Rnd 6: the last

Back in the seat where I began.

   The journey may not be completely over, but the mountain is down, the dust has been cleared, and the road has been built back over it with reinforced steel plates, and I couldn’t have done it without the love, kindness, and support of so many wonderful people rallying around me and my family.  From meals that came with friendly and reassuring smiles, to snow being cleared (even the night after the blizzard), wonderful get well cards, to an outpouring of gifts and cards, it’s been truly amazing, and I know I am blessed.  There is no way I could ever express the gratitude and humility of this experience.
   The chemo nurses were amazing throughout as well.  It can’t always be easy, but they were consistently friendly and compassionate.  There was no physical bell to ring like I’ve seen on Facebook pages, but there was still a ringing peel as the nurses who had worked to heal me surrounded me for a picture, giving me a signed mug and wrapping me in a quilt as my Jedi robes, knowing how Rebekah had helped surround me in my beloved Star Wars to give me strength and focus.
   It’s so true that the road was so dark and unclear, cast in the shadow of Mt. Lymphoma, and in November, the end of treatment was too far away to believe it was even there through the gloom, but that’s when torches were lit and hands were held out to Rebekah—who has unwaveringly been at my side for every part of this trial, through every appointment and chemo—and me to pull us along.  And now the last round has been completed and the final cycle begins, the cycle that ends with a renewal of life rather than a return to the chemo day room.
   Of course, the fight for me isn’t over as now comes the unknown.  This has been an arduous, terrifying ordeal, and now the horrifying safety net of chemo is gone to leave worry of relapse in its wake.  My oncologist is confident we got it early and hit it hard and that it will not relapse, even throwing out terms like “cured,”  but this trauma has been too great to not have left some scars beyond the physical.  But it left my eyes and heart open as well.  Healing, though, will take time.

   So, to return to the more concrete, at this moment, I am doing well.  I think I surprised my oncology team with how well I’ve done and handled it—the first questions asked each time were if I’d been sick or been to the hospital.  RCHOP is a strong chemo regiment to go through. The day of chemo through the five days of prednisone, I take so many pills, it makes me cringe, but it’s about trying to balance a body that’s thrown completely spinning.
   My hair, at this moment, is still there.  It sheds a little with each shower, so it still remains to be seen if it’ll see the finish line. It’s unusual that it started coming back in the midst, so no one has any advice.  My vanity would like it to stick around to get a head start on regrowth, which will begin in earnest in 3-6 weeks.
   So far, for this final round, the hiccups are being kept at bay.  I took the baclofen before the first sign, and I’ve stayed on it regularly throughout.  The prednisone still has me buzzing, though.  And I’m frustrated to have gained 12 pounds throughout this.  I started at a good weight, hard fought and maintained since starting on the bike, and now part of healing means regaining fitness.  The bloating and grossness brought on by the prednisone and other steroids hasn’t helped since the water retention adds an additional five pounds until they flush from my system.
   So, next Wednesday is my nadir visit followed by the PET/CT scan the following Friday, 4/19.  After that is the reviewing of scan results the next Thursday with Dr. Barnett who is incredibly positive that it will be clean.  I’m hoping to get the Powerport scheduled for removal for April 26 so the healing can truly begin.
   And now for the removing of the last Neulasta Tide Pod of Bone Pain:

#blowingupmtlymphoma