I’ve been off chemo for 8 months. I look well. I feel great. I’ve been overseas on a well-earned holiday. I’ve buried a loved one. And now I have jelly beans.
I visited the oncologist this week. The tumour marker’s gone up from 176 to 197. The stress of travelling could have had something to do with it and so could any number of other possible reasons. I’m just plain pissed off about it.
The night before the visit, I clarified with myself that should the result have increased, it’d be all systems go for the 3-month oral chemo. So, here I am, feeling vital and stronger than I have in 2 years and about to commit to this icky process.
I remind myself that this is the last of it; that I won’t do more. Of course, it’s not possible to plan with this so I’ll trust whatever process I’m in and take one day at a time.
My daily pill looks like a jelly bean. The drug is the same prescribed for transplant patients to prevent rejection of the foreign tissue of the new organ. Mostly, they stay on it for the rest of their lives. I don’t know what the plan is for me. As far as know, there isn’t one except watch and wait and see. I’ve just popped the first one. Holding thumbs for zero (but more realistically, very mild) side-effects so that I can continue ticking items off my bucket list.
Cross fingers for me. I’m going to sleep through whatever might happen in the next few hours.