GO.

growing up, every sunday at the end of church, my dad would say one word to the congregation. i can hear it clearly now, thirty years later. after birthdays, anniversaries and moments of import were announced, he would raise his arms, smile ever so slightly, and shift his gaze above our heads. voice emphatic, with a hint of promise, he would pronounce one syllable:

“GO.”

and off we would.

each week, an opportunity to begin again. in my dad’s religious terms, i’m sure the instructions were to go off and ‘live god’s word’, or something to that effect. i chose to take it as instructions to go off into the world, doing good, living well, and living fully.

this month, i completed my 13th and final month of treatment. i’ve been poked countless times with needles, sat in endless waiting rooms, and cost my insurance company a very large sum of money. initially, the shape of my hospital visit days were jagged and sharp. over time, the edges became more rounded as it all became more comfortable and familiar. traditions emerged: gratitude emails, a stop for an oat milk latte, or a sesame bagel with double cream cheese (they are rather skimpy on the cream cheese here in thailand, so double cream cheese is in fact an appropriate amount of cream cheese)!

on the day of my last treatment, i went to the hospital on my own. it was a symbolic choice. when i first found out i had cancer, i was by myself. of course, the support and companionship i’ve had from my wide circle of friends over the past 16 months has made me feel less alone; but ultimately, i am in this illness alone. my mom joked with me that if there was a self-reliant quotient, i would be off the charts. i can see from her perspective this might be an ever-so-slightly frustrating quality about me. (insert chuckle here for anyone that knows me well!) while i may have been on my own, i wasn’t lonely. during treatment, i chatted with two friends back home and even took a selfie with the chemo nurses as i was leaving. i waved and endearingly said, “i hope i never see you again!”

traditionally, at the end of chemo, there is a bell that is rung. i’ve always felt a bit awkward about it. a very public display of completion – the person who is done their chemo or treatment rings the bell in the chemo ward, and everyone cheers. it marks their final session and announces to the world their own fresh start. i struggle because some people will never get to ring that bell. in the end, i didn’t have the choice. there was no bell to be rung. i wrote to friends and family who rung bells all over the world for me, which felt like a more intimate and appropriate gesture.

there are many metaphors for beginning again: a new chapter. the seasons changing. turning over a leaf. ringing the bell. mine was less of a metaphor. i took one last look at the nursing table, went down the elevator, signed the paperwork at billing, said goodbye to my best friend on the phone, called my taxi driver, and walked towards the automatic doors.

no bell. no cheering. no celebration.

as the doors opened, and i felt the hot humid bangkok air flood over me, i whispered to myself, “GO.”

and i did.

**********

rather anticlimactically, i did have to return to the hospital two days later for routine scanning. i received extraordinarily good news when my oncologist called to let me know that my PET scans came back clear. onwards.

*a few years ago, i went with my bangkok family to the yasathon rocket festival, in northeastern thailand. local communities created home-made rockets (like actual extremely high powered rockets) competing for prizes and calling for a successful rainy season. it was thrilling, dangerous and unlike anything i had ever experienced before. when the rockets exploded into the sky, everyone looked up, watching hopefully. instead of watching the rockets, i turned around and watched them. i imagine this young boy is me. looking forward to what is next. photo taken in yasathon, may 2015.