And Then, All At Once. . .

It's been a big week for this super hero cell.

On Monday, I went to the chemo barn for the last time to receive my last treatment of Herceptin.

(Did you think I was already done with the chemo barn? No, I've been going every three weeks for this medicine. I wrote about it on my other blog in great detail. Suffice it to say here that it takes 30 minutes to receive through the port that was surgically implanted in my chest last year. And there are no side effects.)

A year ago, I would have predicted that I'd greet a day of "last treatment" with smiles and cheers and my arms pumped up in a Rocky pose. I'm done, right? Victorious, right?

But, oh, the weeping! As the appointment approached. During the appointment. After the needle came out for the last time following the infusion. As I hugged the nurse, Shannon, who had been there since the middle of chemotherapy.

Lots of tears.

Sometimes, I'm good at identifying my own feelings. This time, I knew there was a big portion of joy, a big portion of relief, and a big portion of gratitude. These things make us cry.

But there was something else that was a little sick in my heart, too. What was it?. . .

After the infusion, my friend (who'd accompanied me) and I went to Starbucks and celebrated with tall mocha frappucinos. (Does "tall" mean the biggest size there? I think they have a different term for it. But we had the biggest size there. Bought for 2 bucks apiece, no less, because the guy at the register wanted to celebrate along with us!)

Monday night was sleepless. This was partly because of the really big mocha consumed at 4:30 PM. But it was also because I'd detected a lump along my scar line, right where the tumor had been, and it was painful and tender to the touch.

I was going to an appointment with the surgeon the next morning to make arrangements for the port to be taken out, so I knew I would ask him about it.

All that night, I tried to think of how I would be able to tell my parents that the cancer was back. How could I tell my sisters and brother? How could I make all the phone calls that I'd made the first time around? I played out 60 different conversations in my head.

Caffeine + a Lump = a bad combination

I prayed that night for a decisive answer the next day: If this is cancer again, or if there is something in my body to be found, then let the doctor be concerned enough to tell me to talk to my oncologist or get a scan or something.

But if this is nothing to be concerned about, then let that be clearly explained and then let this be the last night I ever wonder whether I have breast cancer. This is why we took aggressive measures, after all, to do all we humanly could to guard against future breast cancer. I want to live in that peace and not doubt it.

Here is the good news: the fact that it is painful and tender means that it's not cancer, it is instead scar tissue and chest nerves trying to reconnect. Cancer doesn't feel like anything. (Which is how a tumor could grow to, say, 9 cm without my being able to feel it internally.)

All the anxiety helped me to understand something about my emotion of this week. There is a bit of grief in saying good-bye to "being a cancer patient." It's been my project for 14 months. It's been the thing I've done and studied and written about and concentrated on. And now it's not.

There is an emptiness.

I realized during those 60 mental conversations that there is something comforting in relating to people in this way. Comforting only, I think, because I've been doing it for 14 months.

But I'm not that cancer patient anymore. I have the "Congratulations!" certificate from the chemo barn nurses to prove it.

***
The surgeon I saw on Tuesday is not our guy, Mayfield, who was deployed to Iraq at the end of May. Mayfield was not supposed to leave until August, but the Army moved the date up on him, causing him to cancel his 9 day vacation to Germany he'd planned with his wife. Further evidence that the military, at times, goes out of its way to make its best people hate it. . .

Had he left in August, he'd have been able to remove my port in the nick of time. But he selected a surgeon for me--even while getting his own affairs in order in the hurry of shipping out with no warning--and briefed this doctor on what needed to be done.

What needed to be done?

Amy needed to be permitted to keep her port. And the replacement surgeon he selected was a guy who, Mayfield surmised, would be willing to do what needed to be done.

(It's not really, ahem, protocol, to permit patients to do this. I was told.)

I won't advertise the name of the surgeon, lest any trouble befall him. And I have another post to write that details my time spent in his care.

Right now, I am going to skip to the part where he said, "Are you free tomorrow?" and I said "Yes," and he scheduled me for the port removal on Wednesday, whereas I'd been expecting to wait another 2 or 3 weeks before getting onto his calender.

So. Last Herceptin on Monday. Appointment with Dr. Replacement on Tuesday. Port removal on Wednesday.

As Bryan drove me to the removal appointment, I still felt that sadness I described. I told him about it, and figured out loud that it would just take a couple weeks, maybe a couple months to get over it.

I did the procedure, some details to follow later, and walked out of the office holding a bag which was holding my port. I was smiling. That sense of grief and emptiness was gone.

I hugged Bryan and the kids in the waiting room. And then, all at once, I was done.