Not chemo

Had I not finished chemotherapy on election day, I would have been due for another round this week.  This possibility felt so present that Sunday I felt nauseous just looking at the crackers I would normally eat to settle to my stomach during the infusion, yet at the same time, I could not imagine doing it ever again. 

With each round of chemo I have grown more fatigued, never quite recovering to the energy level I had before the last infusion.  So when this week rolled around I struggled to imagine making the drive down to UCSF, voluntarily climbing in the chair and extending my arm for the next I.V.  Or opening another pack of Neupogen syringes and injecting them into my belly knowing that 12 hours later, my bones would split with pain as the medicine worked to boost my immune system. I kept thinking, how could I be doing another round this week? But if I had to, I would have and right now I would be hobbling around the house, likely tearful, trying to make the hours pass and at the end of each day, I would be grateful for just that, the end of the day. 

Remembering those days and nights acutely, David and I tried to celebrate the "not chemo" this week.  

Whenever we could remember, one of us would ask the other, "what are we doing now?"

"Not chemo!" the other would reply. 

Yesterday a beloved doctor of mine put things further into perspective, "Well you could have died.  That could have happened with chemo.  Check that off your list." 

Last night, I started thinking of all the things that don't happen each day.  All of the less obvious "not chemos."

Here is a start:

*car accident
*Luna escaping
*earthquake
*financial ruin
*crapping my pants
*complete amnesia

With my body slowed and mind jumbled by chemo, I now look for contentment in all the things that did not happen, rather than the things that did.