Treatment #1, Next Day

I slept like a rock, interrupted only by frequent trips to the bathroom. Fortunately I crawled back into the sheets each time and crash back to sleep, my usually active mind elsewhere for the night.

I woke feeling like a million bucks and headed off to the health center for my Neulasta injection. Now I’m nursing the beginnings on a headache and have an upset stomach. It’s probably all normal and natural.

I’ve had some time to reflect on yesterday and the emotional roller coast it all was. I arrived at the oncology clinic on time for my 11 a.m. appointment but unsure whether I’d have my first treatment (I described all the indecision and tears in yesterday’s post).

As I stood at the check in window, I could see across the clinic floor, past the two rows of desks and work stations and beyond to one of the four treatment rooms. I saw someone in a blue baseball cap and could tell it was a patient, probably bald under the cap, and the image scared me.

“That’s it,” I thought. “That’s what it looks like.” I’ve seen plenty of people I recognize (or suspect) as being in cancer treatment, but here I was, about to one of them. It was a significant moment and I chose to stand there and try to take it in because even though it was scaring the crap out of me, I was trying to mold the scene and the moment into the foundation I’m trying to build for my recovery.

Once we worked through the “should I or shouldn’t I” scenarios, Dr. Bowler took me to the room I’d seen before and pointed to a chair next to the woman in the blue hat. The fear had evaporated. I knew it was the right place to be. That chair belonged to me.

From there it was as comfortable an experience as the staff could make it. Pillows and blankets warmed to a toasty 120 degrees, lunch and beverages served with a smile by a lovely gentleman who seemed unable to do enough to be helpful, my nurse Kristi with her gentle touch and happy smiles, a pumped “you can do it” fist from Rose, a visit and chat from the oncology social worker Melinda, and periodic check-ins and pats of encouragement from Dr. Bowker.

No pain but hopefully tons of gain.

Given the choice to walk away from chemo, it didn’t seem like the right thing to do. I don’t ever want to wonder or worry that I made a bad decision. I don’t ever want to look back and ask ‘What if,” or “Why didn’t I?”

I don’t want my beautiful daughter to ask those questions about me, I don’t want her to think for one second that I didn’t fight as hard as I could. I want to be here for PJ and Dave, my mother and sister and brother and their families, my extended family, my friends, but most of all, for myself. I’ve got too much living left to do to let this thing get in the way any more than it already has.