This thing called cancer has proven to be quite the trip.
A long road trip.
Stuck in the back seat-the middle-between your annoying siblings; unable to see out the windows at the landscapes and landmarks. Car sick with an out-of-juice iPod and a battery-less Nintendo DSI. Spilled juice, wet and staining your pants is all you have to show for your stop at that must-eat-at-hole-in-the-wall your parents insisted would be fun. And to top it all off, the next available bathroom is 30 miles down the road.
Many mile markers have been passed. Weather threatens with fog and snow, blinding sunlight and driving rain. With every town passed and state line crossed, the wondering increases. The back seat, the one the car dealer ensured would be “roomy” enough, is now the size of a Hotwheel.
Will we ever get there? How much longer? Are we there yet?
Expecting the typical parental answer, you almost miss it when your dad says, “we’ll be there in 10 minutes.”
Doubting your dad, you question him again. Again, he tells you, “ten minutes. I’m serious.”
You’ve sat for so long. Fought for a window seat. Cried to your parents about how much you hate road trips. Pinched your siblings and pulled their hair. Pretended to be impressed with random road side attractions and family photo ops.
But now, in ten minutes, it will all be worth it.
Though the official vacation could still make an appearance on “when Vacations Attack,” it is guaranteed to be better than the drive. The horrible, rotten drive.
This thing called chemo is coming to an end. Ten minutes left in the journey. And then we’re there. At our vacation destination. Surgery and then radiation are next on the road map.
And then this thing called cancer will be done and gone.
A road trip we can look back on and smile. We can remind each other of the whining and the laughter we experienced.
Are we there yet?
Yes, cancer and chemo. We survived your terrible road trip.