THE END OF CHEMO

October 2012 onwards.  The original plan for treatment was 24 weeks.  Phase one: 12 weeks on TAXOL, the so-called mild chemotherapy drug, then phase two: 12 weeks of something unimaginably worse!  Well, mid-treatment during phase 1, end of September, I had been progressing so well with the tumour shrinking at a right ole rate of knots that the oncologist confirmed the treatment would be just 12 weeks after all.  That was a moment of celebration.
Week twelve came and the last chemo session. I saw the oncologist for the usual check up and everything seemed to be on track for the final dose the following day.  But wouldn't you know my body had other plans.  I had chronic diarrhea throughout the night and hardly got a wink of sleep so that when I turned up for the last chemo session I was faint and wobbly weak.  They didn't give me the chemo session but checked me into the oncology emergency room for the day and did all the tests on me (Jesus Christ more needles, my poor veins). I have to say I was impressed that they had the means to deal with emergency oncology patients.  There have been so many cutbacks in the health service in Spain in recent years that I kept expecting to come up against some sort of set back in receiving treatment.  Thankfully this hasn't been the case.
The strange thing about it was that it wasn't a bout of diarrhea just after receiving a chemo session, it was at the point when my body was about to receive one.  Hmmm. Well, I was fine actually, I had had diarrhea and I just needed to sleep, I got progressively better during the day spent in hospital and they checked me out by the evening.  The doctors were looking for external causes, like what I had eaten, or a delayed reaction to the previous chemo session, but quite frankly I think it was my body/soul saying basta, don't want anymore drug inside me thank you very much.  So I had a whole week off from chemo, which I thought would be fabulous, although I had so much inside me by now that I can't say that I noticed any difference.
Back with the oncologist a week later and I had to ask THE question: would she let me off the last chemo session, never imagining she would.  But she did!  Now that was a real celebration.  I danced on the spot, hugged the doctor (this is Spain, that's what people do) and happily skipped off home.  It was over, over, over.  I felt pure relief in every nerve, every cell of my body, waves and waves of it.
Then again, the relief was short-lived as it dawned on me that I still had surgery to go through and I still had to receive the HER2 vaccine - intravenously. Oh great!
Yogis spend their lives trying to live in the moment, to not project forward, to not live in the past, to switch off the incessant workings of the mind, just experience and just be.  Nothing like being an oncology patient to force you to do just that! Or at least to deal with one hurdle at a time.