I wrote this in my journal almost three weeks ago, and haven’t taken the time to put it in this blog.  I’ve been busy and tired, and tired and busy.  I’ve begun to think I am well, and as a result have over extended myself to the point of utter exhaustion.  The road back to strength and wellness is longer than I anticipated.  And fraught with such conflicting emotions.  That’s the real reason I haven’t written – I don’t really know what to feel, or how to express what’s in my heart.   I think I SHOULD feel happy, but I don’t yet.

 

Here’s what I wrote three weeks ago at Tyee Spit:

Tomorrow is the day I WOULD be going for a treatment.  I WOULD have had my bloodwork done today, and tomorrow I would be hooked up that machine and be drifting away from myself.  Even now I feel that horrible taste rising up in the back of my throat gagging me.

BUT, I don’t have to have blood taken today, and I don’t have to have a treatment tomorrow.

I am finished.

I know I ought to be elated: jumping for joy, delighted, relieved, ecstatic.  And I am, sometimes.  But it also seems so unreal.  So hard to fathom.  So frightening.

I’ve read that as long as people are being treated for their cancer, they can cope with their reality.  It is difficult, and painful, but they feel safe knowing that something powerful is being done to bring about healing and wholeness.  But afterwards, when treatments have ended, there is a sense of panic.  What if it wasn’t enough?

I catch myself with that clutch of panic at my heart sometimes.  Teary, frightened, confused.  At a loss.  My entire year has been carefully plotted out for me by others, and now it’s almost as if I don’t know what to do.  I need to remember what it’s like to be well.  To embrace life.  To move forward.

When Geri removed my PICC line, I felt a little moment of panic.  I wanted her to take it out, to set me free, but at the same time, I was frightened.  And now, when I look down at my arm, I see only the faintest trace of where the catheter pierced my skin.  It gives me such a sense of unreality: almost as if it never was.  And I wonder if all the other scars will also fade, leaving me with only the faintest memory of this year.  I don’t want them to fade away completely.  I don’t want to forget.  People have said to me so many times in the last week or so, “You’re done!  You can finally put all this behind you.”  But I don’t want to leave it all behind.  God has blessed me in such a powerful and profound way, and I think I’m afraid that somehow I will lose the blessing as life takes over.

After she took the PICC out, Geri seized me in a fierce embrace and said, “You’ve been through so much, and you did it.”

I cried,and clung to her, and felt a sense of triumph, or accomplishment, or something.  It was strange.  It’s not as though I had actually DONE anything.  Maybe what I was experiencing was a sense of completion: I had made it to the end, and was still standing.  I can take some satisfaction in that.

I am finished the chapter, but not the book.

And I think THAT’S why I feel such conflicting emotions.  People keep saying to me, “Oh, I’m so glad it’s over.  I’m so glad you’re finished.”  I smile and agree – and I AM glad that the chemo is over.

 

I do have a sense of peace.  I am hopeful.  I am anticipating a return to health and strength.

But it’s not over.

When I left the doctor, after that last treatment, she handed me a paper entitled “Letter for Colorectal Cancer patients.”  It maps out years of follow-up:

*  history and physical exam every three months for the first three years, then every six months for two additional years.

*  rectal exam at least yearly

*  colonoscopy within one year following surgery (mine is already booked for September)

*  tumour markers checked at each visit

*  liver imaging done every six months for three years, then annually for two more years

*  chest X-rays every six months for five years.

 

I’m glad for the follow-up.  I’m grateful that I live in an age when such things are possible.  I’m relieved that doctors will be checking my organs and orifices.  And Im eager for that scope:  I will have no rest until I have that colonoscopy in September.

I’m finished the chapter, but not the book.