Last Days of Chemo

I have had a really hard time starting this post. I'm not exactly sure why...I mean, we are almost done. Alex had his last IV Chemo on Wednesday, and will swallow his last pills this Monday night.

Eric and I both went with Alex to this last appointment. We took the Tram with a full sheet cake box full of six (yes, 6) batches of triple chocolate brownies for the clinic staff, nurses, and doctors who have taken such good care of Alex these past two years.

Everyone was awesome and the tale of the "mountain" of brownies spread quickly. All the doctors who had taken care of Alex came in to see him off. Then, the nurses sang an "End-Of-Chemo" song to the tune of "She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain". Then, they gave Alex a great Buzz Lightyear Walkie-Talkie set. Alex hid in my arms as the nurses sang, then was crazy silly again (that's what happens when you let him eat Brownies for breakfast).

I thought I would cry tears of joy, I thought I would be so emotional, but the truth is, I will see all of these people in 6 weeks for Alex's first blood check-up, post treatment. I guess it still doesn't seem real.

Alex will have a pre-op appointment soon to prepare to take out his Port. Then, on December 6th, he will be given "sleepy milk" one last time, and they will remove his Port. He wants to keep it, and asked me "will it be all slimy?". I told him I thought they would clean it up before they gave it to him.

We went out tonight, and selected a box for Alex to keep his Port in. He picked a nice mahogany colored jewelry box. He said he will save all his very special things in it.

Last night, Alex and I talked for a long time about his Port being removed. He is really nervous about it.

"How are they going to get my blood?"

I told him they will use a needle in his arm, just like he has seen Mommy and Daddy do it when we donate blood. His face turned ashen, and his eyes welled up with tears.

"Is it going to hurt?"

I told him we would use the same numbing cream on his arms that we used on the Port.

"I don't want that again, it hurt."

I looked at him a bit confused, as I watched tears roll down his face.

"Honey, does it hurt when you get your Port accessed?"

He said it didn't, and then frustrated, walked over to his toy basket, and my heart sank. He pulled out the arm restraint that he had when he was first admitted to the Pediatic ICU, when he had an IV, and then his PICC line.

"When I wore THIS, mommy! This really hurt, I don't want to do that again!"

The PICC line was the temporary IV in his upper arm, that had to be kept dry at all times, or the IV nurses would need to change the dressing. Since he wasn't even four years old yet, that proved difficult, and it had to be changed a lot. It hit me then, that he remembered that night just as vividly as we do. He remembers the night his life changed too.

"Oh honey, you aren't getting a new PICC line, and they won't be leaving the needle in. They will do a quick poke, draw the blood, and then pull out the needle right away."

That seemed to make him pause a moment, and then he looked me right in the eyes and said something that still makes me cry when I think about it.

"Mommy, if the cancer comes back, I don't want a PICC line, it hurt. I just want a Port."

I had no words at first.

Then, I looked him right back, and said that I didn't think his cancer was coming back. And, if it did, I would demand that he get a Port immediately - no PICC line for him.

This is one promise I hope to never have to fulfill.