I am sitting at Cedars Sinai in Los Angeles undergoing my last chemotherapy treatment. It's been a long five months of six rounds of chemo and the ass-kicking that goes along with it.
But here I am. Hours away from being done.
I remember breaking down before my first treatment, sitting with the Filmmaker at his place, unable to pull myself together because of how daunting and scary and big it all seemed. I couldn't figure out how I was going to get through it.
And here I am. Almost through.
It hasn't been easy. Besides all the emotional crap that has gone on over the past five months, the physical toll has been tough. No energy, no focus, neuropathy in my feet, shakes in my hands. Constant nausea. No taste for anything. Depression, anxiety, panic attacks. And actually, comparatively, my side effects have been on the lower end. But for someone like me, it's been crippling.
But marking this milestone means putting so much behind me. And maybe putting some of the emotional trauma of the past few months behind me as well.
Now I get to "rest" for a month or so as I prepare for six weeks of radiation - every day, five days a week. However, should be easier on my body.
The tough thing is that the fatigue and effects can last for months and maybe a year after I'm done. So while this step is behind me, it's not over by a long shot.
But it's done.
It's a mixed bag of emotions. I'm happy to put it behind me but as the facilitator in my treatment support group explained, these milestones can make you realize what you've been through and that can be overwhelming. We sometimes don't look at what we're going through until we're done. And then the breakdown comes.
And I'm not in breakdown but I am overcome with emotion. Sad and mourning for all the things I've lost through this, both tangible and intangible. Frustrated that there's more I have to go through and that these effects are going to be around for awhile.
But also incredibly grateful.
My medical team has been amazing, from my Hello, Kitty surgeons to my wise and soft-spoken oncologist to all the funny, delightful nurses and Disney princess physical therapist.
My friends who have gone above and beyond. Who drive me everywhere. Who feed me and entertain me. Who let me cry and scream and just be me. Who have reached out to the community at large for me to help me pay my bills and stay in my apartment and just survive. There aren't words.
And the Filmmaker. While I don't know where we'll go from here, if we'll get to friends or just fade from each other's lives, he was there when I needed someone the most. Made me feel beautiful at the lowest points and gave me comfort in ways I'm sure he wasn't even aware of. He gave me almost a year of passion and joy and gentleness and so many other things. I won't forget a day of it and I can't even express how much those days meant to me.
And grateful to just be here. My dad taught me that. Grateful for today, whatever it brings. It's hard to get there some days, when things suck and you feel like shit and everything seems to be crumbling around you.
But it hits me at times when people call me brave and inspiring because I'm going through chemo and I'm not afraid to show off my bald head. But in those moments, I want to ask them what they think the other choice is. Don't go through treatment and eventually die a horrible lingering death? Um, no, thanks. This is not brave, what I'm doing. It's life. It's survival. You would do exactly the same thing. And you'd be grateful you get to have today and have a future where you won't have to go through this again (fingers crossed).
So I sit here, hydration and goodies going through my system to help counter-balance the drugs from yesterday and I know I won't have to be here again.
And I will celebrate quietly tonight, maybe go to a drawing event near my place, and just revel in the life I get to live, cancer or not.
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