A Visit to CancerLand

First of all, thanks to all for the responses, messages and more from so many people regarding my youngest's diagnosis. You are all with me in spirit and I feel the love daily. So does he. It is a surreal and comforting experience, for which we are both very appreciative.
I've realized this whole journey with him is similar to going to another country. We have our passports stamped with CancerLand. It was always out there, and I never really visited before, except for a brief foray with my brother-in-law. He was diagnosed with cancer when he was young, and being his sister-in-law, although I loved him fiercely, put me in a slightly removed state, as I wasn't "immediate family". Hell yes I was, but that is a different story.
So going through this with my own child is a whole different world. This is visceral. Yes, he is an adult and I don't have to be "the mom" when he makes decisions or they deal with his treatment plan. I am present, and I give opinions and I guard him just as fiercely as ever, but this is really his life. Yet, when I see him sleep, and gaze upon his shorn, beautifully shaped skull, I am always and forever his mommy and time and age doesn't matter.
I realized we were in CancerLand when he was going through his second chemo treatment the other day. The first one was in the hospital, and a different experience, a different set of emotions. This time it was a little more relaxed, as we knew the drill. He was dressed in his comfy shark pajama bottoms and flannel shirt, and the nurses used familiar language with all the chemo treatment they were about to put into his veins. He doesn't have a port because of his blood clots and his arms are scarred from the many, many times they put IVs into him these last few months. He will recover, but my heart will not. It hurts every time they stick something into him. I have to restrain myself from launching at them because no one will harm my child, but I have to let them, because it's medical.
The difference in CancerLand is that we have different language. We talk endlessly about bodily functions, and medicine is everywhere, and everything is monitored. How much does he eat, how much water does he drink, you have to keep up with protein. I struggle to keep the outside world present, and talk about normal things, but then it goes back to the CancerLand Language. It's okay, people are nice there. Whew, are they nice. The nurses talk to me like we are best friends, and they gaze on him fondly as if he is their child. I can see why, as most of the inhabitants of CancerLand are elderly. Yet there are other inhabitants there. The pharmacist, who literally bounces on by, who I learn had cancer when she was pregnant and is now in remission with a soccer playing 13 year old daughter. The scheduler who had an 11 year old with cancer, and that 11 year old is now in college. Time is like a rubber band with CancerLand stories. Backward, forward and in the present, all at once.
I sit gazing out the window as the chemicals drip into his veins. I know this is for his health, but this is all foreign to me. Me, who is not on medication, is fairly healthy and only has to deal with a stiff heel and some aches here and there. I know my day is coming, and my youthful health may not remain. That's off in the future, though. For now, I sit there slightly baffled as to how we got into this country of CancerLand. It's fine, they feed us there, and the drinks are usually water. We have to keep hydrated. I am with him on this journey, but I feel like a tour guide who doesn't really know this place very well.
Hours drift into each other, as he goes through each IV bag, four in total. My phone lights up with supportive messages. People so want to help, so I let them know when things like chemo are happening so they can direct their lovely energy towards his healing. I know without a doubt it helps. It all helps. He sleeps while the drugs drip into his arm, and I am relieved he is relaxed enough to do this. I sleep like a log yet never feel rested, so I stumble through each day. All that matters to me is that he sleeps and gets rest.
My phone lights up again. At that moment, a lovely friend in Ireland is lighting a candle for my youngest. The timing is no coincidence. As he tells me, there is no coincidence in faith. And there isn't, is there? Faith keeps us going on this journey, because otherwise there is darkness. That moment helps, as do the many others. All piled on top of each other in a huge glowing mass of love that envelops us both. I never feel alone, because I feel all that loving energy. All the time.
The treatment ends, and we stumble back towards our car and home. I feel a happy thrill because he is walking in and out of the Cancer Center. For many visits, he was in so much pain, he had to be in a wheelchair. I will never take his walking for granted again. Ever.
We go home, oddly refreshed and exhausted at the same time from our visit to CancerLand. Our passports have to be stamped four more times before his journey there ends. I know his journey will end and we may never visit there again. As in most journeys, I focus on the good moments of the visit, not the disasters. This journey was good, but I am glad it is over. Until the next visit in three weeks.