Celebrating the End of Chemo

After three patient years, I have completed bladder cancer treatment and received a clean bill of health. Everyone, including me, expected fireworks, balloons, and confetti with the glad tidings. It’s been a long journey from initial diagnosis to the inevitable announcement. But I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I am hesitant to rejoice, not because I am afraid the cancer might return. Nor that it might return at a progressed stage. I am not afraid of it at all. What I feel is too exhausted to do anything except keep living. The question is: Where do I go from here?

Feeling depleted and ambivalent

Not everyone will understand my ambiguity, my apparent wavering and lack of faith. You would think I didn’t believe the cancer is gone. But I do. I have just lost the ability to get excited about most things. Life has brought constant challenges, and will continue to do so, crashing down in the middle of my party. No, I am not afraid of cancer itself. The struggle to heal is the hardest thing. Should I store up that energy for the fights that might be ahead?

One day after receiving the good news about my cancer prognosis, I am suddenly in a funk, although my emotions tend to ebb and flow and were recently high until yesterday. The bladder/kidney scan was clear and so was the cystoscopy. The doctor said she would see me next Christmas for next checkup. I thought. So, that's it. We're done.

Cancer treatment was my self-care

Cancer treatment was a form of self-care. Now that I have one less bell to answer, I should be elated. I am free. No more routine, follow-up, and lab appointments. No new bills for out-of-pocket costs. No more fear of chemo drug side effects. I should be ecstatic. But I feel more alone, because now that the treatment is done, so is self-care. I receive the well-wishers, and yet, I find myself retreating from them.

I know that this is contradictory. I am simply pointing out the emotional rollercoaster my experience continues to be. I am sincerely glad to be done with chemotherapy, but I guess I need time alone beyond struggling--out of fight mode. To be honest, celebrating with a lot of hoopla and fanfare might prove overwhelming right now. Although treatment has been my loneliest challenge (twice now), I need time to be alone with my feelings. To sum it up, I need to sit with this question: What just happened?

Thankful I have friends who get it

I have a small circle of friends with whom I hope to celebrate at some point. They have been with me through the whole ride, listening, providing comfort, and giving me rides. They are my angels. Mis amigas. They are also cancer survivors who received a cancer diagnosis in the same year as I did. Two of them completed their treatments last year. They understand the need to both laugh and cry. There is no rush to celebrate, but we will. We are planning a party to commemorate each of our triumphs over cancer. But first, I will sit for a while.