Flipping The Lens
Today is June 1st. Which means we're officially in the home stretch! Bryan's combination of radiation and chemo treatment ends next Friday (June 12), so we can practically see the finish line.
Bryan had an incredible weekend in Vegas with his friends. I'm so thankful he was able to get away, hang with his friends, stay up til the wee hours of the morning, and just forget everything about all this crap that we're going through. Luckily, I was able to do the same. I had a dinner with family, a dinner with some girlfriends and did a LOT of sleeping. Caught up on my monthly quota, to tell you the truth.
The three days that Bryan and I spent apart were really good for both of us, as we were able to recharge our respective batteries. Granted, our methods of charging may be very different; his included spending an entire evening literally getting "roasted" by his closest friends, while mine was having margaritas with my parents. Either way, we were able to come back together last night feeling refreshed, relaxed and just ready to conquer the world. This weekend also really gave me a chance to reflect on and change my perspective about the past few weeks.
Bryan and I have been in such a whirlwind over the past four and a half weeks that every moment of our lives has been consumed with thinking, talking, reading and writing about his brain tumor. First, there was his diagnosis. Then there was the search for the perfect medical team. Then there was the chaos of appointment after appointment, getting Bryan fitted for his radiation mask as well as filling scripts for all his different medications. It was an insane, mad dash. Even after that, ever since the radiation started we've been so in tune with Bryan's symptoms that I feel like we been monitoring them for even the slightest change, every single hour. Scratch that, every single minute. When you think about it, every single thing about our lives has been controlled by this brain tumor. This stupid, barely tangible group of rogue cells. This tumor must be arrogant as hell, knowing that it has literally stopped us in our tracks. But just like the radiation is doing, we're going to give this tumor a serious reality check.
After a while (I'd like to think it was this past weekend) you slow down and realize that you can only control TODAY. There's a slight shift, where the thought of the tumor invokes far less panic and paranoia than it did every second of the past few weeks. It's as though the tumor's novelty has worn off and you realize that, for us at least, we still have a wedding to plan, post-wedding jobs to find, and most importantly, an incredible life to live.
This may be a terrible analogy, but the best way I can think to explain the lead-up adrenaline, the prolonged excitement and the inevitable slowdown we've experienced is to think about being a little kid at Christmastime. Imagine you're 8-years-old and ALLLLLL you want in the world is a Transformers action figure (can you imagine who this little kid might be?). You write letter after letter to Santa and even beg your parents – non-stop, mind you – for this toy. It's as if getting this toy is a matter of life or death. You painstakingly wait for what seems like FOREVER for Christmas to come, checking under the tree for a toy that maybe, just maybe, is the same size and weight of your Transformers action figure. Finally, Christmas morning arrives and you run down the stairs, rip into your presents (only after your parents give you permission, of course) and scream, jump and fist-pump the air with delight once you open your brand-new Optimus Prime action figure.
No matter how excited that kid may be, or how pumped he is to play with his action figure every single second of the day, there comes a time when he tires of his new toy. There comes a time when the toy isn't nearly as exciting, or maybe his arm has fallen off in one of his many play battles. Either way, the kid moves on to something else and leaves his once-beloved Optimus Prime action figure in his toy box, no doubt strewn with other must-have gifts of Christmas' past. Bottom line is, the novelty wore off and he's ready for something new.
That's how Bryan and I feel now that it's Week #5 of treatment. Only nine more days. We woke up this morning and there was a different vibe in the air. It was a much more normal vibe, like the novelty of the tumor is starting to wear off. Please understand that I'm not trying to make light of our situation; that's not it at all. Rather, the shock of our situation has finally worn off. It's no longer a mad dash and we're able to flip the lens of our perspective. We've realized that while, yes, we still have nine days of radiation and chemo pills left, there is a bigger picture out there and we have our lives to live. We can't sit in our apartment and just stare at the walls, waiting for something to happen. Because the bottom line is, we don't know what's going to happen. I could walk out of my apartment and get hit by a bus this afternoon. If I did, I'd probably be pissed knowing that we spent the past month sitting inside our apartment, wondering about the unknown. But given that I haven't yet been hit by a bus, it's not too late for us to get up, shake off the figurative "dust," and re-join the ranks of the living. There's no reason for us not to; no reason for us to feel sorry for ourselves (for the record, that's the one emotion we still haven't felt) or be scared of the future. Because we've put the wheels in motion, put all the puzzle pieces in place, and now it's time for us to live our lives.
I feel relieved knowing that we've gotten to this point. Sure, Bryan's symptoms still suck, but he's no longer upset about it. He's committed to getting better. He knows there will be two more weeks of feeling less-than-stellar, but he can handle it. Because we have so much to look forward to. Like I said, we've got our wedding in 26 days. We don't look at it like a traditional wedding; rather, it's our victory party. Not of beating cancer – that party will be scheduled one year from now (and every year from then on) – but a victory of getting through what will then have been eight weeks of shock, awe, tears, fears, and ultimately, joy. And we'll put those eight weeks to bed and start the rest of our lives with two simple words: "I do."
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