The Olympics are here!  I am so excited, I am one of those dorks that count the days, waits, and watches every night (while glued to my uber smart phone updates during the day) no matter what time zone the games are occurring in.  I love to read their stories and admire their passionate dedication and of course then has to hide my head under the pillow or change the channel at the pinnacle moment (true sports fan that I am, you should see me at the kids’ games…) because I can not stand to see them fail, come up short, or be disappointed after their intense lifetime efforts.

And speaking of lifetime training to designed for the ultimate test of endurance, last week I received my last Herceptin treatment.  If you do not mind indulging me, I am going to say that a few (many) more times, because I can!  Last week I received my last Herceptin treatment.  Last week I received my last Herceptin treatment.  Last week we received our last cancer treatment. Fifteen unimaginably excruciating months of surgeries, chemo, and drugs.  Last week I received my last cancer treatment.  I think I can, I think I can, I thought I could, I knew I might, I actually did it (note to reader, please feel free to ignore below paragraphs laced with my doubts, while honest, I much prefer this party line)!  My last treatment course was aptly received in the comfort of my most beloved mountain town setting with my G-d mother with me (and my mother, sister, husband, and mother in law in my heart after one of them attended every other treatment with me) and with a lot less fan fare than when my chemo began.  WE did it, last week I received my cancer treatment.  I could share a million words over the course of eternity and never convey what this milestone feels like.  I do know that to minimally scratch the surface, I feel, elation, joy, satisfaction, gratitude, hope, faith, fear, sadness, confusion, angst, pride, and a great deal of peace.

I will let you in on a secret, when this started, despite my go get ‘em mantra, deep down I worried at times that I might not make it through the trials. Make it through to the Opening Ceremonies (of the rest of my life), make it to this point (of optimism), make it still standing (tall’ish), make it at all…

To be blunt – my experience was cancer killed.  Killed my father, killed my uncle, killed countless people I love, whose lives I value and respect.  Period.  Many have foolishly said to me in the last 15 months, “don’t worry, you are so lucky, it’s only breast cancer, everyone survives, but LET ME TELL YOU, I know, first hand – that is a crock of runny poo.  And others, they have beat the beast and lived long enough to regain confidence in their future only to discover the monster was there hiding inside all along until it was too late.  Getting to this glorious day is in a word, miraculous.  Leaving behind the coach and teammates that afforded me my miracle and walking the beam alone is downright unnerving.

My intention is not to be depressing but rather real, on the precipice of the gorgeous inspiring pageantry and glory of the (my) Games, I feel compelled to point out that for every gold medal winner, someone falls, takes one itty bitty step, or is one-gazillionth of a second slower despite their training and preparation.  For every winner, someone loses.  Today is my victory, but I walk to the podium with the weight of all those who fell short hugging my shoulders.  They fell short just because life happened and not due to any fault of their own.  Whether it was a bad spin of the genetic wheel or not enough research leading to enough affordable solutions or whatever, there are motherless daughters and sons, widowed spouses, suffering parents and siblings, and lost friends.  My heart remains aware in its celebration knowing that as I survive and bear witness, it becomes my responsibility to fight for better, more humane treatment and an end to cancer for all, including those who never get to “end” their treatment after being cured or even those yet to be inflicted or diagnosed but who are exposed every second of their lives.

Today we are together, safe, and filled with health, happiness, and peace.  And I mean really totally incredibly happy – for the first time in too long a time.  I am writing tonight from deep in the backcountry where we are camping (STOP laughing immediately…beotches, I am the original mountain girl [not to mention one hell of a good sport who also happens to be the mommy to 2 boys] not with standing the poison oak covering my face [it goes extremely well with my awful hair-do in case you were wondering, but after what I’ve been through it doesn’t seem like that big a deal, except maybe to my husband who might have had exotic romantic thoughts in the wild and has to look at me]).  Is it still “backcountry” if you can see where you parked, drive an urban tank suitable for sleeping if necessary with your 10-pound “mountain dog,” and are typing away on your MacBook Pro in said wilderness?  Actually, joking aside, we have set up quite a camp in the exquisite Pisgah National Forest off the Blue Ridge Parkway.

The boys are chowing on man-food after we cooked a fairly impressive gourmet meal and I am observing my family with a renewed happiness.  I am embarrassed to admit that at the moment I realized that the foreign feelings I was experiencing were complete peace and joy I barely recognized them.  It is so totally fantastic to feel, well, to feel like me again.

I have true pride and complete comfort in the choices our family made.  Where those treatment decisions seemed impossible at the moments made and the eternity their repercussions were endured, time has been kind and more or less gentle with us and as was our hope, we have absolutely no regrets.  We did not send the boys to camp this year even where their friends went in droves, instead opting to keep them under wing.  This too was a big deal as some of the best memories of my life were at camp (Akiba) and I long for my sons to have an experience like mine.  But observing them in this setting tonight, I am bursting with relief at the possibility that we adequately, even if imperfectly, exposed them to the truth but still protected them from the horror that is cancer and being a four or nine year old boy whose mommy has cancer.  That our wish came true and that they will look back and in equal parts be proud of their parents’ actions and conduct while actually remembering only generalized bits of what they have been through.  To our biased eyes, the boys seem strong and remarkable and thriving.

That’s it.  There is much more to be said, but better I should go prepare the s’mores that need to be cooked at the fire.  Bring on the opening ceremony of our next chapter.  We are prepared, eager, and ready.  Three weeks until surgery and the very last step (I pray) in this phase of my journey.  I hope to luxuriously make my victory lap last for the next 40 or so years.  After 15 excruciating months, I am honestly going to sleep (and perhaps can even learn to actually sleep again) with real hopes and dreams of my future.  But I will not forget my past and I will advocate and continue training for a better, healthier, and cancer free future for us all – you have my word – always going for the gold.

Much love,

jodi alison