End of chemo

I had my last dose of chemotherapy last week – and I had planned to write something celebratory, but when I sat down at the computer I found I couldn’t. The truth is I’m tired and fed up.

I had expected to find this cycle easier somehow – thinking I’d sail through the side effects on a tide of elation that this was the last time I’d suffer, but actually it’s been really tough. I struggled to get out of bed at all for a few days and when I did I was hit by waves of nausea, fatigue and grief.

There has been a lot of crying this week. Perhaps it’s because I’m now forced to think about the next step of treatment – masectomy. Since diagnosis five months ago I’ve been trying to convince myself that I’m not really bothered about losing a breast – because it’s nothing compared to losing a leg.

I mean it’s just a boob, right? It doesn’t help you walk or run or get you out of bed in the morning. It just kind of sits there lumpily, perhaps jiggling occasionally during exercise, but otherwise (in my case) hardly even bothering to add much in the way of womanly curves to a lanky frame.

But losing my leg made a huge dent in my body confidence, and now losing a breast is another blow – another bit of femininity gone. And obviously the feminist within me says, “Geez Sal – it ain’t all about legs and boobs you know – being a woman is about personality, humour, intellect, charisma, spark….” But the problem is chemo has robbed me of that too – I feel dull, dreary, tired…. really, really tired. It’s been five long months of hell, I have a mouth full of ulcers, a balding head and an operation in three weeks.

I know there’s a positive spin to put on all this – I’m making progress, the surgery will rid me of the tumour etc etc, but right now I’m too exhausted to make the effort.