Today I was unplugged from my sixth round of chemo.
The 48-hour pump is a real chore, lugging around a fanny pack and threading the tube through my clothes, trying not to get it tangled or let my babies yank it. I’ve acquired a new wardrobe of chemo couture, aka button-up dresses that allow port access.
I’m still in the steroid portion of treatment (days 1-3), so I’m actually feeling pretty good about life. I was able to host trivia on Wednesday, which is always fun.
I even got hit on by a man at the bar who arrived too late to hear my references to my husband.1 I guess he also didn’t notice my wedding ring or the tubes coming out of my chest or the massive fanny pack full of poison around my waist. Clearly not the most observant man in the world, so perhaps I shouldn’t be too flattered by the attention.
Regardless, it felt good to be complimented on my clothes, my face, the sound of my voice on the microphone. He was young and tall and attractive, not that it matters, but it did give me cause to feel young and vibrant myself for the first time in a while. I’ve grown used to thinking of myself as feeble, decrepit, weak, in need of constant support and assistance. Like I’ve pushed fast forward on my life and I’m in the failing health phase decades too soon.
But on Wednesday night I was just Julia for a couple of hours, singing “Wonderwall” on stage and making people laugh.
Today I was feeling good after getting hydration, IV anti-nausea medication, and my growth factor shot. I had my pump removed, the sun was shining, and I felt free. I watered the garden, started a new book in the hammock, and then picked Violet up from school. We went to the craft store, then got ice cream and walked around downtown.
On Thursday nights in the summer Main Street shuts down for Music on Main, so we walked around and listened to some live music and ate french fries. I ran into Dr. Schenk on the street. She was giving a shoulder ride to her toddler, and it was funny seeing each other out of context. We almost walked right past each other.
I’ve been really missing editing lately—I had a dream about it last week—and what should arrive in my inbox today but an exciting project offer for a new suspense novel. It felt like a sign so I said yes. I’m excited to be getting back in the proofreading game after a lengthy fallow period.
Only two more rounds of chemo to go, and then I will have a brief flurry of testing: CT scan, MRI, flexible sigmoidoscopy to scrape the tumor site and make sure there aren’t any lingering cancer cells. Assuming that all goes well, I will be done with treatment.
Cancer free.
Cured.
Well, technically I won’t be considered cured for another five years, during which time I’ll receive regular scans and scopes. But good news now will go a long way.
Violet had a mini meltdown this evening (it was a long day), and told me that she’s sad about my cancer. I told her that next month on my birthday I’ll be all done getting the chemotherapy, and then it will just be a few more tests to make sure it’s all gone and I’ll be totally done.
She told me that she thinks my cancer is going to come back.
It was not pleasant to hear her say that, as I’ve been trying really hard to stay positive and assume the best possible outcome in all this. I don’t want to give in to scanxiety and let the dread control me.
But it’s really hard to hold the dread at bay.
I don’t know what I will do if the cancer isn’t gone, if they tell me I need more chemo or—worse—that I need to remove my rectum. I can’t think about that option. I don’t want to. It makes my chest tight and my breath short and my eyes well up.
My mom is a big proponent of denial, (not just a river in Egypt!). She’s been encouraging me to lean into denial when thinking about lingering side effects after treatment is over. I’m not sure she knows how much effort I’ve been putting into denying the possibility of surgery and a lifelong ostomy bag.
I can’t really let myself think or talk or write about it even, because I start panicking and crying.
So I guess in summary, I’m holding it together by a thread over here.
I’m doing my best, and on some days that feels like enough and on other days it feels like a very feeble and pathetic effort.
It sometimes seems like whenever I do have a good day something is waiting in the wings to beat me down, like a totally innocent—if unthinking—comment from my sweet-hearted daughter.
But I’m going to keep believing.
The treatment is working. The cancer is leaving. The scans and scopes will all come back clean as a whistle.
I’m going to keep my rectum.
Thanks for being here with me.
I threatened to dock his team a point if he missed the question about who authored Rebecca, one of my favorite novels. He of course knew the answer, though he was the only person in the bar who did!
I love this news Julia, it is wonderful to see you glowing in your pink dress at one of your favorite activities!
Ever since I was knocked into a class four rapid on the middle fork of the salmon river, I have had a healthy respect for denial. As I was somehow avoiding being knocked unconscious by the sharp jagged rocks around me, my mind produced only one sentence: “I’m not in the water!“
Sometimes denial is just good self regulation and good boundary making, and helps you gather strength for whatever comes next.
You are doing so beautifully, Julia. I support you what ever course you take, but let’s call this “full catastrophe denial”, and understand that it takes tremendous core strength. You have so much courage! Sending love and admiration!
Alison
The treatment IS working! The cancer IS leaving!! And Violet doesn't REALLY think that your cancer will come back -- she's just worried, and testing you. Don't lose hope!! Sending love.