Goodbye Stranger

Eleanor is scheduled to have her central line removed tomorrow. Even as I write that, I am full of doubt that it will happen. Having your line taken out is a big deal; it means no more blood work, no more transfusions and no more chemo. It means she is done her active treatment. She will have routine blood work once a month, and they will have to poke her to do it, but no more dressing changes, cap changes or heparin-locking. She is no longer "high risk", so when she runs a low grade fever (as she did on Sunday), we don't have to rush into hospital for antibiotics.

This is a milestone I thought she would never meet.

After our first trip home in August, I met a young girl in the clinic who was having her line taken out. She was woozy from anaesthetic and climbed into the lap of the doctor I was speaking to, clutching a plastic baggie that contained her line. The doctor gave her a big hug and congratulated her on being so brave. I immediately burst into tears; it was so fucking sweet. The doctor turned to me and said, "she will get there one day, too". I hated her for saying that. She didn't know Eleanor and we had just found out the week prior that, despite all our efforts, the cancer had spread. Obviously her line was never coming out because the chemo wasn't working and she was going to die. Or so I thought, at the time. I thought that when you have cancer, you go through a regime of chemo and you either go into remission and become the cutest, pig-tailed little girl in your doctor's lap or you die. With your line in.

But here we are - the night before her line removal surgery and a relatively clean bill of health. Even with her lung nodules, she's thriving.

As I lie here with my baby girl slowly drifting off to sleep next to me, my mind wanders back to the night before her line was put in. We spent it curled up together in a single bed in ICU. Our nurse woke me at 4am to feed Eleanor, but she wouldn't go back to sleep. I was under strict orders to not let her cry or fuss; any stress on her over-taxed heart could have been fatal. I ended up wearing her in the Ergo and swaying back and forth for eight hours. It was supposed to be four, but her surgery was pushed back. It's so different tonight. Eleanor is calm and happy and quietly snoring as she holds on to my arm. We are at home, safe in my bed, miles and miles away from the hospital. It's really nice.

I can't wait for tomorrow. It feels like Christmas. But I won't believe it til I'm clutching that line in my hand.

Sleep tight, little bear. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life.