Martini's Up!

In film, the very last shot of the day is referred to as the "Martini Shot". It's not uncommon to hear the assistant director come over the radio and yell "Martini's up!" just before the end of a very long and arduous day. Sort of a throw back to the old days of Hollywood when people drank and smoked way too much and the real last shot of the day, was more than likely an actual martini. Nowadays it simply means that it's time to pack up your crap and put one foot out the door.

On March 29th, 2015 after 800 very long days of chemotherapy, Brooklyn received her last and final 6MP pill. Her Martini Shot.

That. Is. A. Wrap.

I spent the following four days in a tail spin, convinced that her cancer had already returned in the short time she'd been off the medication. Certain that we would go into Children's the following Friday only to be told that she had relapsed and the chemo did not work. I've spent the better part of two and half years holding it down. I've witnessed things that would ruin a normal person's entire month to witness. I have cried exactly twice, in 800 days. I have come dangerously close to losing my daughter on numerous occasions and I have done it all with a brave face because that is what she needed from me. Avi worked his ass off to support us, grandparents and family flew in and out of our lives at a moments notice to care for our infant when we could not, complete strangers sent gifts to lift her spirit- *I* was brave. Even when I didn't want to be.

The pendulum always swings the other way. My dear friend said this a few days ago, and it's stuck with me ever since. It's true. I did not feel brave on April 1st. I did not feel like celebrating or throwing a party. I felt like hiding. If hearing that my child had cancer was the number one scariest thing I'd ever been told, then hearing that she'll no longer be taking the drugs that have been keeping it from coming back is number two.

She will be monitored on a monthly basis for the next year. This is a very crucial time for Brooklyn's body to recover but it's also a time when the risk of relapse is at it's greatest. I am petrified. Not just of the cancer, but also of continuing life as usual. No more obsessive cleaning, no more lock downs or midnight ER visits. No more nurses. I love those nurses. But not seeing those nurses anymore is a good thing.

So here it is. Life's new beginning. Look, ma, no net!

Note: This is actually a post from last year that I wrote and rewrote several times and never posted.