She had her LAST lumbar puncture - her last of 24!
Her visit to the "downstairs doctors" was thankfully uneventful. She had the first OR slot so she didn't really complain about being hungry. And she never even bothered to turn on the iPad because she was so busy playing - mostly with this cool projected image activity they have in pre-op.
After her wake-up doughnut and fist bumps with our favorite PACU nurses who have taken such incredible care of all three of us for 26 months, we headed back upstairs to clinic for her LAST chemo infusion (vincristine, which she had 23 times).
And then she started her LAST steroid pulse - at post time we are 3 doses down, 7 to go.
It's the home stretch. Seventy days left.
As much as we smile - and tear up - talking about these final milestones - milestones that seemed unthinkably far away in the winter of 2014 when this began, it's hard to explain how complicated it feels from our current vantage point. Relieved to see the finish line. Proud and horrified and dumbfounded to look behind us at the track we've run. And completely unprepared for the road beyond the finish.
Unprepared because too much glee feels dangerous. Because we can't deny the undercurrent of fear. Because after taking one sucker punch, letting down our guard seems foolhardy. Because we can't imagine how we could handle what we can't even say out loud. We are unprepared for the future because preparing means either staying in the dark tunnel we've been fighting like hell to get out of for an eternity -- or really taking to heart the lessons of this journey and learning to face every day, in perpetuity, with courage and joy. And somehow teaching our kids how to do that too. I know it isn't really a choice so much as two extremes we'll waver between, but it feels like a crossroads.
A couple of days ago, on a warm late afternoon swinging session in the backyard, Quinn turned to me and said, "After you have cancer, you can't get it again, right?"
So much is beyond our control. No assurances. No pat answers. Knowing the percentages is not a comfort. We can't rationalize away the fear.
I suppose we will ultimately need to follow Hope's example - as we so often have in the last few years. On June 4, she'll take her last dose of oral chemo and treatment will be over. And June 5, she'll wake up and ask "Where are we going today? My school? Work to do? Soccer game?" And then we'll get busy with the new day.
