I haven’t felt this way since I was a little kid awaiting Christmas. I’d count down the days and they’d never go by fast enough.
I’ve got only five more sessions of radiation therapy left. Starting tomorrow, each day of the week will be my last for the rad. center.
The days do seem to be zipping by, though, probably a result of my years on this planet. When I was 10 years old, a season was a significant fraction of my life to that point. Now, a week is like a day or even an hour.
I recall being giddy when I’d hit the one-third mark back on Friday, February 18th. That was my eleventh radiation day out of the total of 33. I thought I’d reached the top of Denali.
Turns out that was nothin’.
Now, with a mere handful of zaps left to endure, I’m scuffling up the side of Mt. Everest. When I get there, I’m going to breathe deeply — and then climb down as fast as I can off of this goddamned, godforsaken peak.
I don’t want to stand on top of the world and crow “I did it, Ma!” I never wanted to make the ascent in the first place. So, yeah, I’ll celebrate, to a point. Then the real celebration will commence as I gradually return to normality.
Funny thing is, our psyches are so baffling. Normality may turn out to be a terrible letdown. I’ve been building up the end of treatment to be the greatest thing since homemade pizza; it very well could turn out to be just the frozen variety.
Ah, what am I worried about? This craziness is going to be finished a week from today. I’ll roar (silently — my throat is still on fire), I’ll pump my fists. I’ll hug everybody in sight. I don’t give a good goddamn if I feel any kind of letdown. I can deal with it. Believe me, after enduring this cancer treatment, I feel I can endure anything.