Fighting the Tide

 There are times when things seem to go our way, when the energy flows, good things, come, and we feel as though we are being taken by the hand through the universe with kind admiration and support.  Good days.  Found a parking space, no line for coffee, someone brought donuts kind of days.

And then there are those days where the universe seems set to destroy us, or at the least our spirits.  Everything seems to be aimed at obstruction and we struggle with simple tasks.  Step-in-a-puddle days.  Days where it feels like you are the fly and life is the windshield.

We seem to regularly need reminders to be patient during the dark times, but we fly through the good times, bouncing from one morsel of goods news to the other as though there is no end in sight.

The hard but valuable thing is to remember that we are just grains of sand along a vast beach.  The tide comes in and then ebbs, leaving us.  But no matter how long the tide's absence feels, it is always temporary, it always returns to bathe us in its salty fresh water.  

 

i think that is one of the great benefits of time...after years of living through these ebbs and flows of life's fortunes, you learn how temporary each state is, how inevitable each next phase is.  

Port Day

 Next Friday I will have my chemo port removed. 
For those not in the know, this is a big milestone; the chemo port was surgically implanted to help protect my veins from the chemotherapy drugs, and was the site of so many saline flushes, painful sticks, and colorful bandaids.  Because it was difficult to place and is a easy to remove, the protocol for taking it out means it's another step closer to achieving 'cured' status.

It has been 16 months and a few weeks since my initial diagnosis, 15 months since the port was implanted and I began chemotherapy, and 13 months since I had my first clean PET scan.

I hated my port when it was implanted.  It was the last of a series of quickly scheduled surgeries, procedures, and scans.  The previous surgery, performed by Dr. Natasha Bir, had been a surgical biopsy of my lymph node to diagnose the cancer I knew was there.  She was patient, kind, and relatable.  She talked to me about my cancer and how treatment would affect me as a person, a mother, someone who planned to work full time through treatment.  Her incision was clean and healed to the tiniest scar.  I trusted her.

The surgeon who placed my port was new.  He said he could tell by the sun damage on my chest where to place the port, so I ended up having to wear low cut tops to every chemo appointment.  The scar, perhaps inevitably, was larger, more obvious and more visible to the world.  I hate that scar.  

I hated my port.  It was sore for months, and August would accidentally kick it regularly when we played, making me feel like 'sick mommy' more than ever.  My seat belt irritated it, and the generously provided port pillows were kind but made me feel ridiculous.  It was a visible outward expression of my internal illness.  I have been waiting for the day it is removed since it was first implanted.

And now that day is coming, and it feel anti-climactic.  The new daily reminder of my illness is this awkward haircut that refuses to grow out, and my port no longer aches, is no longer irritated by my seat belt or painful when kicked by August.  I sometimes even forget about the scar, and wonder what new scar the removal will leave.

I wonder when I will get my hair back, if I will ever feel the same as I did back on February 1st, when I excitedly made an appointment for a physical as an early 40th birthday present to myself.  

I wonder if  "Stage 3-B Hodgkin's Lymphoma" will ever feel like a real diagnosis, or if I will ever feel like I have truly beaten this thing.  I wonder what will come next, now that my body has been through some of the most rigorous drugs on the market.  

And I want to celebrate this port removal, like I wanted to celebrate shaving my head.  But I am afraid to celebrate it, afraid I am asking for too much, afriad it will turn out odd because it is still so near the surface (like the port!), the vulnerability around being sick, getting better, trying to define this new cancer survivor self that I am.

Which is all a very long way of asking, would you like to go out for cocktails and appetizers after my port removal?