OK…

Where did we leave off?… ahh, yes.  Mastectomy, check.

 

About a month after my surgery, we moved from Atlanta to upstate New York.  It was my husband’s hometown, and I fell in love with it the very first time I visited.  We had purchased a house there many months before, but we waited to move with a baby on the way.  The baby was born, and so was my cancer… the move had to wait a little while longer.

Alas, less than a month after my surgery, away we went.  Skaneateles, here we come!

It was a “perfect” time to move to a new town, my husband start a new job, renovate the new house, and get an entirely new healthcare brigade… all with a beautiful six-month-old baby boy.

Thank you, Jesus, for keeping me in the light.

Amidst the wonderful cast renovating my home, I geared up for chemo.  I had landed in the hands of the world’s greatest oncologist, Dr. Tony Scalzo.  Also, as I would later realize, I was blessed to end up in the care of the world’s best oncology nurses.  As far as I’m concerned, oncology nurses come complete with sprouted wings and glowing halos.

Ahhh, the light.

My in-laws were the only souls who I knew in our new town.  They would watch my infant, and I would ride away again with my supportive husband behind the wheel.

“Here goes nothin’”… and we graced the door that led to the elevator that released us onto the third floor.

Then it hit me.  A sea of bald heads, wheelchairs and surgical masks… as if to prepare me for what is to come.  I realized, in that moment, how very young I was.

Signed in with a name bracelet attached to my wrist, and we waited.

My name is shouted, my eyes look up and it’s my turn.

…The baby, in the bucket, in her arms as I drove away… light.

Now, hey~ at this point in the journey, I’m thinking that I am pretty bada**… I was offered a port before we moved, but I opted out because I just didn’t want the anesthesia again.

Ummmm.  Mistake.  Very.   Painful.  Mistake.

So, here we are.  It is row after row after row of a chemotherapy circus.  IV drips, blue chairs, blankets, televisions.   And I, with my bada** no-port self, waited to find my chair.  It was the BEST one.  I had the corner office, baby.   Yep, this spot is clearly reserved for bada**es.

There I was, clinging to the audible photo frame with my baby boy’s picture inside.  I push the button to hear his coo’s… again, light.

Her face, upon realizing I had opted out of getting a port, was confused.  I think we were twinning.  All I could think was “how the he!! did I get here?”  and “what the F$#! was I thinking not getting a port?”

I am not afraid of needles, but who the he!! like ‘em??   The tree-trunk-sized IV needle goes into my vein on the side of my wrist.  Left arm only… every single cycle…same bada** vein.

All of a sudden, I could NOT contain myself.  Whatever was freely flowing through the tube gave me the BIGGEST bout of giggles that I have ever, ever had.  Remember, people, this is before the time of medical marijuana.  This was a full-on fit of giggles.  Ugly giggles, where the corners of my mouth met my eyes for the first time.

Then, just as quickly as they came, then went away.  Dam^… I quite enjoyed that.

Four hours later, now an expert at making my way to the bathroom with the IV stand, I was finished.  I had let the red cocktail run its course through me.  “Quickly in, quickly out” she said with her halo and wings.

Round one.  I got this.  I’m tired as the days go on with the next cycle on the horizon… but I got this.  Still able to be a slightly less version of super mom, I did not rest much.

It was the next cycles that did me in completely.  I had been lulled into a false sense of bada**ness with that first cycle.

I did not know anyone in my new town, so I would spend the “good” days on the porch rocking my baby.  I would watch moms and babies stroll by and wave, the kindness of my new town already evident.  I vowed that, when I got through this, I would have my turn on the sidewalk with this baby.

A successful day was made simply by being able to walk up the stairs.  Dam^ chemo and those red blood cells just minding their own business trying to carry that oxygen.

Again, the baby, the husband, the light.

It happened in between cycle two and three.  The hair in the shower, on the bed pillow, and on the lint roller.  Yes, that’s right folks, a lint roller happens to be the best way to rid your head of remaining sprouts.  If you’re gonna go bald you might as well keep it smooth, right?

Several rounds later, minus the giggles, and I was off for the final round.  (I was off for two weeks in between sessions and would JUST feel “normal” before it was time to go again.)  Had my husband not been there, I would have dug in and quit.  I did not think it was possible for me to feel worse.  Therefore, I did not think I should go.

Alas, he pulled me.  Thank the Lord for that man who drove me and stayed with me each and every session.  I imagine that it was very difficult for him to watch.

The last one… the last trips to the bathroom toting an IV stand…the final hugs to the halo and wings… the final trip home.  Although there were many trips back for injections and follow-ups, I was done.  I had completed the chemotherapy to “increase my odds” of survival.  Such comforting words, right?!

DONE.  DONE   DONE.  Thank you, Jesus.  I was DONE.

I will never forget the smell of those blue chairs, the glances up from those connected, and the warmth of the oncology nurses… ever.

Some years later, I would accompany a dear friend to her last chemo… in the same exact place.  It was kind of an out of body experience, but one I would never miss with my friend and sister in pink.  Next to her, in his own blue chair, was one the young men who renovated my kitchen and watched over the weeks as my hair disappeared.  Here he was.  F*&^ Y+$, Cancer.  But, thank you Lord, for allowing me the honor of being a source of light.

That same friend had invited me years earlier~in between her journey and mine~to play cards with a group of ladies.  Pitch was the game.  I was the WORST at Pitch, but no one ever complained as I like to think I made up for it with my rousing sense of self-deprecating humor.

One night, unbeknownst to me, one of my oncology nurses was at my table.  I did not recognize or remember her initially, probably because her wings and halo were back with the blue chairs.  But, once she said it, those halos and wings instantly appeared.  I was so taken aback.  She cared for me.  I was so floored to see my oncology nurse again, that any chance of success at Pitch was very much “off the table.”  Thank you, Lord for her gift of light over Pitch and over the years.

There you have it.  Chemo in a nutshell.  Light everywhere in the darkness, if you just look for it.

 

“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path”  Psalm 119:105

 

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