Enough is Enough

Last week I endured my final chemotherapy treatment. Like the others before, it was harsh and I mentally kicked and screamed before and during. Yes, it was my last one and by all accounts, I should be cheering “Hooray! Hooray! I did it!” but it’s difficult to celebrate when still facing the miserable toxin-sponsored days that follow, the weeks/months of lasting effects, and the looming threat of a physician’s advice to do ‘just a couple more treatments’.

For many people, it’s easy to summon logic in deciding whether to do additional treatments recommended by a doctor. And for some, they’d follow the advice of the white-coats no matter what, because they are the “experts”—but that certainly is not me. The doctors and medical staff only know the science, chemistry, medical operation, and statistics (yeah, I said “only”) of what a “couple more” treatments could do for my tumors prior to surgery. What they have no knowledge of is the me of it. They cannot possibly see all the long term effects the poison of chemo may have left or the harm it may have done to any of my systems, and they do not know how low it drops my quality of life.

The chemicals that were pumped through my veins were nothing to take lightly, remember. Every drop that invaded my tissues brought with it a rusty bucket full of life-sucking side effects and haunting long term symptoms. These are highly potent chemicals—so toxic that the specially trained nurses who administer it, are required to wear protective clothing just to handle it, and chemo recipients must take special precautions for 48 hours after each treatment to ensure others don’t come in contact with the chemical agents. So even though I’ve had 8 treatments, the decision to have even one more, is just as serious and horrifying as when I started.

One other point to remember is that chemotherapy is no guarantee. It may be the most widely used cancer management in America today, but it’s never a 100% guaranteed cure. I’ve read much more on the topics of cancer, breast cancer, chemotherapy and naturopathic remedies than I ever wanted, and I’ve learned that many times not only is chemo not a complete end to invading cancerous cells, but it has been blamed for causing some types of cancer. Isn’t that some shit?

After all those heavy considerations above, let’s also not forget that I did eight weeks of grueling chemotherapy. If you’re inclined to judge me because I won’t do more treatments (or worse, encourage me to do more), remember that despite my treacherous dance with chemo, I kept going, all the way to the end of the doctor’s prescribed 8 rounds of Lucifer’s semen. I completed the original plan of chemotherapy and will have surgery—two radical methods of killing the cancer.  

Not facing the torture chamber this week has measurably lifted my spirits. I’ve had such a happy week and can taste a sampling of the joy that life can be again (even ordinariness sounds blissful), and I’m not willing to go back to the dungeon. If, at some point down the road, cancer shows up again then I will work harder to find alternative treatment methods that don’t involve sending Jason Voorhees in through my chest port to obliterate my cells. Hopefully that alternative method will only be offered in a beautiful spa in France.