Nine months. The time of a pregnancy. The time of a school year. The time, for me, from diagnosis to the end of my third stage of treatment for breast cancer.
Chemotherapy. Double Mastectomy. Radiation. Check. Check. Check.
And part of me. As I write this. Part of me is still bewildered.
What on earth just happened?
I’ve used this analogy before, but truly, I feel as though I was just stuck in a car wash for the last 9 months. I got on the tracks on September 4th. The same day I went to my sorority Big Sis’ reception following an unscheduled mammogram.
And the doors opened on June 1st. When I completed my last day of radiation.
It was a day. A wonderfully full day. A day that started with treatment at 7:45.
I took cookies that I special-ordered from Sugar Chic Designs.
And I got to give hugs to some of my faves before I departed.
And then, I saw the doc for a quick checkaroo.
And rang. The. Bell.
I’ll never look at a bell the same. After ringing the chemo bell. After ringing the radiation bell. A bell will forever symbolize freedom to me. But in a very personal way. I fought to ring those bells. And I was lucky and blessed to survive to ring those bells.
And then, I sat down with my friend, Jenny.
She is the “behind the scenes gal”. The one from NE Med that called me up 9 months ago and said, “would you like to share your story?” And I was shocked.
Why on earth would I be interesting? Oh yes. Because like so many of my new friends, I was a 33 year old, healthy, mother of young kids, who had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Because I have cancer.
And so I said yes. And Jenny gave me such a gift. She allowed me the opportunity to find joy and share it. She allowed me to reach and be reached by others who shared my situation. She became my friend, there with me at chemo, at my last chemo, at my Bonboobvage Party, one of the last people I saw before I was wheeled back for my double mastectomy, and so many other moments. Jenny has been a critical part of my “team”.
So she joined me for my last day of rads and when she asked for 5 minutes following, I, of course, said yes. Because she’s given me this gift of chronicling my treatment and so I have told her, I will say yes to whatever it is she would like.
And she said, “So. You’re done! Tell me what you are feeling right now…”
And after several weeks of not shedding a tear, I wept. I could feel my lips quivering. My nose running. My tears dribbling down my face. All I could think in my head was
And now we are here.
What does that even mean? I don’t even know if I knew what that meant. But I knew that being done with rads means we’re over the biggest of the present hurdles. It means I will, indeed, undergo a fecal transplant next week. It means I will continue to burn over the next couple of weeks and then the radiated skin will start to heal. It means I will get Mr. Lefty filled to equal Mr. Righty. It means I will still have my port to receive Herceptin infusions every three weeks until Fall. It means I will have check-ins with my Onc every three months-ish. Check-ins with my plastics crew. Echos every 3 months through Herceptin. It means that when Herceptin is complete, I will have reconstruction and my port removed. And that after that, I will go on either Tamoxifen or and Aromatase Inhibitor to block hormones and I will take them daily for 10 years.
But mostly, for me, being done with rads symbolizes a huge milestone. Of being finished with yet another giant piece of treatment.
And so. It feels a little like I am coming off the tracks now. That I am seeing the sun almost daily now. Now that the doors aren’t blocking it. In fact, after I got through my last round of c. Diff, I’ve felt so much more energy and zest.
We celebrated. On Wednesday. We celebrated. The fab 5. Adam was so sweet to take the whole day off to spend it with us. We went to breakfast at Harold’s Koffee House based on a suggestion from Omaha.com’s very own, Sarah Baker Hansen, and experienced their delicious homemade donuts and biscuits and gravy.
We walked and enjoyed the shaded but beautifully scenic Fontenelle Forest. It was the perfect day to breathe the air. To feel alive. But mama needs to stay out of the sun.
We ran over to 24th St to grab Jacobo’s Authentic Mexican to serve for our evening meal. We hopped over to Dundee and I perused the frocks at Hello Holiday and Scout while the boys all enjoyed eCreamery. And then, we did one last pre-nap stop at Von Maur where I snapped up the dress I’d been searching for to don with my boots for this weekend’s Cattlemen’s Ball.
After nap, a few of our best friend families joined us for beer, enchiladas, chips, salsa, and festivities.
They all asked me how it felt… To be done. And each time, I thought,
And then we were here.
Because it has seemed like we were climbing a mountain. And with every step, I felt like I was sort of climbing blindly. Letting faith, doctors, medicine, friends, and family, tell me the right “next hold” and then all of the sudden… It was here. The last week of rads. The last three days. The last two. The last one.
And now. Now I get to be me for a little bit. The new me who will never be the girl again who didn’t have cancer. Because I’ve been there, done that, have the tshirt. I’ve gotten to be an advocate. I’ve made so many friends along the way. And my perspective… On most things… is forever changed. My faith is stronger. My love for my husband, my boys, my family, and my friends is different. My belief in people is greater. And my confidence in goodness is unflappable.
We had ourselves a full day of celebration.
And then we were here.
After my friends left, I hopped on Facebook, and saw a video that Jenny had made of my morning remarks. Of my cry-fest. And I cried again. Because I knew what the answer to my question was. My question of
What on earth just happened?
Simply put. I lived.
I got through the carwash. And I got to see the sun again. I climbed the mountain and made it back down. I get to live.
And for all we know right now, I will get to continue doing so for awhile. I get a second chance, a do-over, a Groundhog’s Day view at a very young age. I just did cancer. And I got to get through it. I got to have one that was treatable. Curable. I got to have an end in sight that means getting to live. And while there’s a whole lot that I’ll have to do because of that… For now, it feels like we can all stop gasping for air for a bit.
And then, we were here.
Living.
Survivor.
And thriver.
