Practicing Medicine

Today was infusion #6 of 6. The final planned treatment in this phase. It felt like a strange milestone—equal parts relief and uncertainty. Sitting in that familiar infusion chair again, I realized how much this space has become part of my routine, part of my healing, part of my survival.

The oncologist stopped by during my treatment. She checked in with me and reviewed how I’ve been doing. Thankfully, she told me, “You’re continuing to do well with DTP.” No fevers, no vomiting, no diarrhea. The facial rash I’ve been battling has finally improved with the clindamycin cream. It was a short, reassuring conversation—but it felt good to hear those words: “You’re doing well.”

And then something unexpected happened.

The chaplain stopped by. At first, I wasn’t sure what to say. But he sat with me, and we just talked. He asked about how I’ve been feeling—not just physically, but spiritually, emotionally. It was the first time in a long time that someone asked about more than my lab results or side effects.

I shared parts of my story with him—my diagnosis, the treatment, the way life flipped upside down last fall. He listened carefully, and helped me reflect on how I’ve made it this far. I realized that it’s not just the medicine keeping me going. It’s been my faith, my family, my personality. My ability to still find joy in small moments. My stubborn refusal to give up.

But I also admitted something harder: as I approach surgery, I feel the worry building. It’s like the closer I get to the next phase, the heavier it all feels. He guided me through reflecting on those feelings, using imagery and quiet pauses to let it settle in. I realized that prayer, my relationships, inspirational readings—these have been my anchors. My strength isn’t just mine alone.

Before he left, he prayed with me. It wasn’t flashy or dramatic. It was simple, heartfelt, and deeply comforting. He reminded me to care for my whole self—not just my body, but my mind, my emotions, my spirit.

When the infusion was done, I sat there for a moment, absorbing it all. Six rounds complete. A chapter closing. But the journey isn’t over. Surgery is next. Radiation. More healing.

But for today? I made it. I completed the plan.