CancerLand to Life Beyond

So many of you have written to check on Evan and myself, that I am, to use my favorite word, verklempt. Thank you. Thank you for caring, and for sending out positive thoughts, prayers and words. To save a bit of time, I am writing this blog for updates, since so many of you have asked, and I may have skipped a few messages for lack of time.
I had to take some time to process Evan's last chemo because it hit me hard. Way harder than I expected. And it's not "about me" because my focus is my child, but I had to really work through some things that bubbled up afterwards.
The last chemo was a strange and uncomfortable day. Things went routinely and didn't. There was a definite rush in the air, as the Cancer Center was full, since the hospital was changing ownership two days later. Remember the nurse with the son who won't speak to her? She was Evan's nurse that day, and she began again to talk about her son. It made me sad on many levels, because I am sure her son has no idea she is in such pain about this. Yet it was also comforting, as it is part of the routine. She sticks the IV in Evan's arm, and talks about her son not speaking to her. Evan will look over at me and shake his head slightly, reminding me that this would never happen,
I went to work in the midst of his treatment as I usually do. I sat in my car and cried. Literally sobbing, seemingly out of nowhere. I drove to work in tears, and as I went through the morning routine, I was seized with panic. I did some very energetic clearing work, uttering a mantra, "no more bad things will cross our paths". I scrubbed and cleaned and sprayed harder than I ever have as I came to the point of screaming. I calmed down eventually, and realized all my feelings over these last six chemo treatments had accumulated all at once, and I had to get it out of my system. I remain thankful for the privacy that I had.
When I picked Evan up, it was a rushed time, as there was supposed to be a celebration of his completing chemo. The nurse seemed disappointed I didn't show up with a cluster of people, but this journey has been really the two of us, and so it should end that way. He rang the bell, with that, "I'm doing this for you and that damn phone of yours, mom" look, and we both rejoiced. As he was putting on his coat, the nurse asked me if he was really only 25. Yep he is, I said cheerfully, I was there! Trying to lighten the mood. She had this incredulous look and told me how mature and what an old soul Evan was, both of which I have heard before, many times. He has seen some things, I said with a wink, not really trying to make light of his health, but also acknowledging how he affects people.
The weeks since then have been for recuperating. I'm eyeing his follicles for new growth, trying not to hover, annoying the heck out of him asking pointed questions about his health. This chemo hit him harder than the others, and I have been told that is fairly common.
So, what's next? He has a scan in March and another visit with his hematologist. Life beyond that is a sort of LimboLand, not my favorite place to be, but there is an overlay of hope and joy that this part is over. Evan recuperates, gets back to creating a life here in Asheville, and I try to pick up pieces of my life that got put aside when this journey began. I want to hear the word remission and feel that it will be the case for the rest of his life. I want to see him clamber up mountains again, and have some energy, build a life he is happy with, and make plans without worrying so much. Who am I kidding? My worrying is genetic.
Simple things are ever so sweeter nowadays, so my usual "forge ahead" style is not gearing up. I don't think it's a coincidence that my word for 2019 is "unfolding". That is the exact word for this year. It is unfolding. His life, his recovery, the time, events. Thanks again for being on this journey with us.  You have no idea how many times I felt despair, and it would be dissipated by the sweetest texts, messages, and photos. The mail, the presents, the gift cards, the donations. It all helped.
If you'd like to continue to help, please do me a favor. Tell the ones you love that you love them, and don't let little things cloud your love. Communicate. Be happy. And know you are loved by me and my family for all that you did.