Last Visit to CancerLand for the Year

Numbers take on meaning when you are counting chemo treatments. Never have I been so fond of the number four, as Evan finished his fourth treatment. He had scans done, more endless poking of his poor veins, but the results are positive. We got to see the scans side by side from October (was it really only October he got diagnosed? Feels like years). And there is much improvement. The lymphoma is reduced in size, and all signs point towards remission.
I was slightly shocked to learn that he has checkups with the doctors for five years after his chemo is finished. Five years? "You are stuck here in Asheville now!" I gleefully told him. Not really, he can go elsewhere, but I have to find my wee amusements where I can,
With a slight sense of elation, we went to the Cancer Center for the last chemo treatment of the year. He has gained his weight back, which is always a happy thrill when they weigh him. I take nothing for granted anymore, always watchful and observant, to make sure he is okay.
We got the same nurse as last time, and she remembered him. As she started the IV (he doesn't have a port, because of his blood clots), she told him she had a son a year older than him, who had married a rich girl. The new wife had him cut all contact with his family, and she and her husband were grieving. This revelation, so early in the morning, her sadness, the scariness of chemo all made me burst into quiet tears. I could not even imagine.
As she walked away, Evan looked at me and said, "No worries, mom, I would never do that to you. Who else would live in my attic?" Family joke: my retirement plan is to live in Evan's attic. With our dark sense of humor, it spins off into horrible scenarios a la Mrs. Rochester in Jane Eyre, where I am upstairs, and Evan throws up portions of meat to keep me fed, and I create meat puppets, and all sorts of scary and hilarious things. Yes, we are that kind of crazy family. These scenarios horrify my eldest son, but Evan and I do enjoy beating that joke to death.
In the meantime, I am grieving for the fellow mom nurse. That could not and would not happen to my sons, and I would so set that future wife straight. I leave Evan to finish his treatment, go to work to start the day, and end up buying her a present of hand-rolled beeswax candles from the shop because I feel so terrible for her.
As I go pick Evan up after treatment, he looks weary but glad it is over. I go find the nurse, busy with another chemo, and give her the present. It's her turn to cry and she hugs me tightly. Cancer is insidious and scary, but it also puts into laser focus what is important: family and relationships, love and caring. I have no idea what her name is, but I love her fiercely, and I sent out some admonishing vibes for her son, wherever he may be. Life is short, so especially in this season, so hug the ones you love, and never take them for granted.
Our visit to CancerLand seemed a bit routine this time, but we were also filled with gratitude. Evan has had some of the best care, the most wonderful doctors and nurses, and I am so thankful he is here where I can take care of him. Only two more visits in the new year, and then he moves into what they call Survivorship. A bit of an odd word, but I will take any word as long as it leads to remission. That's my favorite word of all. As Winter Solstice approaches, my ember of hope is growing, reaching for the sun, blooming as the days begin to grow longer. His last chemo treatment is at the end of January. They have a bell there that you ring when you finish treatment, and all the nurses join in and clap at this accomplishment. I so cannot wait for that moment. It keeps me going in the darkness of this Winter. I hope the light shines bright for all of you as the year winds down.