The Beginning and the End

I know the old saying is “Time flies when you’re having fun,” but believe me, time creeps along at a painfully slow pace when you are having chemo, which may be defined as many things, but never, ever as fun. But finally, after six months, I have come to the end of my chemotherapy treatments. I had some setbacks toward the end that made me feel as though I was crawling toward the finish line, but I am done, and hopefully will never have to endure another infusion again. A friend said to me the other day, “Congrats! You’ve been liberated!” and I was so happy to have someone find the right word to express the feeling of being done with chemo. I have been liberated from a six-month sentence of hard time in an oncologist’s office, and I do have a feeling of freedom.

I expected to feel free, to feel some relief of the burden of treatment, both physical and emotional. I have also been experiencing a mix of emotions that I didn’t expect, and I can only describe them as bittersweet. I have come to really care about the nurses at the clinic where I was treated. They took such good care of me during such a difficult time, and although I never looked forward to going to receive chemo, I always looked forward to seeing them. I enjoyed hearing about their weekends, their vacations, and their families. Those women treated me not just as a patient, but also as a friend and it made the whole experience so much easier. So I will miss seeing them every week, and a part of me will miss the strange camaraderie I developed with other patients being treated at the same time. But I never want to have to go back there as a patient again. I imagine the nurses must feel similar bittersweet emotions – missing patients they have grown to know and care for, and yet hoping that person never darkens the door of the infusion clinic again. I think that must be one of the toughest parts of their job, to develop a relationship with a patient while helping them get better, knowing that the end result is that (hopefully) they will get better and leave. And yet I watched them give of themselves to every patient they treated. There is a special place in my heart for them, and I will never forget their kindness.

In addition to feeling a little sad about not seeing my nurses, I also have to admit to feeling some anxiety. It is as if I have been floating in a life raft for six months, and then suddenly someone has flipped me out of it to swim back to shore on my own. Basically, I have been told, “As best as we can tell, you don’t have cancer anymore. We don’t know if it will come back, and we really have no way to know for sure if everything we’ve done has worked. But we’re pretty sure you’re good. Okey dokey? Good luck!” Holy crap! I was pretty scared when I was diagnosed with cancer, but now I’m slightly more terrified at the prospect that the cancer is “probably” gone. It’s hard to put faith in the treatments and hope that they have worked, but unless I want to spend every second of every day obsessing over every bump and cough I experience, then it is my only choice. I chose to pursue the most aggressive line of treatment because I wanted the extra assurance that the cancer wouldn’t come back, but there are no guarantees. I think I’ll always fear the cancer boogeyman is going to jump out from behind a corner and yell “boo!”

Anxiety and melancholy aside, I really feel pretty good. My hair is starting to grow back, and I’m getting a little stronger every day. All during my last chemo treatment I kept singing one of my favorite songs over and over again in my head. My favorite line is, “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end,” and I think that is so appropriate for my situation. The end of treatment brings the beginning of living the rest of my life, hopefully cancer free, and I am ready.