Sometimes You Want to Go Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Oh, I'm freezing all the time now. I can't believe how quickly and completely the weather has turned and I'm hoping it will turn back for a few weeks before it's cold for good. I will try to give you a quick update on my final treatment as I shiver at my computer terminal. Brrrr!
After 27 weeks of treatment, a few off weeks because of illness--spanning spring, summer, and into fall--treatments are finally done. For my last treatment day, the first day of this super cool weather, Justine Powell made the sacrifice of getting a substitute for her swimming classes so she could accompany me. My mother-in-law and Ron watched Tadman, and entertained my younger kids who were out of school for state teacher inservice days. Justine has been the best of friends to me from the beginning of diagnosis. She has been the organizer of meals and cleaning, Tadman's swimming teacher, a nutrition consultant, and a shoulder to cry on when I was at my low point after the Adria treatments, so it was fitting that she'd be with me at the conclusion of phase one.
Thursday morning started off like most treatment days. I showered and was out of the house before anyone but Greg and Tadman were up. Justine picked me up and had me there by 8:30, and after checking in we worked on the puzzle as usual while waiting to be called. The kind nurse from last blog, Hope, accessed my port and drew my blood, then Justine and I were almost immediately called back to see Dr. Montgomery. After weight, blood pressure, pulse, and oxygen saturation were recorded, Dr. Montgomery came in the room and dropped a gown on my lap and told me to put it on because he'd be examining me today. When I asked him how the gown worked he said, "I don't know but you better figure it out because you're going to be wearing those all the time for radiation." Then he left and I figured it out by myself. When he came back in and examined me he wasn't satisfied with the exam as a good source of information, so he concluded I should go to the hospital and have a CT scan so we could see the results of the chemo. So quickly arrangements were made for the test at Saint Luke's and I went to the chemo suite to have my port reaccessed with a different kind of needle that could be injected with an iodine contrast solution for the CT scan.
I must express that my absolute least favorite part of cancer treatment has been the diagnostic testing. Never have I felt more alone, more uncertain, and more nervous than I have during these tests. Most of the time it's just me and the technician who's performing the test. Usually the technician is young, healthy, and has never gone through the tests he's putting me through, so it's a very business-like and efficient transaction. The technician has to tell you the side effects of these tests, and the things that could go wrong, but when you ask questions he seems surprised that the fact that people have been known to go into shock because of an allergic reaction to the iodine solution has you a little nervous. Luckily I wasn't allergic to the solution, so other than a weird, warm sensation trickling through my innards, everything went as expected and I was back at Dr. Montgomery's office waiting for results.
Then Dr. Montgomery was back, the results of the day's scan were back, and the original Pet Scan results were pulled up. Dr. Montgomery was able to do "show and tell" which he was excited about--it's so much better than just tell, he said--and I was able to see that through the modern miracle of chemotherapy (YUCK!) the big tumor appeared to be completely gone, and a smaller tumor was reduced in size and much less sharp around the edges. The doctor seemed very pleased with these results, and in celebration forgot to place my chemo orders for my final treatment!
When I finally made it to the chemo suite, I chose one of the cool new beds that sits up like a chair, splurged with mashed potatoes at lunch in spite of the carbohydrates, and waited for treatment while my nurse, Allison tried to get the doctor's orders for chemo. When the orders finally came, I had only a baby sized bag of Taxol to injest, so Justine and I ended up getting out of treatment about the same time as usual even with the CT scan. The nurses and other staff had all signed a kind of graduation certificate for me, I got a few hugs and well wishes, and then Justine and I celebrated the right way with a Boston Shake from Fanci Freeze.
What I didn't expect was how hard this week was going to be for me. I am actually mourning the end of treatments! I have really enjoyed being down there all these weeks, having a friend spend the day with me, and being pampered and treated well by the best nurses anywhere. My mom and sister have been at my house 3 times a week, great meals have been provided, dozens of cards of support were sent by my water aerobics class, and now all of a sudden it's dark and freezing, I've told everyone laundry and meals aren't necessary, the cards have quit coming, and I'm feeling isolated and forlorn. Having Tadman to take care of is saving me from wallowing in self pity and loneliness. And it isn't helping to have surgery looming on the cold and bleak horizon. I know, it's a little crazy to be sad I am done with chemo, but kind of like Norm in the old series "Cheers", sometimes I want to go where everybody knows my name, and they're always glad I came, and there are people there who's troubles are all the same. There's a camraderie in being with other people who have cancer even if they aren't really even friends of mine. Understand?
Since treatment day I've sat through 3 freezing cold football games--all wins for my side, Centennial JV, Varsity, and BSU. I've eaten a few bowls of hot soup, watched 3of 4 sessions of General Conference, and spent extra time with my kids since they had time off of school.
I say thank you to all my friends every time I write in this blog, but I am more appreciative than ever this week. Now that my constant supply of support has been severed for a time, I recognize more than ever how much of a difference you've really made. I've figured out it's not the meals, it's not the laundry that makes so much of a difference. It's knowing that I'm loved, I'm thought of often, and that I matter to a lot of people. Thank you for showing me through your acts of service and kindness that I matter. And if any of you need help during this break between treatment and surgery, you'd be doing me a great favor to ask help of me. I need to get my mind off negative, sad thoughts and instead count all the blessings I have. I sincerely thank you all for countless acts of kindness and look forward to being healthy so I return them many times over to each of you.
From here I have one more test scheduled, an MRI, for a week from Wednesday, and then surgery on October 22 at 7:30. I can't say I'm excited, but with the support and prayers of family and friends it'll all be behind me soon. I'll write again when I get the results of the MRI. Another diagnostic test! Yes!