Week Forty-Seven: Unexpected Life Changes
I know, I know. It's been a while. Believe me when I say that there are a host of very good reasons for my prolonged absence. And as it has been the case before, that's just life. Life happens.
I'll give you a quick rundown.
Week Forty-Four: Friendsgiving. There were drinks and food and merriment !
Week Forty-Five: Illness. A cold kept me down and out for the count.
Week Forty-Six: Friend's birthday after which I spent nearly an entire day recovering from a wicked hangover. Sorry not sorry.
So, that should basically catch us up! Up until the last several days, my life has been full and packed and busy with all of the love from my friends and family I could possibly endure.
But that's not really why you're here. If we're being honest, that's not even why I'm here. Part of this project is telling stories about my life and getting a cancer diagnosis is part of my life. Let's dive in.
A couple of weeks ago, I had an optometry appointment just to check my vision and order some new contacts. Very run-of-the-mill stuff. That's when Dr. Osius found that both of my eyes had aneurysms. Both of them! How unusual. At the time, I'd already had an appointment scheduled with my primary care doctor to begin figuring out why my hair was thinning. And my gut just sank. What if I had an auto-immune disorder? That would certainly explain both my thinning hair and the optical hemorrhaging. So, I waited.
Two weeks followed and I had the appointment with my regular doctor this last Tuesday. Blood tests were drawn and some kind of tentative plan was in the works. We were going to run some labs and from there figure out what exactly was going on with my body. It was so unusual for someone my age to be losing their hair this young. Something had to be happening.
Then Wednesday rolled around. At around 9 AM, I received a call from my doctor asking me to get labs done again immediately. At this point, I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. Why else would she ask me to get some labs done so soon? And the words "abnormal" sloshed around in my belly, bringing with it just an uncertain air of dread, of fear, of uncertainty.
No one ever expects their life to change. And then it does. You're never prepared for it. You're never ready for it.
Leukemia. That word entered my life on Wednesday at 3 PM and it will stay there, wrapped up in my identity. Sitting in my office I could swear that the air left the room, that I was grasping for breath, that suddenly the entire world felt heavier than it had ever felt.
Having cancer is a lot like not knowing what the next chapter of your life is going to be like - whether it will continue on and be full of moments or if the next pages will be blank, empty.
My primary care doctor had set me up with an appointment to see an oncologist immediately on Thursday morning. Driving to my appointment that morning, the closer we ot, the more I felt the weight of the rest of my life hinging on those moments. At this point, all I knew is that I had leukemia. I didn't know what kind or if I would be able to live or if it was even treatable.
Sitting in the back seat of my mom's car, the thought that the rest of my life, however long it would be, would be defined by this: pre-cancer and post-cancer.
Meeting with Dr. Moore, the oncologist at UC Health Cancer Center, surprisingly made me feel more at ease than I would have expected. He said something to the tune of "when a patient gets a leukemia diagnosis, we hope it's CML (Chronic Myeloid Leukemia)."
What this is means is that it's treatable. It's not curable but at least I can manage it and have it not manage me (at least we hope). There's a lot coming in the next several months, years, but my prognosis has no end date, at least for right now.
So, that's it. That's the whole deal. I have cancer. Two weeks ago, my fear was autoimmune. It never even crossed my mind that I would have cancer but here we are.
I've been on the first round of my chemo meds since Thursday and the nausea is less invasive than I would have expected. Thankfully, I have had no shortage of support and love so far to get me through. It's occasions like these, however unwelcome, that brings the best out in folks. People who have reached out to unconditionally offer whatever help I need; family members who have dropped their schedules to be present when I needed them; coworkers who covered me no questions asked when I couldn't be there to get my work done.
Despite how much I'm terrified of what the rest of my life looks like, I'm pretty grateful to be in the position I am. I know that wherever this diagnosis takes me, I won't be alone through it.
So, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
I'll give you a quick rundown.
Week Forty-Four: Friendsgiving. There were drinks and food and merriment !
Week Forty-Five: Illness. A cold kept me down and out for the count.
Week Forty-Six: Friend's birthday after which I spent nearly an entire day recovering from a wicked hangover. Sorry not sorry.
So, that should basically catch us up! Up until the last several days, my life has been full and packed and busy with all of the love from my friends and family I could possibly endure.
But that's not really why you're here. If we're being honest, that's not even why I'm here. Part of this project is telling stories about my life and getting a cancer diagnosis is part of my life. Let's dive in.
A couple of weeks ago, I had an optometry appointment just to check my vision and order some new contacts. Very run-of-the-mill stuff. That's when Dr. Osius found that both of my eyes had aneurysms. Both of them! How unusual. At the time, I'd already had an appointment scheduled with my primary care doctor to begin figuring out why my hair was thinning. And my gut just sank. What if I had an auto-immune disorder? That would certainly explain both my thinning hair and the optical hemorrhaging. So, I waited.
Two weeks followed and I had the appointment with my regular doctor this last Tuesday. Blood tests were drawn and some kind of tentative plan was in the works. We were going to run some labs and from there figure out what exactly was going on with my body. It was so unusual for someone my age to be losing their hair this young. Something had to be happening.
Then Wednesday rolled around. At around 9 AM, I received a call from my doctor asking me to get labs done again immediately. At this point, I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. Why else would she ask me to get some labs done so soon? And the words "abnormal" sloshed around in my belly, bringing with it just an uncertain air of dread, of fear, of uncertainty.
No one ever expects their life to change. And then it does. You're never prepared for it. You're never ready for it.
Leukemia. That word entered my life on Wednesday at 3 PM and it will stay there, wrapped up in my identity. Sitting in my office I could swear that the air left the room, that I was grasping for breath, that suddenly the entire world felt heavier than it had ever felt.
Having cancer is a lot like not knowing what the next chapter of your life is going to be like - whether it will continue on and be full of moments or if the next pages will be blank, empty.
My primary care doctor had set me up with an appointment to see an oncologist immediately on Thursday morning. Driving to my appointment that morning, the closer we ot, the more I felt the weight of the rest of my life hinging on those moments. At this point, all I knew is that I had leukemia. I didn't know what kind or if I would be able to live or if it was even treatable.
Sitting in the back seat of my mom's car, the thought that the rest of my life, however long it would be, would be defined by this: pre-cancer and post-cancer.
Meeting with Dr. Moore, the oncologist at UC Health Cancer Center, surprisingly made me feel more at ease than I would have expected. He said something to the tune of "when a patient gets a leukemia diagnosis, we hope it's CML (Chronic Myeloid Leukemia)."
What this is means is that it's treatable. It's not curable but at least I can manage it and have it not manage me (at least we hope). There's a lot coming in the next several months, years, but my prognosis has no end date, at least for right now.
So, that's it. That's the whole deal. I have cancer. Two weeks ago, my fear was autoimmune. It never even crossed my mind that I would have cancer but here we are.
I've been on the first round of my chemo meds since Thursday and the nausea is less invasive than I would have expected. Thankfully, I have had no shortage of support and love so far to get me through. It's occasions like these, however unwelcome, that brings the best out in folks. People who have reached out to unconditionally offer whatever help I need; family members who have dropped their schedules to be present when I needed them; coworkers who covered me no questions asked when I couldn't be there to get my work done.
Despite how much I'm terrified of what the rest of my life looks like, I'm pretty grateful to be in the position I am. I know that wherever this diagnosis takes me, I won't be alone through it.
So, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Sweet and dear friend - I will be praying for you so much in the coming months ahead! Where words feel shallow, I am offering you love and light and holding space for you in the good and bad. Please let me know if I can do anything. Love you.
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