The end? No. Yes. Well, no. Maybe.

I think I'm in denial. Today Val is getting the first dose in her last cycle of chemo. That means 3 more Mondays like this one and then it's over. People keep saying things like, "So in January it's over?" And I keep saying, "No. Probably February." Which makes absolutely no sense and I know it. What the hell is going on with me? Even when I start to examine it in my own mind, a wall descends. I think of things to distract myself. Is it difficult for me to believe there could be an end, even for a little while? Or can I not deal with the emotions an ending will bring on yet because I've still got 3 more treatments after this one? My mind says, "Just leave it the fuck alone. Read Catching Fire again. Nothing to see here." Okay, self. Okay.

Even the end isn't really The End. She'll have to go in once a month for flushes of her port. Once every 3 months for an MRI. As soon as one of the scans shows growth, she'll be back to treatment. Dr Jeff said probably 6 to 9 months until we're back. He's hoping for long enough that she'll catch up on her immunizations before beginning chemo again.

I need to steel myself against believing in being 'cured' and 'done.' This shit's for life. She'll have treatment on and off until she's old enough to vote and drink and smoke. I wish there was a The End. There's not. Just those frustrating To Be Continued....s.

Just a blurb

I've been procrastinating. My kid was chosen to be on a calendar put out by the MACC Fund for fundraising purposes. It's called The Cute Kids calendar. We did the photo shoot. All that's left is for me to write the little blurb that tells you about my child so that she'll seem real to you and you'll want to donate your money to help kids like her.

I write about her all of the time. I write texts, emails, group posts, Facebook posts. But those are all little pieces of a very large picture with many possibilities.

I can't help but see this little calendar blurb as a cell or a gavel or a pronouncement. When I read the blurbs of the kids in last year's calendar, I see a disease with a couple of human asides. I see distillation. I have to narrow this giant panoramic view I like to take of this situation we've been handed into something much more unbearable. Something small and unyielding and impossibly heavy.

Like so many things that come along when you're a cancer mom, this is really such a small task, but it feels like such a weight.

Today sucked.

I keep a Facebook group about my child's cancer full of concise, positive, informational posts. Does this represent reality? Yes. Does it accurately depict my reality? Fuck no.

For example:
Today's group post: "Val's levels were good enough to get chemo today! And she had a very special visitor. She also discovered Magformers and was fascinated. She walked non-stop all over the unit while I ran around behind her with the IV pole. Chemo appointments are going to be much more difficult from now on. The cribs won't be seeing much use."
Today's reality: "Today fucking sucked."

Yeah, there's a lot of normalish happyish things that happen on chemo days, but I also hold her down while she cries and people stick her with needles, I force many types of antinausea meds down her just to have her throw up anyway, she wants to explore because she's just learned to really walk around and she has to do it while attached to an IV pole.

She's a year and a half. So I calmly clean up vomit, change my clothes, give her a bath, give her more meds, calm her sister who got yelled at, and find her a blanky. Then I sit in a room away from my kids and I cry and feel angry and sad and try to keep a panic attack at bay, because even though it really isn't all that bad, I still had to take my tiny child for weekly chemo because she has an inoperable brain tumor. And that's why today fucking sucks.