What it really meant to finish chemo
“I conquered this moment”. That’s the sign on the wall of the chemo clinic above a big brass bell to represent whatever people need it to represent. Most of the time, the ringing of the bell is about celebrating the last chemo session ... But for me on my last day recently, it felt more like an apology than a party. Like I should have been standing at a private wake rather than a public celebration. There was an applause and cheer from the nurses and even the patients. But I just went back to my hospital chair and cried quietly while I packed up my bag and walked away.
I thought I'd feel elated, excited, proud. I thought I'd be breaking out the Hawaiian shirts and pina coladas and balloons. That the only heaviness I'd feel would be from the world boxing champ belt that I would have otherwise been wearing after going 12 rounds with chemo. But the heaviness was on my heart (and my backside from the weight I've put on in the last few months).
I did feel proud that I had come through all of this (relatively) in one piece, but I realised it was much more than finishing chemo. 'This' was really about the last six months since diagnosis when my world decided to flip on its own axis. I was also just unsurprised by it all... Did I ever give myself permission NOT to get through it? Was there ever any other choice I offered myself? Well, yes there was. I could have put on the pink boxing gloves and taken this all on as a fight. I could have pushed back in denial. I could have allowed myself to become victim to my anxiety about all the things that could go wrong.
But I didn't. I surrendered to it all with the perspective of treatment, not toxins. I surrendered to the facts like I would lose my hair and that I would have some really crappy days. What I also did was trust. I trusted that there were medical experts who deal with people like me every single day.
I also trusted myself. I have come to realise the hard way that the strongest and most reliable friend I had in all of this was me. And when I say me, I really mean my mind. The messages I tell myself. The choices I make for myself. The decisions I commit to that are about looking after me. Sometimes those decisions and choices have been to shut out the noise of the "should" list and instead spend a morning in my linen cupboard throwing everything on the floor and creating a new colour-coordinated Tower of Towels. And sheets. And cushion covers. And crap I didn't even know was in there (And who can really make those damn fitted sheets have square edges!?). Sometimes it's not answering a phone call because I'm simply too tired/brain-fried/wired to try and string two words together.
I couldn't tell you what I've done in the last six months. Sometimes it feels like its been one continuous day. People keep asking me though so I've started to think a bit more about a better way to answer it other than coordinating linen cupboards and binge watching house renovation TV shows.
What I've done is lived. And the last six months is really just a snap shot in time of a life. A life that could belong to anyone. I've done whatever I've had to do to survive. And I don't mean from a life/death perspective (even though it's in the context of a life-threatening disease). I mean to survive each day by nurturing myself enough or asking for help enough to know I can get up the next day.
I have grieved so many things - lost plans, lost opportunities, lost choices, lost identity, and lost confidence.
I have persevered with love and compassion in the face of bitter brutal disappointment from people closest to me who were never supposed to know how to deliver such blows.
I have suffered pain, fear, hurt, anxiety, sadness, grief, anger.
I have surrendered, fallen over, laid down naked, and not gotten up.
But I've also received with absolute clarity the gifts of trust. Of kindness. Forgiveness. Openness. Vulnerability. Hope. Love. Laughter. Courage.
I have honoured myself, my life, and the choices I’ve made.
I have embraced all the unknowns and all the choices I still have in front of me.
I have heard quiet for the first time in a long time.
I have given myself permission to shred the Should list(s) and replace them with Today I think I feel like...lists.
And above all else I have evolved. I have changed. Pain had gifted me that.
