The Last Round of Chemotherapy
“What are you going to do now?”
“Go hiking.”
“I just can’t believe I did it.” That’s what I said as I sat down in that gray leather chair for the last time; when it finally hit me. I looked up at the IV pump machine and realized that this was it, the final time I had to do this, the last time that I would have to focus all of my mental energy on getting through treatment. I had made it to the end.
For the last year, although I’ve been hiking nonstop, writing, and going to grad school, 95% of my energy has been being used to get through treatment. That has been my number one focus for the last fourteen months, since my diagnosis. I was laser-focused in a way that I’ve never been focused before in my entire life. Last night, after the last round was administered and the lights were out for the night, I went through my instagram and looked at all of the old stories that I’ve posted, from before I got cancer, and I realized a few things. I realized I used to be so petty and self-centered. I used to care way too much about how I looked and wanting to be physically attractive. And I realized that I was someone before I had cancer, that I had big dreams and big plans pre-cancer. I realized that just because my only focus for the last fourteen months is now gone doesn’t mean I don’t have something else already in the works.
The Last Day
I walked into Dana Farber and checked into the center, like usual. My anxiety was already heightened, but things were only going to get worse in the upcoming hours. The medical assistant came and got me from the waiting room, weighed me and checked my height, and then proceeded to bring me back to one of the exam rooms to meet with my Oncologist. “I’m supposed to be getting my blood drawn.” I said as we walked over to the room, and she said that my paperwork didn’t have that on it. I could feel my anger begin to rise. I had explicitly asked and made sure to have my blood work scheduled for my last appointment six weeks prior, and once again, they had messed up my orders. From day one of going to this facility I’ve had nothing but messed up orders (go back and read my post about my teach session). I informed the medical assistant that I wanted my bloodwork done, and she said she would speak to one of the nurses about it.
In the exam room, I sat and waited. My blood pressure was 30 points higher than normal because I was so amped up and in a way I was glad. This was the final straw for me and I made the decision at that moment to switch Oncologists. The nurse came into the room briefly and informed me that my Oncologist would decide whether or not she would be ordering bloodwork after meeting with me. Forty-five minutes later, I finally got to meet with my doctor.
I informed her that while I was willing to take Tamoxifen, I was concerned about some of the side effects that are associated with taking it. I let her know that, quite frankly, I was planning on looking into getting a second opinion from a different Oncologist that was recommended to me - one that specializes in breast cancer. Interestingly, prior to me making that comment, she seemed pretty disinterested in my concerns about Tamoxifen (uterine cancer, endometrial cancer, and bone loss for example). After making the comment that I was planning on getting a second opinion, she started making a list of the different diagnostic screenings she would be ordering for me in the upcoming months (tests that are recommended on the medical handout that I was given by her in February, tests that they weren’t going to do if I hadn’t brought it up and advocated for it). The appointment ended in a casual conversation about a book that I had recommended she read and we parted ways, me to the infusion room, her to who knows where.
My oncology nurses are the best. They had put up streamers and signs congratulating me on finishing Herceptin inside the cubby where I was getting my treatment. I walked into the little cubby, for the last time, and as I sat in the chair it hit me. A wave of emotions came over me, and I started to cry and said, “I just can’t believe I did it.” I didn’t ever think it would end, I didn’t ever think I could even begin, but I did it. I sat and talked about my experience over the last year with the social worker while I waited for my nurse Tori to come do my blood draw. She was her usual chipper self and I asked for a picture with me and my two nurses, Karen and Tori. I started crying again, but asked for them to take the picture anyway. It didn’t matter, for once I wasn’t embarrassed for crying.
The next two hours passed slowly, for once. I was too anxious and too disoriented to sit still for long, and I would fidget in my chair, sit down and then get back up again, while I waited for Tori to start my chemotherapy. Finally it was time to have my last treatment. Finally it was time to finish this thing. I was ready. I was anxious to get it over with and move on with my life. Ready to move on to the next phase. So it began, like it had 25 times before, “what’s your name and date of birth?” “Rebecca Sperry, 7/24/83.” The checker made sure that I was getting the right dosage, and the machine made its strange cranking noise for thirty of the slowest minutes of my life.
What does it feel like to finish? It feels calm. Like I’m letting out my breath. A weight lifted. Like it’s time to rebuild myself. Time to move forward, and I’m ready right now, I’m ready to be more than the cancer girl. Not to be who I was before, because I can’t be her and I don’t want to, but to be a better version of myself.
It was a detour. It was an unexpected detour. That’s what I called it in August 2020 when I got the call that I had cancer. A detour. But it was a detour that led to a different path, and I’m so far down this new trail, I don’t want to go back to where the road split off. I want to keep going forward on this new path. So that’s what I’m going to do. I have been given a second chance at living this life. My medical bills are upwards of $700,000.00 and when you invest that kind of money into yourself, you better live. You better live the best life you can live.
I am going to live the best life I can live. The unexpected detour led to a place I never would’ve voluntarily gone, but at the end of the hardest trail I’ve ever taken, was the brightest, most brilliant sunrise. I walked out to meet it. I walked out to greet it. This is just the beginning. This is just an extension of the path of my life. This is my life and I’m going to live it.
