Last Chemo

  Two-Year Rollercoaster: My Son’s Last Chemo Appointment and What Comes Next

As I sit here, watching him in that sterile hospital room for the last time for chemo,  I’m overwhelmed with emotions. Tears are falling faster than I can wipe them away, and I’m struggling to grasp what this means. 

It’s been a wild ride. For the last two years, my life has been a mix of appointments, blood tests, hospital gowns, and far too many nights spent in a hospital room with the rhythmic beeping of machines as my soundtrack. The day I’ve been waiting for—my son’s last chemotherapy session—has finally arrived. It feels like both the end of a chapter and the start of a whole new book. But what comes next? What does life look like after this wild, medical rollercoaster of a ride? And, perhaps more importantly, what will our new “normal” be?

 I’ve learned how to smile through exhaustion, how to comfort my son when he’s scared, and how to hide my own fear from him. I’ve held his hand during procedures, wiped his tears when the pain became too much, and tried to keep the promise that everything would be okay, even when I wasn’t sure if it would be. And through it all, I learned to live for the small victories—the moments when he could laugh, when he could eat something, when he could make it through another treatment without too many tears.

But here we are. Today marks the end of the chemo journey, and honestly, I don’t even know how to process it. I spent so much time living in this world of appointments, doctors’ notes, and questions like, “How’s his energy? Any temperature ?” that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to plan for a weekday that doesn’t involve the words “hospital” or “medication.”

So, what will life be like now? What’s our new normal?

First of all, let me tell you, it’s a bit terrifying. We’ve spent two years living in constant “wait and see” mode. Every test result, every doctor’s visit was a potential cliffhanger. Do I still need to schedule something? Will there be a surprise? I’m sure I’ll continue to check his temperature 47 times a day, just in case.

But there’s also freedom. There’s a big, wide world beyond chemo chairs and IV drips. A world where my son’s health is his own again. I can start planning holidays  without thinking about infusion schedules or whether the nearest hospital has a good children's ward. I can let go of the constant low-level anxiety that comes with worrying about the next treatment, the next blood test, the next…everything.

What does our new normal look like? Well, apart from lots of appointments, check ups and scans,it’s definitely going to involve a lot more family time. Time spent at the park, soft play, on the couch, or, dare I say, even on a holiday without a backpack full of meds. I’m looking forward to the kind of normal where I don’t have to ask about side effects or play pharmacist with a pile of pill bottles. And, hopefully, more of those long nights of sleep we’ve all been missing out on.

But it’s not just about freedom—it’s about perspective. This journey has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever gone through, and I would never wish it on anyone. But I can’t help but acknowledge the ways it has changed me. It’s taught me patience (though I’m still working on it), resilience (I’ve found a well of strength I didn’t know I had), and, yes, a deep appreciation for the little things. Like a random Tuesday where nobody has a doctor’s appointment. Or laughing with my son over something silly, knowing just how precious those moments are.

As for the humour—it’s helped us through. In the middle of the hardest days, we’ve cracked jokes. We’ve made light of the bizarre things we’ve encountered. We’ve laughed at the medical lingo we’ve come to understand way too well. (Why do doctors feel the need to say “good” in the middle of a sentence that clearly isn’t good? “The scan is good… but…”)

So, here’s to a new chapter. A chapter where the word “chemo” takes a backseat, and the word “adventure” takes the wheel. A chapter where we figure out what this new normal really means, one step at a time. But, most importantly, it’s a chapter where I can look at my son and know that we made it through the hardest part together—and we’ll keep moving forward, one day at a time.

For now, though, I’m going to let myself cry. I’m going to let the tears come, because they represent everything we’ve been through. They represent the pain, the fear, the hope, and the love that has carried us through this journey. And they also represent the relief of knowing that my son is done with this part of his battle. He’s made it to the other side, and so have I.

I want to say a heartfelt thank you to all my friends, family, and the amazing team at Camp Simcha for being there for us throughout this incredibly bumpy journey. Your love, strength, and constant support have meant everything. Whether it’s been a kind word, a helping hand, or just showing up when we needed you most—you’ve helped us get through the darkest moments. Camp Simcha, thank you for continuing to walk beside us and for being a light in the hardest times. There’s still a long way to go, but knowing that we have all of you by our side gives us the strength to keep going. Whatever comes next, we know we won’t be facing it alone—and for that, we are so deeply grateful