I’m still flushed (and hyped and tired at the same time) from the chemo/steroid on Monday, but hoping that this was my last treatment of Kadcyla, and from here on out every day will get better. I’ll see the doctor next week for the final word. I’m looking forward to a chemo holiday. Who knows, my own immune system may kick back in and I’ll be “cured”. How will I know if I don’t try? With my blood numbers and scans looking good, it doesn’t make sense to me to continue to pour poison in every 3 weeks.
This is a strange disease. Three years ago, when I was being rushed into surgery for removal of a golf ball sized brain tumor, I never imagined that I would live 3 more years. Now I’m beginning to understand that questions of time are fundamentally unknown to me and I should not be bothered with the questions or prognoses. I’m definitely a quality of life over quantity of life person, but even that seems to be the wrong way of looking at it.
Whenever I try to name the experience of living my dying, I get caught in a linear trap. As if this comes after that – or that comes after this. And that is not the way it is.
Living-dying feels like a chiseling. Fine tuning. Becoming. Walking down the aisle to be wed – an in-between experience which is in and of itself as significant as what is before and what comes after.
I’ve been a shy person most of my life, never knowing who I was or what I was to be. As if these things could be figured out, planned. Now I realize that my life is a believing, a following, a trusting. I’m getting used to this in-between place, and perhaps beginning to own my life for the first time.