He drove me home.

I met with my radiologist oncologist Dr. White, and her fellow Dr. W. on Wednesday morning after my treatment.  I sat in her exam room and waited and thought about a lot of things.  I thought this would probably be my last doctor's visit for cancer treatment.  I have plenty of appointments lined up in the next few months - like just getting to these is going to be a full time job - but this was possibly going to be my last appointment with an oncologist while in treatment.

I thought about my first visit to the Stephanie Spielman Center, and what a long day of appointments it had been - I had met with two surgeons and two oncologists that day.  We were there from 8am to 6:30pm.  But even though it had been the most grueling of days, I remembered well how the doctors at this place could hand you the most devastating news, and yet send you out the door smiling with a string of hope on your heart.

I remembered being able to follow the doctor's information mostly and how words hit me like "metastatic"; "stage 3"; "a hopeful study drug"; "ten years ago, this diagnosis had little hope".... they all fell on me like a ton of bricks.

I thought *these days* you got breast cancer, got treatment, and lived happily ever after.  I had not heard the words "triple negative" together in a sentence my whole life, and now suddenly, it was my whole life.  

When doctors say the words "metastatic-triple-negative" together in a sentence, they sit on a stool directly in front of you, knee to knee, looking at you full on in the face, eye to eye.  The female oncologists take hold of your hand.

They know the words that are coming out of their mouths will affect the person in front of them for the rest of their life.  Their eyes do not look away as they say the painful words nor when they are done speaking.  Their steadfast eyes make you trust them even when you know you were just pushed over a deep, deep treacherous ravine by their words.

I knew cancer was serious, I knew it would be hard, but I didn't know I was in for the fight of my life.  I didn't know how big the odds were against me.   Even if I didn't know this at the beginning of my appointment that day fourteen months ago, I know enough about the medical field to know if your first appointment with a doctor takes over two and a half hours, it's more than the common cold we are talking here.....

I thought about all of that while I waited for Dr. White and her red headed fellow.

And not for the first time in that large complex full of lots of people with a radiation wing, diagnostic scan wing, lab wing, ekg, chemo floor, surgeons offices, physical therapy wing, a half floor dedicated to mammograms and ultrasounds - within that whole complex I had wandered from room to room, wing to wing the past year hearing both bad news and good news; and when Dr. White walked in, her words once again, made my eyes swim with tears.

After the appointment I went back to the patient waiting room, changed quickly, said hurried good byes to my lady friends and barely made it to the car.  I opened the car door, got in, sat down - and as I have so many times within the many nooks and crannies of the half mile vicinity of that large building - I wept.

I sobbed.  And sobbed.  And cried.  And cried.  I could not stop.  Her words had been too powerful, too filled with meaning, too much poured onto me in just one phrase to allow me to keep my emotions in control.

Once again, one simple sentence changed my life.

When she walked into the exam room she simply said "you only have one more treatment!!"

And with that statement, the dam that held such deep troubled waters behind it, that had waited so long, broke.  That huge body of water that had swirled and stormed and wickedly threatened to overtake me, but had recently become still and deep, that dam - broke.  

I could not stop the flood of emotion and tears.

I could not stop the flood of memories that immediately jumped before my eyes - all the pain, all the tears, all the hurt and body bruising, all the times I could barely crawl out of bed during my last chemo go around, or all the times I could not sleep for days on end due to steroids with my first chemo go around; all the times I was refused treatment because my bone marrow and blood cells could not recover and I would try to get ready to go home, then be overcome with the meaning of another missed treatment and sit on the side of my bed and weep and weep because I could not control my emotions when dealing with low blood counts even if I wanted to, and suddenly within me my soul found a purity in weeping when it needed to weep for the first time in my life.

Before my eyes, I saw all the nurses who had held my hand, hugged me, comforted me, filled me with information and facts, and told me again and again how many *metastatic-cancer* patients with this aggressive triple negative cancer had missed treatments as well, and were still alive.

They didn't say how long they were alive, and I never asked.  I just took it for what it was - hope.

My brain could not stop that parade of events.  It all marched before me like a vision.

I remembered all the lonely times the past fourteen months I stood in my dining room on the treadmill friends had loaned us, lifted my hands before a holy God, with tears on my face - and worshiped - because there was nothing left to do, no prayer left to say, no intervention not begged.

I remembered the nights I awakened to find Scott leaning over me with his hands on me, crying, praying, begging our God for deliverance, because the doctors words had been too hard that day on our ears.

I remembered how fragmented my brain became, and how difficult it was to think.  And to think and then to speak intelligently for months and months and months.  I said the wrong things, laughed at the wrong things, cried over crazy things, all because they were scorching the nerve endings deep inside my cranium.

I remembered how difficult it was suddenly to walk easily with neuropathy, and how I had to plan my footfalls at times so I would not do further injury to already burning, painful nerve endings.

I remembered the painful digestive track, the "grow two sizes in two hours" bloating.  The difficulty of eating.  I counted calories for the first time in my life to maintain weight, not to lose it.    I remembered how fragile my once strong bones and teeth felt, and how I thought one good fall could break them all.  

I sat there in the midst of this flood, in the driver seat of my car, and continually said thanks to a God that had walked this journey with me.  A God Who had held me and kept me and covered me with His wings.  I said thanks to a God who had awakened my soul from the deep, and allowed me to see Him, His corners of His wings that bring healing.  I sat there in that car, and God sat with me, helping me remember the suffering, the hurt, the pain, and over all that was His covering.

It didn't make it hurt any less, but it uncovered a part of me long ago put to sleep by harsh life events.  His wings touched my soul and my soul awakened and bloomed all over within, covering pain over pain, hurt over hurt.

I remembered the first appointment, my first day shortly after 8:30am, without a complete diagnosis, having my surgeon that I would come to love and greatly respect, stand in front of me with his arms crossed and demand - after a 12 minute explanation - that I tell him my choice of options he had just presented to me.  He prodded me to make a hasty decision as to what I would choose for his part in all of my meandering treatment.

I was confused, angry, scared, so scared, and I remember leaning back - almost being gently pushed back - on that cold exam table and feeling supported.  There was nothing behind me on that table.

Then looking up, I saw what I immediately knew to be the wings of God over that cold lonely exam room ceiling.

The ceiling was covered with the wings of God.  White, feathery, soft wings.  I saw them - it was not an illusion, not a mind trick, not a departure from reality - they were placed there by a God that had heard my cry, my whimper, my desperate whisper for help - and the universe ripped apart and I saw His wings covering that room.

I thought on the warm whiteness of those wings again while I sat there in that Chevrolet weeping, wiping my nose on my sleeves because I had run out of a mountain of stored Starbucks napkins, and there was only one person to call - I called Scott.  He didn't pick up his cell phone, so I called his classroom number.  He answered concerned, because I only call that number, interrupt his class, for emergencies.

I couldn't talk.  He wanted to know if I was ok.  I said, yes, "I -sob- am doing -sob- really -sob- good".  He said "I'm coming down - what did your doctor say?"

I finally choked out the words - "She said I'm done.  I'm done, Scott.  It is finished.  I only have one more treatment.  I'm done".  And then I laughed.  And then I sobbed.

He didn't say anything for a moment, couldn't say anything for a moment, then said "I know, sweets, I know.  You're done."

He has been my Jesus daily here on this earth.  He has cared for me, comforted me, prodded me, helped me.  He has used up his sick days, his health, to take care of me.  He is the closest thing to mirror God that I have met on this earth.

He knew what this moment was - our journey to the end of hell and back - our journey through the valley of the shadow of death - for this moment - was finished.

***

I have wandered this journey without knowing a lot of things.  I didn't know that at the end of the treatment you go out to the waiting area and ring a bell three times after your lead radiation expert reads the words:

Ring this bell

Three times well

Its toll to clearly say,

 

My treatment's done

This course is run

And I am on my way!

One of my new radiation friends, Joline, printed off the information and brought it to me the next day when I told her I had not heard of this tradition before.  I briefly mentioned it to Scott, when I was home one weekend and told him that Joline was a little disappointed that her family could not be there for her bell ringing.  

I knew he didn't have any extra sick days to take so I didn't even hint, not a hint, that he should be there.  I told Heidi about it, and told her she could come if she wanted as Millie-bean has gone along with me to a few treatments, met all the good, happy, kind ladies and loved them as well.

So Heidi, her two daughters Addy and Millie-bean and I walk into the radiation wing Thursday morning.  Addy had talked non-stop about missing school so she could watch Grandmum ring the bell.  She packed a big lunchbox full of snacks thinking it might take most of the day.  I told her a few times that she would not be waiting long, but she and Millie also packed a backpack full of dolls and outfits for entertainment.  

As we walked in, I was already crying.  Millie walked up to the ladies and showed them her baby in her new outfit, they were smiling and loving on her again, then behind us the doors opened again and a whole crowd of people that I love most in the world walked in - Chloe and Zoe and Scotty and Leila; Kristi, and my dear, dear Scott that had secretly planned this all with the kids.  

They were all there.  

And I cried some more.  The relief, the love, the happiness -- all happened at once in that place of hope, that place that I had wandered in for so long.  The hugs and laughter and happiness could be heard all over the building.  The squeals of delight from four small girls was infectious.  The other folks in the waiting room all smiled and laughed.  Chloe hugged me and hugged me and yelled "Grandmum - you're treatments are all done!!"  Zoe just hugged and hugged and told me she was "so happy".  Addy and Millie jumped and laughed and yelled.  

The two front ladies that I have come to know were pleasantly surprised at how much the young girls knew of my treatment and how cognizant they all were for this moment.  

I know.  I know how blessed I am to have this family.  I know how blessed I am to have had all of them care for me and love me so this past year.  They have all done so much to help and lesson our burden and care and love, and I am so blessed.  I know that.  

Then that whole blessed group waited a short time while I went in for. my. last. treatment.  

In the patient waiting room I cried with Joline a little - she had waited on me to be there for my last day.  I cried with my radiation people - I told them I had been "doing this place" for a long time, and that I could never, ever, repay them for the good they had done for me.  I could never repay them for the encouragement, the happiness, the fun, the healing.  

I hugged them all - then they gave me gifts only a radiation patient would treasure - my 'protective-scar-blob-thing' and my chin strap.  We had the "ceremonially throwing away of the chin strap".  It's not the favorite part of treatment, but keeps your body not moving while you get the radiation.  It was kind of like throwing away that horrid maternity dress you were stuck wearing the last two months of pregnancy because it was the only thing that fit.  You just were glad you had it when you needed it, but ever so glad to see it go.  

We laughed one more time over some private jokes then I told them they all had to come out and "be Gerwigged" - and they gladly stood out there with us all, participated and watched, applauding loudly while I rang the bell.  

My family was over the top happy.  I was over the top happy.  We all knew it isn't a perfect life, but sometimes you have some perfect moments, and this was one of them.  

I will cherish it forever. 

We went to lunch later, and celebrated over some good appetizers, good food, and good desserts.  

Four little girls and I declared it "THE BEST DAY EVAH!!"  

And it was.  

***

Kristi had to go back to work, and the rest of us ended up back at Heidi's house.  I was surprised when Scott asked our son to drive his car home for him.  I thought it a bit odd and commented that the alone driver with two kids might not want to share their driving partner.  Scott turned to me and told me "I drove you to your first appointment, and I am going to drive you home, sweets".  

We held hands most of the way, with the radio off most of the way, and mostly just smiled.  I cried a little more, then we smiled some more.  Then we would talk about the funny things the girls had said that day, and laugh, then sit and be quiet and smile again.  

Amidst the flood of events, God has walked us through the best and worst.  We don't know what the future holds, but each day I get up and say "Blessed art thou Lord God King of the universe, that gives me another breath of life, another day to live."  And live it, I plan to do.  

It's not a perfect life, but there are some perfect moments.  

And he drove me home.