786 days later and we're finally on our last week of chemo. Tomorrow morning I will bring Brinley in for her blood check, and if she passes, she will go on to have her last lumbar puncture, last dose of methotrexate, and last dose of vincristine, EVER. I can't believe how surreal this feels, that we're finally on the home stretch, and within 6 days, Brinley will not be on chemo, her battle against cancer turns a page and we begin a new chapter. Life outside of cancer land.
Because Brinley was diagnosed so young, she has no idea what life is like without her body in a constant battle, this is all she remembers, this is what she knows. She knows how to count to three before she has her needle poke, she knows that the chemo makes her sore and sick, and she can request her pain and anti nausea medication by name. She can tell you where the lab is in her clinic, and what her blood looks like under a microscope. She can describe the tingling sensation she felt in her scalp days before she lost her hair. She can tell you how she feels when she's going under anesthetic, how she can hear "voices" when she's asleep, and how dizzy she is when she wakes up. She can also give you advise on what to order off the hospital menu.
But my daughter cannot sing her ABC's without forgetting a new letters, and she has a hard time remembering a few numbers between 1 and 20.
We're almost done this race, the finish line is in sight, and now we have to navigate our new life, our "normal" life.
As I'm trying to psych myself up for this week, my heart is heavy. As my daughter's life is about to improve, my mom's health is at risk. I want more than anything, to call her the day after treatment, like I always have, and share my excitement, my concerns, and my anxiety with her. She's been there, holding my hand, every step of the way, encouraging me, and keeping me focused on the end goal. I can't describe how foreign it feels not to have her for THIS, the big push, the finale.