Monday, October 8, 2012

Carry On

Tomorrow morning at 8:30, Dr. Chun will look at my left-side incision and tell me if I am cleared to start chemo on Wednesday. Yesterday, the wound opened slightly, and when I removed the gauze last night, I felt a heavy-hearted disappointment at the sight of blood. I'm guessing it's probably the result of too much activity (for example, I obviously had to go on the flying elephants at Edaville Railroad when we learned that Brian wasn't allowed to sit with both Teddy and Annabel). Part of me is so mad at myself, but the other part will adamantly argue that keeping my left arm still when I don't have pain to deter me from movement is absolutely impossible. Especially with two kids that want to go on the flying elephants. 

If Dr. Chun gives me the green light, I'll take my steroids and I'll aim for those 10 glasses of water again. If everything else goes as scheduled from there, on Wednesday morning, we will depart for Dana Farber at 6:30. I'll have my blood drawn at 7:30 and then I'll meet with Dr. Bunnell. At 10:00, my Allies will begin to flow into my I.V. (or my implanted port, if my veins aren't easily accessible, but I'm hoping they will be). By noon, the Herceptin will finally get the chance to wage its war. Around 1:30 or 2, the infusions will end, and I will wait at Dana Farber for a hour or so to be sure that my body doesn't react badly to the drugs. Then we'll all head home. 

The plan seems pretty simple when I write it out that way. But sometimes it doesn't feel so simple. Every now and then, I get hit by a wave of complete terror and utter disbelief at what the week will hold (both if I get the green light, and perhaps even more so, if I don't). But most of the time, I feel ready, and I know the plan will work. Get life-saving drugs. Beat cancer. Total recovery. Full stop. Checkmate. I win.  

In the meantime, I'll be flexing the hope muscle that all of you have built up for me. And when those dark waves come, I'll dive under them, wait for them to pass over me, and carry on. One day at a time. Each day closer to my cure. 

Speaking of carrying on, I love this song...

"Carry On" by Fun.
Cause we are
We are shining stars
We are invincible
We are who we are
On our darkest day
When we're miles away
So we'll come
We will find our way home


  1. It's 838 here and I am flexing my hope muscle for you. Even though we've never met you represent any woman and every woman and I am supporting you 100%!!! Good luck! ( I would have rode the elephant too just for the look on my child's face!)

  2. I, too am flexing my hope muscle for you, my mother, my sister and every other woman who has needed Allies.

    When you get up tomorrow picture yourself bathed in a bright white light of hope and as the Allies start to course through your body doing battle, picture the light getting brighter. You will be glowing with all the hope you are being sent through cyberspace and all the hope the Allies are giving you.

    ...YOU WIN!

  3. Wow, thank you so much for these comments -- they are so precious to me! I am so mad at myself that I just accidentally deleted a lovely third comment while trying to keep a reader anonymous who I thought wanted to remain so. I'm so sorry! Nonetheless, thank you for that comment too!

  4. Thinking of you all. Love, the Theodore's