The truth is, I'm not excited, I'm actually inundated with fear. Im terrified. I stay up at night wondering what is going on inside my body. I find myself paying close attention to every inhale and every exhale. Was there a difference between this series and the last? Does my cough bring anything up? Am I having trouble breathing? It didn't take long the last time for my disease to catch up to me. And, when it caught up - it caught up good. You know, when I think back to the two major inpatient occurrences I had, the first for about 4 months, and the second for about 3 months, I often forget that even though the first time was more traumatic for my body, it was the second time that had the lasting damage, and effects long after I left the hospital. I had my own oxygen machine for almost a year after I was discharged from The James the last time. So am I excited? my answer is - Im cautiously optimistic.
When I think about being normal, I think it's funny because, this is my new normal. I don't know what its like to not feel this way. I don't know what its like to not have to rely on mass amounts of narcotics to get through the day and night. I don't remember, because its been so long. It'll be interesting to see how I feel in the next month...
My parents are both mixed I think... My dad is happy for me, because he sees this as an opportunity for me to regain more control over my life, and he's just happy I won't have to go through as many procedures and needle sticks. My mom... my mom is scared to death. Scared because last time I went off chemo, this is what I remember...
waking up in my bed, sopping wet because I'd fallen asleep with a gatorade in my hand that spilled on me. My mom standing over me, shaking me, but the room was sort of hazy. She asked me could I sit up? I could barely move because I could barely breathe. I knew something was seriously wrong. The next words out of her mouth were "Ray (my dad), call the squad, he's got to get to the hospital now". I remember within 5 minutes the paramedics and police cars were in front of my house and the squad members were in my house with the gurney sitting outside my room. They picked me up and set me down on it and strapped me in. I remember as I was being taken out of my house, the last thing I saw was my mom and dad feverishly gathering their keys and my sister holding Bruno, his eyes transfixed on me as I lifted a few fingers to wave goodbye. I thought that might be the last time I saw him, and I started to get tears in my eyes because I knew something was terribly wrong.
I saw the sky as I exited my house, it was a beautiful fall day, with the bluest of skies. I made a point of looking at my house, paying no attention to the traffic which had been stopped in one direction, until the doors of the ambulance slammed shut and we drove off, not knowing if it would be the last time I'd see my house.
We pulled into Grandview, and I was greeted by a couple very familiar faces, including Debbie Ruef one of my mom's longtime coworkers and aunt to one of my best friends. We've been great pals over the years and she's always been so kind to me, especially since I've been sick. Debbie told me she was going to have to cut off my shirt, but not to worry because she'd buy me a new one. They had trouble starting my line, but Debbie finally got it. And when she did, with all the people and the commotion that was going on in the room the next thing happened and I can remember this like it happened but five minutes ago, and it haunts me to this very day:
She pulled the needle out of the catheter and disposed of it in the red sharps box and turned back to me. When she turned i lifted my hand and grabbed her wrist and our eyes met, mine filled with tears, and I begged her "Don't let me die today. Please Deb, please save me"
She looked at me and put her hand on my face and said with a frog in her throat "i promise ...we're going to get you up out of here in no time so you can get back to making me laugh" and then she stepped out of my trauma room.
I later found out the reason she stepped out was because she lost her composure and didn't want to cry in front of me, to keep me as calm as possible. And in truth, she kept her promise to me. She and the rest of the people involved in my care that day saved my life.
I've often said I don't know what it feels like to save a life, but I do know how humbling it is to have yours saved.
When I think about what happened when I went off chemotherapy the last time, I think of memories like the one I just shared, because very little good came out of me discontinuing it then. Granted we learned a bit from our mistakes and Im in a different place health wise than I was then...
But still as scared as I am... I'm cautiously optimistic the future will bring good things to me, because to be pessimistic would be no better than throwing a pity party for myself and we all know thats not going to happen ;-)
More updates to follow!
I'm cautiously optimistic too...but, optimistic all the same! Love you :-)
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