🎶 Tomorrow will likely be a million and six times better 🎶

Snuggles solve everything

Today was supposed to be my last day of chemo.

It’s been a rough week.

I started out the week giddy with excitement that by Friday I’d be able to say there was only one round of chemo between me and the bell. But on Tuesday my levels hit their lowest point yet and, after a small increase Wednesday, they dropped again today — but not enough that I technically need or qualify for a second injection. So now I wait with bated breath to see what my blood tells the team tomorrow, willing my white blood cells to hang in there for a few more hours.

Pretty please?

In the marathon that’s been chemo, I’m in the last five k. My muscles are tired. My resources depleted. No amount of water I drink seems to make a difference. There is sweat in my eyes, my clothes are chaffing, I’ve passed the last aid station. I can feel every one of the past 23 miles — each stacked one on top of another — in my bones, my feet, my soul.

The wheels are starting to come off.

The fatigue this week has been harder than almost any week yet. I can’t sleep enough. Waking after nine hours of sleep I struggle to keep my eyes open. My focus? Non-existent.

I’ve been obsessing about ringing the bell. Every ache, every low level feels like a threat, an obstacle clouding my view of the end of the tunnel. When I stand up too fast and get dizzy I fight back tears springing from fear the judges may move the finish line.

I need to cross that line.

Now that I’m so close to it all I can think about is closing this chapter, opening the next and living a fuller life — although not full just yet as this book is only a quarter of the way finished. And I wonder if it will ever have an end?

I’ll never close the book on cancer. Cancer, even if irradicated from my physical body, will always be a part of me. I will always be a person who has had cancer, who has an increased risk of getting cancer, who plays constant goalie against the return of broken cells.

I wonder how long cancer will steal precious moments from me. Taking my mind off the joyful path to remind me how fragile it all is, that being alive is a gift that I’m not guaranteed. But who is?

I’ve practiced mindfulness and gratitude for many years now and am teaching my kids to do the same. I’m endlessly grateful for the beautiful life I’ve had up until now, but I’m also filled with greed for more. I think it’s why I’ve been so successful thus far with my treatments. I am wildly competitive and will get what I want.

And what I want is more.

More time with my kids. More time watching them learn, grow, and come into their own. More life with Justin. Being parents together is amazing and I love it, but I want more time with my best friend, exploring the world and ourselves as we continue to evolve and shift through the phases of life together, side by side. More days with nothing to do but feel the sand in my toes. More miles run soaking in sunshine and freeing my mind. More writing. More learning. More hours working hard in pursuit of worthy causes. More talks with my dad by the backyard fireplace. More watching the kids make priceless memories baking and playing with my mom. More time spent fostering love.

So I’m practicing 8-2-12 breathing to keep the anxiety at bay and center myself. I’m grabbing a towel and a Gatorade and getting back on the field.

I’m thinking about my life after this and the 98 percent of it that won’t be cancer. Of the return of my hair, my energy, my fingernails. Of blending into a crowd rather than attracting gaping stares, looks of concern, and horrified reactions from (some) children. Of family vacations, dining out, running, concerts, the freedom to go out and live!

I’m thinking about a new perspective, a badge of honor I get to wear and to proudly say: I fought for my life and I won. What the hell could life throw at me now that I can’t take? (OK but maybe please don’t throw anything else??)

The fight is not over. The war is not one. But I am ready to claim victory of this battle.