It's been a long week, but I guess I shouldn't start out that way as the weeks are all seeming long these days. Kev was feeling better after the rods and stitches came out on monday and he seemed to be gaining strength which is what I wanted and needed to see. We decided that the tickets we had for Disney's Toy Story on ice were going to get used after all, and that we'd be able to go as a family. It was really nice to do something "normal", though even normal was different. There I was walking in front with my portruding pregnant belly making sure nobody bumped into Kev. It worked, but bothered Kev...he wanted to walk in front of me to make sure I wasn't hit by the throngs of people. The show itself was great, the kids totally emmersed in the story and the characters, eyes wide, faces smiling. As it is becoming my norm, a tear slipped down my cheek watching my family doing something that wouldn't have garnered a second thought just a few short weeks ago. It became a very special outing.
After getting out for a few short hours on thursday and being overwhelmed by the love and support my friends showered me with when I entered the pub for the first time in a month, my alarm early friday morning was not a welcomed sound. Port day. We had to be at Sunnybrook by 9:30 so that they could surgically implant a port into the veins in Kev's chest to make it easier to administer the chemo. It was to take an hour and a half they told me, so I went walking, not able to sit and wait. Waiting is still not my strong suit.
Again I felt myself being drawn to Wellspring, determined to find answers, bolstered by the bright sunlight. I walked in feeling strong and asked for information about talking to kids about cancer. I found myself amazed to hear my unwavering voice say the words aloud. Then came the pamphlets, the questions, the more detailed explanations. It was over, my determination, my unwavering voice, my strength. I was gently ushered from the entrance to a more private place. I sat in the Ribbons of Hope peer support room pouring my heart out, opening up my soul, saying aloud all my fears. I cried too, seemingly endless tears fearing they would never stop. But they did. It was then that Icould finally take in the information given to me, the offer of support, the help I was so desperately seeking. Again I left there feeling better, lighter, slightly more able to cope. It was time to get Kev and go home.
I wished they had told us, or warned us that the port would be so painful. It was all fine and good when the anesthetic was still there, but once that wore off the pain was glaringly obvious. Kev is so thin that the pocket needed for the port was created by stretching already thin skin thinner. I have had to resign myself to the fact that this process is going to be a continuous variation of one step forward two steps back. I just hope and pray that the steps forward one day out number the steps back. It's friday the 18th of March, my birthday. I have only one wish but fear saying it aloud in case it won't come true. I really need it to come true.
Tuesday is chemo day. We both fear it, the unknown of it all, but the need to move forward in the treatment plan, to see results is strong. In in my weakest moments the glimmer of hope is still there, that we will be able to beat down this beast and regain our life. Forever changed however is our appreciation for life. Perhaps that is one of the good things that will come from this.