When I think about the journey so far, the thing that is dominant in my mind is love.  I am not cancer.  I AM loved.  I feel it with my family.  I see it when I read back in this blog at the story we are telling.   The entries from B, A, and E are part of a love story.   I see it and feel it in the comments made  by supporters and loved ones.   I hear it from others who are keeping up with the blog like it was some form of life support.  That actually humbles me to the point of speechlessness.  When someone refers to something I said in the blog, or tells me they finally  got “caught up”, or that they are keeping up with it,  my loquaciousness dries up like a dusty old tumbleweed and blows away. 

 I struggled to come up with something to write about today. I wanted to let readers know that breast cancer treatment is not ruling our lives most of the time.  We are into our ‘normal’ which can be mundane at times.  Since this blog is about the breast cancer trail, writing about normalcy during treatment seems apropos, but I don’t want to indulge myself too much and start treating it as a place to dump all the things that go through this brain of mine.  No, no, definitely not.  (This is to be said with the inflection of  Mr. Olivander who was trying to find just the right wand for Harry Potter.)Someone may be compelled to perform experiments on me or something to see what exactly is going on in there. 

Tomorrow is the second to last infusion of 12.  I am beginning to think about what it will be like NOT going to the chemo suite and talking with the people I’ve developed friendly relationships with.  My thought at the beginning was one of celebration, the good riddance syndrome comes to mind.  But chemo in all of its chemical-ness, has helped me more than it’s hurt me. Oh, I will NOT be sorry to stop infusions.   I won’t miss hearing the rhythmic timing of the machine that regulates the drip.  I won’t be sad to say fare the well to the various and sundry manifestations of a body on chemicals.  I AM struck by even the suggestion of the thought that there might be grief associated with the end of chemotherapy.  Here I sit thinking about making a cheesebread to take to the chemo suite tomorrow as a thank you.  It’s not my last infusion, but there are people I’d hate to miss if they are not working on that last day.  I know I’ll be at the center for radiation in a few weeks, but this feels like an ending to acknowledge.   There is a drawing I’ve been working on all along which I have not published, that may  be framed as a donation.  We’ll see.

The people who have worked on my treatment team, most specifically at this point on the chemo side of things, have been respectful, consistent, tender and real with me.  They have many patients to deal with; some who are very sick, some who emotionally unravel in the chair, some who die.  I feel like when I’m there we are chatting over a cup of tea or something when they come over just to see what exciting things we may have done over the weekend or tell me about the color they finally chose to paint their living room.   I may be getting ahead of myself here, but I’m awake and aware of this feeling.  I think it’s time to make some bread now.