Let the wild rumpus start

Published by pam on Wed, 04/04/2012 - 7:21pm


Today I meet with the oncologist.  It think we will be finalizing a chemo plan.  I say I think because I've gotten to the edge of this cliff before only to have been pulled back at the last minute.


I can't believe how anxious I am to get started.  Last time I'm met with him, I watched the hatted people toddle off for blood draws, chat with their partners, drink their (many) bottles of water, and I was jealous.  They didn't look as ashen as I remembered them,  they didn't look sad.  And compared to me, their lives seemed down right simple.  They were fighting their diseases,  head on.  But not me.  I was still in the process of preparing to fight.  And those preparations seemed to go on and on. And on.


But the kidney is gone.  The tumor is no longer a threat, and as far as I know, this will be my last meeting before treatment starts.  


I used to bristle at that word.  Treatment?  You've got to be kidding.  Treatment is something you do to a scrape knee.  It involves Neosporin and band aids.  Here, let me treat that with a little antibacterial ointment before you cover it up.  Treatment is a nice word.  Like camisole or pie.   


Cancer cells don't die easily.  They don't get treated, they get murdered.  The process is vicious.  It's like an exorcism.  Every cell must be purged or the devil will find a way to rise again.


I was scared.  Terrified.  I thought chemo would poison my body and I would never be the same.  And while, on some level, that is true, I also know that the drugs we have today for breast cancer are nothing short of miraculous.  If I had been diagnosed twenty years ago,  my odds of cure (not short term survival, but cure) would be slim.  Now there are drugs that understand the monster inside me.  It is a hungry beast and it will no doubt devour what it is about to be fed.  So I am not afraid.  I want a date, a time, a plan to get started.  I'm ready.


Bring it on.  It's time to beat this thing into submission.