The chemo finish line comes into view

With the glorious arrival of the sun, I have this week felt myself rounding some sort of corner. And as I navigate the bend, I feel relieved to see the chemo finish line coming clearly into view.

Tomorrow I will have my fifth chemotherapy infusion (I still find it strange to use that word in this context - it brings to mind a cup of refreshing herbal tea not a heady cocktail of noxious drugs). My final dose will be on July 6th, in just three weeks time. Hallelujah.

After a challenging third cycle my fear was a cumulative and progressive worsening of side effects for my final three rounds (see my blog, Coming up for air). I was not feeling totally confident that I would be able to complete the full treatment programme.

But this last cycle has been much smoother, largely thanks to a reduction in my steroid dose. Steroids help to reduce side effects in the days immediately following chemotherapy. But they can also play havoc with your body and mind - artificially raising energy and mood levels, only for you to crash violently once you stop taking them. As my oncologist crisply explained: "On your original dose of steroids, we were taking you up to the third floor and then pushing you out of the window. On the new dose, we are only taking you to the first floor window before pushing you out." The result of the reduced dose has meant more sickness, but also more sleep, less craziness and a far less intense let down. As a result this cycle has been easier to navigate, leaving me less drained, emotionally more intact and feeling confident that I can now see this through to the end.

The month of August will see me in radiotherapy five days a week, but by all accounts that should feel fairly straightforward after chemo, and at least I'm not missing out a host of other exciting options this summer.

I then have another two drugs which I currently receive intravenously every three weeks alongside chemo, but which will continue until March. This was to keep me tied to the chemo suite for the foreseeable, but thanks to medical advances these drugs can now be given as an injection, hopefully meaning no more chemo suite and the removal of my picc line (peripherally inserted central catheter - effectively a semi-permanent cannula inserted into a vein in my upper arm) .

I have been deeply grateful for my picc - it has helped prevent collapsed veins and potentially endless attempts at inserting a cannula at each cycle. But I hadn't quite appreciated how restrictive it is until I was told it could come out. In three short weeks time (or perhaps a little longer allowing for side effects) I will be able to swim in the river, dip in the sea, take out my paddle board, test my birthday kayak, perhaps even return to rowing...my soul sings at the thought.

I received my diagnosis on 13th January, one week after we went into lockdown 3. As the country closed down, so did life as I knew it.

And now, five months later, like the slow, hesitant opening up after lockdown, I can sense the potential for some elements of my pre-diagnosis life to start gently unfolding again at the end of my chemotherapy. But as many are finding with the ending of lockdown, I recognise that I am facing that transition with conflicting emotions.

Primarily, of course, I feel a huge sense of relief, hope and excitement that some elements of my life familiar may return. After a necessary period of contraction, life can start to expand again.

But there is undoubtedly something else there too. Something quieter, but powerful nonetheless. An unexpected sense of resistance, an internal call for caution. An urge to slow time down and to hold back, to not unlock too fast.

Like lockdown, the time since diagnosis has been all sorts of shit. Such extreme fractures can undoubtedly be difficult and frustrating as we grapple with accepting what is, and try to quiet our impatience for things to somehow 'return to normal'. But like lockdown, nestled amidst the rubbish bits, there has also been a golden invitation to slow down, reflect, and reassess. An exquisite and fleeting opportunity to look at life through a different lens and to sit in contemplation of some of life's big questions.

And frankly, I am not yet done with that. I don't feel quite ready to step out of this sacred space. While I am excited at the potential of getting back to some of the activities I have missed, I also feel resistance to the idea of careering blindly full pelt back into life. Not only do I need to give my body time and space to heal from the onslaught of treatments, but my mind needs time too. I want to delve deeper, savouring the lessons from this time of enforced isolation and introspection. I am still learning to breathe into my diagnosis - exploring quite what it means and unwrapping the offers that lie hidden within. There are some mighty learnings for me here - and I don't want to miss them in a rush to unlock.

Of course, although I can now see the finish line for chemotherapy, in reality, my cancer journey is far from over. In some ways I am not long off the starting blocks. I have radiotherapy to follow and an assortment of other treatments over the coming year. Beyond that come scans, regular monitoring and learning to piece our lives back together in the knowledge that there is a substantial risk of my cancer returning in the coming months or years. It will not be a simple return to life as it used to be. Life as it used to be came to an abrupt end on 13th January. Like Covid, for the short to medium term, this is something we are going to have to get used to living with, crafting a new sense of normal.

But, amidst the challenges, what is on offer here if I listen hard enough is an opportunity to recalibrate, and to refocus on what matters most, moment by moment.

These are gifts I don't want to miss.

And right now the sun is shining, life is bursting out all around me and I am feeling good.

These are also gifts I don't want to miss.

x

PS thank you to everyone who read or shared my Know Your Lemons post. It has been read over 1,000 times and I've been humbled to hear from so many women who have taken action as a result. Thank you.