Today, I reached another milestone on this journey—my last Keytruda infusion.
The morning started early with my familiar trip to Mayo Clinic. As usual, first stop was labs. I’ve been holding out for a good report, and thankfully, there was improvement. My potassium managed to slide just barely into the normal range, my hemoglobin crept just over the line into normalcy, and my white blood count was—well—normal enough. Progress, even if small, still feels good.
This time, I had a nurse who was new to me. She usually works in the cancer center but was helping out in the breast clinic. Unlike my regular nurses, she didn’t go through the labs and exam in detail. Maybe she assumed that after a year of this, I knew the drill. She did offer me the chance to ask questions, but I didn’t have any. At this point, I just wanted the green light. She signed me off for treatment, and with that, I officially started round six of Capecitabine.
From there, I took the long walk to the Cancer Center, and with every step, I felt the weight of grief for my beloved companion—“Flow.”
Let me pause here. You don’t know about Flow. Flow is my water bottle. She wasn’t just any water bottle—she’s been with me since the very beginning of chemo. Every session, she earned a new sticker, each one carrying the thoughts, feelings, or memories from that treatment day. Some were even special gifts from coworkers. Flow told a story—my story—of one of the hardest parts of my life.
But Flow is gone.
On Saturday, I took my son to an event. My hands were full, but not with her. I left her on the floor where I had been sitting in the school auditorium. About 50 minutes later, I realized my mistake, but by then the doors were locked and the place was empty. I emailed the principals and the event organizer, explaining my desperate situation. Later that evening, I got a response from the principal, who promised to check. That gave me hope.
So, after treatment today, I drove back to the school. A kind woman walked me through the auditorium and a few other rooms, but Flow wasn’t there. We asked around, checked with staff, but no luck. I left my name and number, praying that she somehow makes her way back to me.
Back at Mayo, I was escorted to my infusion room—a small space with a window that overlooked the beautiful new building. I declined the usual snacks, drinks, and even the cozy blanket. My mind wasn’t on comfort; it was on Flow. To distract myself, I watched All the Queen’s Men on my phone. The entertainment was good, but my heart was still heavy.
Once the Keytruda finished dripping, I was out the door as quickly as possible. No bell ringing this time. I’ve had enough of those moments.
Today should feel like victory. A final infusion, labs moving in the right direction, another step closer to healing. And yet, it feels incomplete. I want my water bottle back. Not just because of what it is, but because of what it represents. Flow has been with me through every battle scar, every small triumph, and every hard day in this journey. Without her, I feel a little lost.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds. Maybe Flow will show up, maybe she won’t. But either way, today marks the end of an era. And while I’m grieving a lost water bottle, I’m also quietly celebrating a big milestone in my healing.
