When It’s Time To Say Goodbye

I’m writing this late on a Friday afternoon, while drinking a cold beer in celebration (NOT DRUNK!) and thinking of the week ahead and the milestone I’ll pass.

I’m overwhelmed in emotion, sitting here, pounding out the words that foretell of my very near future, trying like hell not to cry, again. What has me writing and drinking and blubbering like the emotional baby that I am?

SPOILER ALERT: There are five short days before I say goodbye, before I’m done with my Herceptin infusions. FIVE DAYS! ~clink~

I started my journey with breast cancer in March of 2015. It is now late September of 2016. For anyone counting, that’s 18 months of treatment. 18 MONTHS!

It’s been a longass time. (STILL NOT DRUNK!)

In April of 2015, I started chemo. I had six treatments, every third week.

In August of 2015, I had surgery where it was confirmed I reached Pcr. Still doing a dance over that badboy.

In October of 2015, I started radiation. I went 5-days a week for 4-weeks. Longass time.

Finally, I restarted Herceptin treatments (I had already received Herceptin along with chemo in April, but needed more after because of my Her2 status of breast cancer) and needed an infusion every three weeks, for a total of 18 infusions.

MY BABIES…my. last. treatment. (God-willing) is in five days. When I write the words, my insides vibrate with joy and I feel like I need to puke. IT’S TOO MUCH!

As a breast cancer patient, there is much I’d like to fix in our healthcare system. Yet, it is that very system that I have entrusted with saving my life.  I hope they fucking nailed it. (forgive the vulgarity, but dadgum it, some moments call for it)

Of course, as you read this, I’m done. I’m. Done. But for this moment, as I sit at my desk and reflect, I still have five days ahead of me.

When the sun rises on Wednesday, Garry and I will head to the cancer center together (bearing Slutty Brownies for the staff!); we’ll finish this like we started it: together. I love that man more than I’ll ever be able to articulate. He has offered me courage and hope. He has offered me laughter and peace. He has offered me fairy tale love. I’m as lucky and blessed as anyone you’ll ever meet.

The life of anyone facing an illness or disease can be wrought with fear and distress. I want to thank each and everyone of you for coming along on this journey with me. Your comments of encouragement buoyed my spirit and helped me fight. Your kind and unexpected Cancer Christmas Gifts (snort) humbled me. You cards, your letters, your emails, your simple, but much looked for, presence was a true balm for what ailed me. My only true sense of repayment is to pass it on. Know that when I act act in kindness for another who is struggling, you are there with us.

Thank you. Thank you. I love you. (STONE COLD SOBER!)

18 months ago, I was brought to my knees in fear. I stand today in strength and in optimism for the future, in part because of your strength. I want you to know that, to understand your strength, even if offered in the smallest of ways, so you never ever underestimate what it is you have to offer another in their suffering. I won’t.

Today, as you read my words, I’m probably banging my head on my desk (I’m taking a intensive online course to help my business) and hoping I have something in the fridge so I don’t have to cook dinner. In other words, it’s a completely normal day, just like it was before I became a breast cancer statistic.

I covet normal.

Onward, my babies.

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