Part 11: Going on a Bear Hunt, Chemo 4
Preparing for my fist chemo of the New Year, I was holding a hot water bottle in the crook of my arm, warming up my veins so they would be easier to access. The kids were upstairs getting dressed for school, and Bruce was pottering around the kitchen. I was struggling inside to hold it together, and then I couldn’t suppress it any longer, and I blurted out, “I want to get off this train now,” and burst into tears. Chemo 4 was Just. Plain. Hard.
I wanted to be done. Everyone around me said I was doing a good job, but I don’t think I let show how much fortitude and resilience it took me to make it through each round. I was worn down, and the end still seemed far away.
Chemo day was hard. I felt pinned to that chair by the f*ing I.V. that I wanted to rip out of my arm and storm out of there. I was restless and angry at the world, irrational, and really, really pissed off. The days that followed were also difficult. I went into the office on Monday for a meeting and sat there, realizing I’d made the wrong decision. Normally, work was a good distraction for me, something to focus on when I felt poorly. But this time I went home and stayed home for the rest of the week.
I did not physically withstand chemo four nearly as well as all the others. I was so weak the day after chemo that I didn’t get off the sofa, and I broke my fast early, at four days, instead of waiting until the next morning. I wondered if that was the power of the mind because, as far as I can tell, the only thing different was that I was not in a good place in my head. My lovely husband, however, had an alternative theory. He said I had poisoned myself with margaritas over the Christmas break, so I was suffering the effects of detoxing. Hmmph.
I Facetimed my brother and told him that I had an ambition to live for 20 more years. Statistically, this was far, far outliving what my diagnosis predicted, and I felt like it was setting a high bar that would allow me to raise the kids and get them started on their way to adulthood — in 20 years they would be 26 and 32. I thought it was a stretch goal and worried that people would see me as naïve or trying to “positive think” my way out of cancer. But when I shared this goal with my brother, he looked confused — furrowed his brow — he almost seemed a bit like I’d offended him. Then he said, “But why not 30 years?” To me, 20 felt like a roll of the dice, so 30 wasn’t much different. They were both just a shot in the dark. I said, “Okay, fine. Let’s go with 30. Why not.”
The following weekend, I was speaking to a friend on the phone and told her I wanted this exhausting chemo treatment to be over already. She said to me in a lilting, sing-song voice: “You can’t go under it, you can’t go around it, and you can’t go over it… you’re just going to have to go through it!” I knew she was right. To convince myself of her words, I texted another friend, “I can’t go under it, I can’t go around it, I can’t go over it… I’m just going to have to go through it.” She replied, “So true. Bears have never fazed you, that’s for sure.”
I tried to absorb the strength my family and friends were giving me, but nothing worked. I was consumed with what I could have done to prevent all this. It was torture. I tried to compartmentalise, to put it behind me or to forgive myself. Any one of those three would have been fine but it was too hard. My regrets were too painful. I kept coming back to the devastating conclusion that I had failed my children on the one thing — THE ONE THING — that matters most. I was too caught up with the paperbags underfoot and I had failed to see what was important. I was heartbroken.
