Six Down, Zero to Go!

Today marks the very last chemo treatment for Victoria.

We had a nice lunch sharing a Cafe Rio enchilada-style sweet pork burrito while the Perjeta was winding its way into her veins for the last time. Then Vicky slept for a long time, after I fetched her a warm blanket...

Then, it was done. The nurse brought her a bottle of sparkling cider, compliments of the clinic, and congratulated her for completing her course of chemotherapy...

And then, the moment she had dreamed about for four months: Vicky and I walked over to the big brass bell on the wall of the clinic. Vicky grasped the clapper and rang it for all to hear. It was a magnificent, satisfying moment...

As we drove away from the clinic, I said, "It's truly over. Now you can get to the business of growing your hair back and getting yourself healthy again."

Vicky was so quiet, I had to look over at her. She was weeping. She finally said, "I really didn't believe that this day would ever come."

When we got home, we found that the Primary Activity Days girls had left some welcome signs...

Such a sweet surprise to come home to. Such a sweet group of girls. There are so many people in this world who love Vicky. So many wonderful, gracious, loving people. 

We had started a tradition of pre-chemo dinners: gathering all our children and grandchildren together before each of Vicky's treatments. It got difficult for everyone's schedules, so I sadly let it rest a month or so ago. Then, last night, Genevieve texted us, saying: "I know Mom's last chemo is tomorrow and she may not feel up to it, but I don't want to give up on the dinners at the finish line. If you guys want to I could come up."

That led to a Genevieve-led campaign to get everyone together. And all three of our children who are in Utah showed up. It was a wonderful, relaxing, fun dinner at IHOP. Vicky insisted on the locale, even though I said we should go somewhere more upscale, given the magnitude of the celebration. 

But she was right, as always. We had a wonderful server who, when I told her what was going on, helped find glasses for the sparkling cider, and plates for the pie I sneaked into the restaurant. David and Genevieve and Parker and Hudson and Ellie and Daemian -- so wonderful to have them all there, and all so present for their mother. I was overwhelmed.

As the dinner was winding down, I gave everyone a little bell to hold up (but not ring yet). Then I said:

"I saw Vicky take the news of her diagnosis with grace and determination.

I saw the worry in her eyes as we searched for the right doctor and the right treatment.

I’ve seen her laid low with fatigue and pain, over and over again.

I’ve seen her rise from that fatigue and build a table, or finish a mantle.

I watched her move forward with good cheer after she lost one of her prize possessions: her hair.

I’ve seen people double-take at the beautiful woman in the scarf and hat walking by.

I’ve seen her when she couldn’t focus her eyes to read, worried that the chemo was ruining her eyes.

I saw the gratitude in her eyes whenever she got a call from one of her children.

I’ve seen her laugh with delight at things her children or grandchildren said.

I’ve seen her cry at any kind word.

I’ve seen her forget herself and reason and talk through problems that her children are having, and hear the compassion and concern in her voice.

I’ve seen her stop cold and lay on the nearest horizontal surface, regardless of its hardness or prickliness, when she was just too tired to go on.

I’ve seen her face down her chemo demons; and this afternoon, I watched her stand at the end of her final session and ring that big brass bell for all to hear.

There was never a sweeter sound."

Then everyone rang their bells to seal the reality that Vicky was finished with her chemotherapy, forever and ever, Amen. 

Here's the whole, blessed crowd.

There is no such feeling as having your children and grandchildren gathered around you at such a moment. 

And now we turn the page to a brand new chapter. There are things we don't know and are a bit afraid of. We don't know what the surgery will tell us, or whether Vicky will need radiation therapy, or if her lymph nodes are affected. All this is true. But there is so much hope. Dr. Samuelson hasn't been even able to find the tumor on the last several examinations. He said that they have no clinical evidence that that lymph nodes are involved, and if they're not, then likely she will not require radiation therapy. Vicky will soon start perking up from this long twilight of fatigue. Her hair will start growing back, and she's excited to see what color and texture it will be. She can start exercising again, and invite people into our home, and build new things, and visit her grandchildren, and take a calling at the ward, and engage with her life, fully and completely, feel the sun and the rain on her face and thrust her hands into the earth. 

Life will soon catch back up to this dear woman who loves life so completely. I am without words.

When Temporary Seems like an Eternity

People have been asking where the blog posts are. I was determined to document Vicky's journey each step of the way, and I have fallen down because it has become so hard to witness. This journey she's on is no longer shiny and new, with all those interesting questions of what happens next. It is now often a journey of grinding fatigue and tears. She cries so easily. 

The other day she said, "This is temporary, right?" I said Oh, most definitely, but she is having a hard time believing me. 

But there are bright spots. Especially today. Vicky texted me at work, wondering if she had her doctor's permission to go swimming at the rec center. I about fell off my chair. A little later, she texted that she had gone swimming, and that it was good.

I was so very proud.

Here's a little photo collage of her over the last few weeks:

Vicky looking so pretty with her apron and pink scarf...

Vicky trying to be up and about, but oh, so droopy...

Vicky clapping at our little visitor squirrel we found in our living room the other morning...

Vicky resting during her 5th (out of 6!) chemo treatment...

Sometimes she just needs to lay down on the nearest horizontal surface...

Vicky and me out on a short Forced March a couple of days ago. She's the one that requested it!

She's got one more treatment to go, and then after a recovery period, surgery. To her, this feels like it's always been this way, and it always will. But the time is coming close that she will be done with her chemo treatments, and this overwhelming fatigue will come to an end. 

It is so hard to see such a self-sufficient, cheerful woman become so frail. But she is strong, and that strength cannot help but peek out, like today, when she just up and went swimming. A more courageous, persistent, resilient woman I have never seen. 

This weekend, we're heading to Moab for a few days. I expect it to be quiet, with perhaps a few outings. But I get to be exclusively with her for a few days, and she gets to completely relax in a beautiful place. It doesn't get much better than that.