Although it is not one hundred percent certain (what is, in life?) that I will never need chemotherapy again, there is a good chance that I won’t. So I’m calling it. Emily: 8; cancer: (I’m not even giving it a capital “c”) ZERO.
Today’s festivities were pretty good. I got off to an auspicious start, arriving at chemo early (so rare) at a few minutes before 9:00 am. And prior to that I had time to get my ensemble sorted the way I wanted it. Bonus. On the way, I had a nice chat with the driver of the car service to which I treated myself today. He said I should be sure and let my husband have a say in the size of my newbs. Um, thanks for that very valuable input, dude. Maybe I should just turn it over to the readers — vote now or forever hold your peace. But I refuse to go with anything that makes me fall forward.
Then my bubble was temporarily burst when reception informed me that my appointment was for NOON today. What? I can’t tool around like this for three hours, I said. And then be here until 5 or 6. I have chirren to see and zucchini bread to bake (oh, sorry, courgette for you Brits). Calls were made. Things were juggled. And soon enough I was heading down to the chemo suite to kill it for the eighth and final time. I even got a pod with its own domed skylight. Hotsy totsy.
Bill came to see me. I let him come even though when I got dressed this morning he said I “could not wear” the outfit I had on. “I most certainly can,” or something to that effect but maybe with some profanity was my response. I wore it. He got over it.
I think maybe he changed his mind when we got down to the chemo suite and saw the reaction that other people had to my look. They liked it. They smiled and laughed and it made them feel good. See it wasn’t just for me. It was for them and for you too. Because I want people to be happy and I want people to laugh. I like to share the love. And one cannot, under any circumstances, take oneself too seriously. It is just so boring.
Are you curious? Hmmmm? I will give you just from the chest up…
Do you think Gabriella is jealous? If you don’t know Gabriella then you need to read Armpit Wig. I think she is jealous since she is Italian and all. But she will just have to get over it because Candy Floss (that’s Breeteesh for cotton candy) and I are having a love affair and it isn’t going to end any time soon. I put her on at 8:30 this morning and I didn’t take her off, even for one instant, until 7:15 pm. Gabriella may be chic and classy but Candy Floss is a little bit naughty and I DIG that about her. Tee hee.
Gabriella is a bit of a snob. I mean I picked up Candy Floss in the same joint, only on the less posh ground floor and not upstairs in the fancy salon, so Gabriella feels that Candy comes from the wrong side of the tracks. But Gabby can be kind of a beeyotch so I just tune her out when she gets like that. She wouldn’t even look at my outfit this morning because it came from Top Shop. Whatever. Like I would wear Prada, Gucci or Bottega Veneta for my final chemo treatment.
I suppose you’d like to have a look at the rest of the ensemble, no?
Rubberized leggings and a feather skirt are surprisingly comfortable and practical, I have to say. You learn something new every day. Actually the leggings are so comfy I plan to live in them for as long as possible until it (if it ever) gets hot again here. That could be all summer. I still have them on. And I have to give props to my friend, Gohar, who grabbed the top off the rack at the very end, pulling the whole thing together. She even grabbed the right size without looking. Brava.
After my bloods came back and all the premeds were in, the nurse hung up my last bag o’ poison and it started drip drip dripping away. A three-hour driiiiiiiiiiip. That’s when my oncologist showed up. He said he got about five texts that he had to get his booty down and see me forthwith (or something to that effect). I really need to dress like this more often. Shameless attention seeking is one of my favourite pastimes and I have definitely gotten worse now that I am a cancer survivor.
Last night after I got home and laid out the outfit on my bed, I heard wardrobes closing and opening and came into my room and found Isabel with the skirt on and she had also put on one of my fluorescent bras and stuffed tube socks into it. I started to laugh and then she bent over and the “boobs” tumbled right out on the floor. “See, easy come, easy go,” I thought.
I had two special guest stars besides my husband at my final chemo and both are fellow survivors. Dee, who gave me that great cookbook (The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen) and Paige, who has come to most of my chemos and always somehow manages to bring me a flat white from Gail’s that stays hot during transport. It’s the little things in life… but having good friends like these to support me through this is a big thing and a true gift. Having these ladies with me on my last go was just what the doctor ordered.
Dee even brought me that numero ocho cupcake.
But by the time that slow-ass drip was finished I was on my own and I was in a very good place. Glad to be done with it. Eager to get over the last of the side effects. Relieved that two Thursdays from today, I won’t be headed to the chemo suite for another treatment. Big big big box checked today. And I can still shop at Top Shop. I don’t need an occasion. To left Dee and I; below Paige and I.
I sashayed out of there with a swish of my tail feathers, promising to come back and visit. I said good-bye to the staff and some chemo buddies, particularly one older man and his wife who have been there every time and he has to keep coming through March of next year. I told him I’d come back and see him. He was happy today because he said I finally raised his blood pressure, so much though that they were making him go to the GP to check it (I don’t really think it was I, but it was amusing). He had been bummed and feeling old eight weeks ago when I wore the leopard print number (see What I Wore To Chemo Today) and the nurse took his blood pressure right after he saw me and it was low. 🙂 So maybe we’ve both still got it… But I only have eyes for my husband (below). Sorry, dude.
Then there was one gorgeous lady I was directed to go see who was in the market for a pink wig. They almost killed me when I got caught lifting my “rolling coat rack” up the three stairs to the other side of the chemo suite — oops. I told her Candy Floss is my ho but that she could march herself to Selfridges and check out the wig section on the ground floor for Candy’s identical twin, “Hoochie Mama.”
Oh boy. I so killed it today. On to the next chapter, my friends. I must, in the words of the great, late Winston Churchill, KBO.