Last Chemo Everything

Posted On September 27, 2021

This past week has been one of the biggest of our lives. Tate’s last chemotherapy infusion was Wednesday morning, and last night he took his last doses of Prednisone and Mercaptopurine pills. He’s DONE!

Greg’s and my emotions are all over the place. We’re so happy and grateful Tate has made it is far, and we’re aware of how devastating it would be if the cancer were to come back. We’ve shed happy tears, actual tears, been so excited we can’t sleep, and so overwhelmed we can’t stay awake. It’s everything all at once with the surprise addition of a burst pipe that flooded the yard. Thank goodness for the distraction of an inexpensive but urgent plumbing problem.

Greg said the atmosphere at Tate’s last appointment was festive. The nurses have seen Tate on his weakest, sickest days, and his last chemotherapy appointment was a victory for them, too. Due to COVID restrictions, only one parent was allowed at the appointment, and it wasn’t my turn. Normally I stay at home and get Tate’s room all spruced up while he’s at the clinic with Greg, but I could not stay away this time and decided to wait in the parking lot. Greg sent me a text saying they were waving at me through the exam room window. I looked up, smiled and waved back to all the windows because they’re the kind you can’t see through from the outside so I couldn’t tell which room they were in, and responded that I was busy picking fights on Instagram. And I was. The fact that I was sitting in a parking lot because people have politicized a vaccine, choosing to let a virus run rampant instead of shutting it down, seemed a relevant topic as I sat there by myself, completely frustrated. I probably won’t share that picture here due to the disrespectful nature of my hand gesture (but mostly because my mom reads this).

Did I mention that the last chemo mood swings are real? Ha ha ha.

Over the last few years we have developed some chemotherapy day traditions: pretzel bread, flowers, Starbucks, and the #51 from Unphogettable, to name a few. All week I’ve been struck with thoughts of this is the last chemo pretzel bread, this is the last chemo Starbucks, and so on. But nothing hit me more than seeing Tate’s pill container last night – I stood in the hallway and just stared at it. Then I took a picture and texted it to Greg, Scott, all the grandparents, my sister, and a special friend who has stood by our side the entire miserable time.

Tate is not feeling good. Not at all. There was a ghost of a smile on his face last night when he took his last dose of “night meds,” but he’s still fighting through all the crummy stuff. If previous treatment weeks are an indication of how this one will go, Tate will wake up feeling okay on Thursday. A few days after that, our hope is that he wakes up feeling great!

The next thing on Tate’s PCH agenda is to have the port in his chest removed. We’re trying to set it up for next Friday, but so far we haven’t been able to get him added to the surgery schedule.

Tate has fought so hard. Our hope for him, in addition to the obvious one that his cancer does not return, is that he chases down dreams that kept him going on his hardest days. We know he wants to move to a different state so he can experience living somewhere new, pursue a career as an electrical engineer, and travel.

Do it, Tate. Do it all.