I know, I know, again with the sports metaphors.
Henry is doing so well that he had his Hickman (central venous catheter) removed today. The surgery went smoothly, and he's excited.
I'm equal parts exhilarated and terrified. The Hickman was convenient for blood draws and sedations, but he's down to blood only once a month and procedures once every three. So we didn't really need it anymore - it's an infection risk, and he can take a monthly venipuncture.
But pulling it says more than that.
Chemo and radiation delivered the punch, the knockout that landed Henry's cancer on it's ass. And now we've turned our backs and said, "I don't believe you'll be back."
I've said before that I'm not religious, but I'm a sucker for hubris. Are we tempting fate?
At the same time, I'm ecstatic. We haven't even hit his year anniversary of diagnosis yet. Treatment is done.
Treatment is done.