In the weeks following treatment, sleep often overwhelmed me, no matter how hard I fought it.

photo by Alex de Parry

Readers: The events in these installments, the condensed version of my book, occurred in 2002. To catch up from the beginning, these chronicles start here.

The last test to hunt for signs of bone cancer came up with a goose egg. Using its astonishing array of tools, medical science has determined, through the process of elimination, that I had no bone cancer, no blood clots and no interior disorder other than the one we knew about. What a relief. The pain in my side — the one that had caused Dr. Doom to assume that the cancer had spread to my bones — took four weeks to subside on its own, and its cause was never found. Sometimes our mysterious bodies outwit even the best doctors — even the ones like Dr. Kaminski who actually try to find causes for symptoms.

At last, I presumed, life would return to normal. I might as well have presumed that palm trees would line the streets of Ann Arbor. No, it would take some time for my body and our emotions to heal.

A week after RIT, I stopped taking Decadron cold turkey. That steroid should be re-named Industrial Strength No-Doz. For the six weeks that I consumed it, sleep averaged about two hours a night, and during the remaining hours, I jittered as if I'd guzzled about 500 cups of strong coffee. It's no wonder that I turned into Rip Van Winkle as soon as my diet excluded this legal speed. For 36 hours straight, I slept so soundly that Alex began to worry if I would ever wake up.

And for the next five weeks, I slept nine to 10 hours each night in addition to napping once or twice a day. Between sleep, overwhelming fatigue thwarted my attempts to resurface into the life I had once known, and I grew increasingly frustrated when I couldn't even count on my body to keep itself awake.

Nearly six weeks after RIT — and three months after the last chemo treatment — my hair began to sprout, and I giggled when I brought my razor out of retirement and shaved my legs for the first time in months. The fog began to lift from chemo brain, and I could remember what day it was and recite paragraphs from our building contract, just as I had once done effortlessly.

There was, however, a big problem. I had no interest whatsoever in my job. Intellectually, I knew how exciting building a home can and should be, and I had once been passionate about helping our clients through every phase, but cancer had stolen my passion. How would I regain it? Or would I?

Days seemed like months as Alex and I waited, wondered and worried if RIT had finally slain the cancer. Ever so cautiously, we dared to hope that it had and carefully guarded our fragile hope from anything or anyone that might dampen it. Thus, when protocol dictated that I see Dr. Doom specifically for post-RIT followup, I flatly refused. Protocol be damned. I wasn't about to return to the doctor who had stamped an expiration date on me and terrorized us with baseless conclusions. I was soon back under Dr. Kaminski's protective wing for followup care.

At last, six weeks after treatment, when I walked into the hospital for a CT scan, I couldn't help but wonder if all the effort had been worth it. What would the pictures reveal? Dr. Kaminski called to report the news, his voice resounding with pleasure. I imagine that he, like me, was grinning from ear to ear when he shared that all my lymph nodes were within normal range. For now, RIT had defeated the cancer that had seemed so determined to defeat me. Six weeks wasn't a long time, much too early to consider using the word "remission," but Dr. Kaminski and I agreed that for now, I was on vacation from cancer. And that was good enough for me.

Next Friday, Dec. 10: Post-treatment qualms

Betsy de Parry is the author of The Roller Coaster Chronicles and host of a series of webcasts about cancer. Find her on Facebook or Twitter or email her.