No More Chemo...I'm Calling It

Generally, when I hear the statement, "no more chemo," I feel a flood of happiness.  I usually hear it as a celebratory exclamation as someone has reached the end of a successful hard-fought battle against cancer.  It's a time of rejoice and celebration.   I remember when Brody finished his first year of chemo and we entered that wonderful year of remission.  If only I had a time machine to take us back to that wonderful year.  It started with that statement of "no more chemo."  It was the happiest year of my life.  We had our super-star 5 year old cancer survivor free of any evidence of disease and his loving, understanding, always supportive brothers, 8 year old Geordi and 6 year old Jaden.   It was an amazing year full of adventure with a whole fresh perspective and appreciation for all the good things in life.  Cancer certainly has a way of changing your priorities in life.  Such a precious year of no more chemo!

But, today....today, those words take on a whole new meaning.  "No more chemo."  No more options left for us in this wretched fight!  That last little sliver of hope vanished! 

I can't say I was surprised to hear those words today.  I can't say I really expected there were any options left that would actually cure my son.  I was expecting the most I could hope for was maybe more time.  But at what cost?  Every option left would decrease Brody's quality of life with maybe a very minimal gain in length of life. 

Today, our oncologist had the very difficult task of "calling it."  He had to be the one to make that decision.  The one to decide, "when is enough, enough."   "At what point are you doing things to Brody rather than for Brody?"  This is the point now.  This is the point and he's "calling it."  From this point, if we continue to treat the cancer, we are doing things to Brody, not for him.  Well, we are all FOR Brody.  We support Brody 100% and have to accept that what's best for Brody is to "call it."   "No more chemo." 

As Brody's mother, I could never be the one to "call it."  I could never be the one to utter those words and take that responsibility.  Truly, I have known for awhile that we had reached that point.  But I couldn't "call it."  I couldn't give up.  You always tell yourself to never, never, never give up in this fight.  It's the basic battle cry.  It's a required battle cry.  Thank goodness, I don't have to be the doctor.  I am Brody's mother and will continue to do whatever is best for Brody.  I am not giving up.  I am doing what's best.  "No more chemo."

My heart is on the floor, heavy as a stone.  How do I pick it up and move on?  How can this really be happening?  When am I going to wake-up from this nightmare?  How do I find the strength to cherish and enjoy each precious moment we may have left? How do I tell Brody the words we heard today?  Do I tell Brody?   How do I lift up out of this woeful sorrow and back into the moment, back into life?  Why can't I grieve later?  But I just curl into a ball and keep crying.  I pray and pray and I pray.  I can't tell you how many times just today I've prayed.  But here I sit right now crying.