In a way, today is a musing-less day. Not that I didn’t have my fair share of head scratching debacles this past week;
Someone pulled the every so cowardly hit and run to my beautiful car.
I had a Pheobe Buffay moment as I battled with the non-stop chirping of the fire alarm in my condo.
I practically blinded Gracie Rae with sun screen because I felt keeping her skin burn free was worth losing her sight over.
My computer decided to go on strike… so today truly almost was musing-less!
Yet, even with life giving me plenty of material to work with, my focus hasn’t been deterred from the fact that… today is my last official sit in the big chemo chair.
I’ve spent the past six weeks writing copious amounts of thank you letters for hospital staff and baking gratitude cupcakes, delivering them all bit by bit because as it turns out, each and every thank you and good-bye has been a powerful healing moment steeped in emotion that is overwhelming. There’s a unique bond that is formed when you are cared for and I have a profound appreciation for this staff who understands exactly what I’m going through without even having to articulate it; this journey has been far more intimate than I anticipated. Since this is clearly a mountain I’ve needed to climb, I couldn’t have been given better Sherpa’s than the staff in the chemo suite at the Juravinski Cancer Centre.
Oncology and Cardiology remain stuck with me for another leg of the journey, but there’ll be no more bags of medication being pumped into my bionic chest, no more kibitzing with the ladies who painstakingly make the schedules, volunteers, orderly’s, or nurses and shoes that never made the cut to visit the chemo suite will be given other adventures to walk me through. These visits have been my full time job and my life for 19 months. And today it is… done.
This journey is a paradox of emotions because for every feeling I’ve experience I feel the complete opposite at the same time. Simultaneously I’ve felt broken and strong, cowardly and brave, grief and delight, dejected and joyous, alone and loved, and now I feel excited and panicked. Knowing this is celebration worthy on one hand, but on the other, anxious about no longer having the security of lethal medication being pumped into me to keep the cancer at bay, or relishing the sense of community being surrounded by my fellow cancer slayers.
I thought the most challenging life transition I’d been given happened when I received the cancer call, but as it turns out, moving forward past treatment is the most daunting. Even if my life appears to be heading back to some form of normal, I’m a completely different person doing it, and getting to know the new me is a whole new journey.
This has been the most challenging, excruciating, yet rewarding experience of my life and I look forward to discovering the lessons I am sure will pour out of this adventure. I’m overflowing with gratitude. Bring on the final chair sit.
So much for this being musing-less!