bittersweet

 It’s been two weeks since my last chemo treatment and, to be honest, it’s pretty bittersweet. Today is the first (every other) Thursday that I won’t be heading up to Sloan Kettering for a day of blood work, doctor appointments and infusions. It’s also the first (every other) Thursday that I won’t be trying to bond with my lab tech, striking up conversation with fellow patients, running into patients I’ve met past weeks and catching up on progress, sugaring up the scheduling assistant to get me into a treatment room sooner, having a good emotional breakdown with Dr. Comen (my oncologist), ordering the perfect lunch from Greek Eats that took me weeks to find, trying to be besties with my chemo nurse and walking out with a feeling of accomplishment (as well as dread the days to come).

Accomplishment may seem like a weird way to look at tackling chemo but that’s how I got through it and that’s also what makes it bittersweet. From the moment I received my abnormal mammogram results in March, I have been conjuring up lists in my head and mentally checking off each step of the process – from surgery to IVF to chemo. Each treatment day felt like a step (albeit leap) to progress and the side effects were a reminder that it was working. So, while I feared how chemo made me feel, I was fueled by the idea that each treatment was doing the work that had to be done and reach where it needed to in my body. 

And that’s what’s daunting about my treatment – there was no exact target. The isolated cancer mass was removed during my double mastectomy and was not detected in my lymph node biopsy but due to the aggressive nature of my cancer type (triple negative), chemotherapy is used to fight any potential cells that may have unknowingly spread. It’s really an insurance policy on my body.

But furthermore, there is the frustrating response I have for the common question asked by everyone – what’s next? Other than my implant surgery in October, there is no next step. There is no next scan or final screening. For my type of cancer and my age, a PET scan would cause more panic than ease due to the probability of a false positive for a new scare. I will meet with my doctor every 2-3 months to start and it will be on me to share questions, concerns and report back what my body is telling me and what I’m feeling on my body, forcing me to feel up my boobs that I’m not so comfortable even putting sunscreen on.

When it comes to a reoccurrence – there is good news and bad news. The good news is that if you reach five years with no detection, it’s likely it will never come back. But because it’s triple negative, it does have a high reoccurrence rate, typically within the first three years. 

During treatment, I kept most of this information in the back of my head – in the “think about later” bucket alongside my ovaries, fertility and the many other parts of my life that are in limbo.

It started creeping in the front of my head when I started Taxol, post brain fog, and I asked Dr. Comen to look at a cyst I’ve had on my rib for too many years to count. It had been keeping me up at night. Was this tiny bump on my upper stomach where the cancer originated but because I never told a doctor no one knew? She wasn’t concerned. After I brought it up the second time (because I’m type A and double check everything), Dr. Comen said, “if it’s physically bothering you, why don’t you just asked your plastic surgeon to remove it when he goes in with your implants?” Ok! It’s nothing. I can live with that and maybe get some sleep again.

At my last appointment, Dr. Comen wanted to celebrate that I was finishing chemo. This was an exciting day – the last day. But all I could think about was her potential response to my latest concern. I told her I was having dizzy spells. Two that I knew for sure happened and a couple that I could not determine were just in my imagination or actually happening. I reminded her that my dad’s lung cancer spread to his brain. I didn’t have to spell out to an expert that I know chemo doesn’t reach the brain. She looked at me directly in my eyes and said, “are you having anxiety about finishing chemo?” BOOM!

The truth is, I’m scared to say, “I’m cancer free” or “cured” or even “in remission.” There are a couple reasons for that. One being that every time my dad thought he was in remission it turned out he wasn’t. But also, because there is no clear-cut proof. Just trust. Just in my doctor, trust in the treatment and trust in my body.  

So yes, finishing chemo is bittersweet. There is nothing sweet about how awful the last six months of my life have been but there is something reassuring about actively pursuing and accomplishing a treatment plan. There is somewhere to go, someone to see, something to do or take that is actively working to make my body safe. As much as I want the next month to go by so I can get back to my peak energy level, see my baby hairs start to come in and maybe witness the return of my libido, among other things, I also fear the fact that the chemo is out of my body – it’s work is done. And I must convince myself that it did everything it needed to.

Because life is too short to lose sleep over these “small potatoes” concerns. And let’s be real, almost everything is small potatoes after cancer. Thankfully doctors are there to tell you the difference between the two.

Thank you, Dr. Comen. x