Chemo is done.
I am getting mapped for radiation tomorrow.
In my mind stage three means nothing but a number.
There is no way on earth I could have taken anything better or for longer than I did. I had nine months of adriamycin, abraxane, cytoxan and xeloda. Reminds me of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when they blew up the safe in the train and everything around it was blown to smithereens....
"Think you used enough dynamite there Butch?"
So I left a message with my breast surgeon that I want my port out.
This was met with a trepedatious, "Well, we have to see what the oncologist says."
This means, well, we don't think you are going to be NED for very long so why have another surgery???
So yesterday I sat down across from my onc and point blank asked him:
"Is there anything more we can do?"
His response was "NO- you had more than 100% of total treatment. The rest will be taken care of with hormonals."
Remember, this is a man who has been "shooting for a cure" from day one. Even though he cannot tell me we accomplished that, and won't know until about a year and half to two years from now.
And then I asked him, "Can I have my port out?"
Without blinking an eye he said "YES."
Am I whistling past the graveyard? Committing a major kinnehura? Tempting fate?
I want this damn thing out. I am tired of walking around like I am wired for Radio Free Europe transmissions.
If the day comes that I need to get it put back in, so be it.
But until then- take the goddamn thing out- move forward and don't look back.