomed. There’s no modern day miracle test to detect ovarian cancer or recurrence. No “ovarian-oscopy”. No smears. No definitive blood tests. Like the primary disease itself, the main hope for early detection is slightly short of an act of divine intervention. Picking up on the slightest symptom and being able to identify it is the only hope second to being cured, of course. I’ve reached the point that I aimed for from Day One of the diagnosis; remission. Life goes on.
Read the whole thing.
Meanwhile, I look forward to many more posts from Erika, because the girl can write.
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