Another Wednesday morning. You would think it would be pretty routine by now. Unemotional. Although some just hit more so than others. It’s typically the bigger Wednesdays with more than one chemo. Not necessarily this single day but the days that follow. A feeling of insecurity of, OK what’s in store for us/Mila this week…”
I have become immune to the fevers. It’s OK. We just go and get Mila in for antibiotics. Whether it’s in the clinic or the ER.
I have become immune to the nausea. My reflexes have her refluxes memorized and in a matter of seconds I can have Mila hovered over the sink or trash can.
I have become immune to medicating her. These seriously adult medications, even too adult for me, I am fine administering.
What I am not immune to is the fact that I am the voice of her treatment. I cannot fathom how these cancer medical professionals can trust what I say and make medical decisions based on my word. I’m not saying that I just make stuff up off the cuff but it’s just me. My opinion. My thoughts. My observations. Am I too emotional or hyper aware? What if I am so inaccurate in what I think I’m seeing. Or overly sensitive. Or even worse just not even present. On most occasions I begin a sentence and don’t even know where I was going with it. This is who Mila’s doctors are taking reference from. That makes me emotional.
I am also not immune to seeing the chemo side-effects actually take effect. The past couple of weeks the chemo, vincristine, has been displaying what is to be expected. I thought maybe Mila, because she is a warrior of course, would bypass this. Don’t ask me why I thought she could defy this. Because she’s my amazing daughter that’s why.
Well, I was proven wrong and after 16 weeks it’s building up. I was told today that it’s not like chemo flushes through after a certain amount of days, it continues to build over the course of treatment. And as prescribed, this is exactly what is happening. From the obvious of the loss of her hair to the not so obvious, tiredness, nausea, constipation and recently more common the obvious nerve pain (I assume) that she is experiencing. It just seems like her body hurts all over and is keeping her up at night. We walk the house at midnight and take some oxy and try bedtime again.
I still remain grateful. I am grateful for her diagnosis. I am grateful for her prognosis. I am grateful for her resiliency. I am grateful that she has a twin sister and older sister that keep her on her giggle toes. I am grateful that her twin keeps her up at bedtime in uninhibited laughter when she should be sleeping. I am grateful that when she feels good, she feels 100% good. I am grateful that this is all we are going through. I am grateful that I’m the only one in tears going into treatment.
A friend of mine brought the following video to my attention. After I watched it I realized why I was the only one crying on my way into treatment. I just want to do right by my kids. I want to be the most effective, positive, advocate, body-guard (momma-guard?) for them. And I want to get it right the first time. Because in some cases it can be life depending. I don’t care what I am good at. I don’t care what I am bad at. I do care about doing good for my kids. And for Mila. While she endures on her journey.
“Brace for impact.”