Am I okay with the word "remission?"

I had my last chemo today. That makes 20 treatments, total, over a period of about a year and three months.

The first chemo made me look like a cancer patient. I was bald and swollen. The few people who saw me during that time had a hard time recognizing me. Then, after my surgery and radiation, it was decided the best course of action would be to put me on an immunotherapy with a chemotherapy drug added in. Kadcyla. The way the doctor described it to me was it would be a difficult one. The other option had no side effects. This one did. But, since the cancer was in all the lymph nodes under my arm, the hard course was decided on.

This chemo made me look just fine, but had some complications with it. There have been times where I didn’t think I’d be okay. Early in the year, I got radiation pneumonitis in my left lung. It was foggy. Then, it became so hard to breathe. My heart rate was so high in April. That was when I was my most worried about my health. I got on a beta blocker that I had to eventually double up on. Then, I could finally breathe. I was worried that I couldn’t finish it. I am in pain- my joints and muscles, even my eye sockets hurt. I am the most weak I’ve ever been. But, somehow, with God’s help, I did it. I finished it today.

Lily took me. She drove me there and back and sat with me the whole time. I didn’t get to see the doctor today. I had wanted to and expected to. I have some questions to ask her.

Am I in remission? Or is it gone?

Will it come back? How will I know?

What do I do now?

When’s the first scan?

On and on my questions go. It seems I want some form of answer from her. Some timeline of what to expect. I want to ask her the impossible, and then, I want her to answer it. She’s been asked them all before. And, she knows to not give false hope, but to also give hope when you don’t feel any. I appreciate everything she’s done for me. I have always given her free reign to do what she needs to do to get rid of my cancer. No matter how hard it is. I’ve never said no. I’ve never told her to stop.

So, here I sit. One more step finished. One by one, they’ve been finished. And with each one, I’ve learned a little bit more about myself. I’ve learned a bit more about my body. About cancer. About living. About dying.

Cancer treatment is incredibly uncomfortable. From the moment it starts, you are plagued with massive discomfort in some form or another. There's some new symptom, all the time.

Cancer treatment is an extreme test of your patience. There are many things I cannot do. I can barely get down and up off the floor. I have a hard time opening bottles. I can’t even wear sandals all day because my feet swell too much. I grit my teeth and do what I can do. Everyday.

Cancer treatment humbles you in a way nothing else can. You have to toss aside the you you once were, and humbly accept the one you are now. I used to ride my bike, run, kayak, climb. I was never restricted. I might not ever be the same again. But, you know what? That’s okay. I’m still here. And, personally, I feel like the improved version, in many ways. "Casey 2.0"

Cancer treatment allows for magical conversations that God, Himself seems to preside over. Lily and I met a lady, today, who has been fighting for 11 years. She has ovarian cancer. This is her third bout. She’s bald, but brave. She used to be a professor to nurses. Go figure. We all sat and spoke for good while today. I had gone in there, not even slightly okay with the word “remission,” but I came out a bit different. Remission. That’s her word. That’s the word she strives for. She won’t be healed. She won’t be cancer free. She’ll be in remission. And she’s okay with that. To her, remission is everything. It's time with her girls. It's time to do more. And, she will take any she can get.

God knows right where I need people. He knows excactly what to put in my vision, if I’ll be still and quiet enough to see it.

We came home and there was a cake in our fridge with a little note on it to translate. The main message was “Way to gut it out” with another message that said how proud they were of me. My parents had raided the house and brought me a strawberry cake. Makes me cry to even think about. Probably the “ugliest” cake I’ve ever seen. But one of the most beautiful and most meaningful things I’ve ever gotten. Talk about a warm heart.

So, what’s next?

I have a year of pills to take that will make me sick at my stomach- but I have pills for that too. Not quite finished yet, and who knows if I ever will be. But I’ll keep living, the best I can. My body will heal. My mind will heal. I’ve got some major work to do on myself. I’m thankful for my journey. Every part of it. And, thank you all, for reading.