I have cancer
A month ago, my husband and I were planning a trip to hear James Taylor at Red Rocks Amphitheatre in Colorado for our first anniversary. Tonight I am writing from the home of our dear friends in Houston where I am preparing for an appointment in the morning with my oncologist at MD Anderson Cancer Center.
Let’s just begin with this. I am never supposed to have cancer. I am a freakishly clean eater, I can walk for hours at a time, and—other than having cancer—I am the picture of perfect health. So when my back started to hurt about a year ago, it was easy to explain away.
All the wedding planning and moving has me stressed and sore, I told myself. After I moved in with my husband, I figured I wasn’t used to his mattress. At Thanksgiving, the culprit was long days and late nights cooking. At Christmas it was the hours wrapping presents and hauling big tubs overstuffed with ornaments and stockings. By April, my ribs started to burn, and I had to brace myself when I sneezed or coughed to keep from crying. My long, invigorating walks grew shorter and less frequent as fatigue pulled me down like trying to run in mud. I could not stay focused at work because a fog of lethargy stole my creativity and my drive away from me. My family commented that I looked tired—and I felt it. Realizing that maybe all this pain could no longer be explained away by age or strained activity, I planned to mention it to my doctor when I saw him in late May.
Turns out, I wouldn’t make it that long.
Saturday, May 11, I was feverish and felt “off” all morning. A quick trip to Urgent Care would reveal I had what the doctors thought was early pneumonia, so I was sent home with a prescription for an antibiotic and the hope of feeling better after a restful weekend. The following Monday, I was still sluggish, so I spent the morning working on a project in bed. When Urgent Care called me back, my initial thought was that I left my credit card or something similar behind. Ms. Marshall, we found significant irregularities on your x-ray, the nurse cautioned. I needed to call my doctor immediately, she said. A little scared, I asked what she meant by “significant irregularities.” Cancer?, I asked. The nurse paused before answering, It could be.
Convinced this was a terrible mistake, I contacted my doctor who got me in that afternoon. Not able to determine much from the film, he ordered a CAT scan for the next morning. Still hopeful, I calmly lay in the machine and reassured myself with every exhale. By 8:30, I was out of the machine, and by 10:00 my doctor called. Bone marrow cancer.
Every moment after that call, I lived in a tandem existence—the real me observing the cancer girl with great pity as she called her children, her parents, her friends, saying the impossibly sad words through tears. I have cancer. I saw her husband collapse into her, and I winced at her children’s fear of losing her. Each day felt like I was watching myself drown. Meeting my oncologist, having a PET scan, blood work, and blood work, and blood work. Taking the advice of my friend Heath, I started a daily journal where I wrote nothing but the conversations, diagnoses, pathology report findings, and building questions.
My days felt like sinking under water then surfacing for brief moments of clarity. I have a very aggressive form of multiple myeloma called Lambda Light Chain myeloma. I would tell you what I know about it, but you’ll probably look it up yourself and know as much as I do. The prognosis isn’t great. It is treatable—but not in Shreveport. The scans show the cancer in my spine, shoulder blades, ribs, and pelvis. The pathology reports indicate that between 90-100% of my bone marrow is cancerous, and my oncologist’s primary concern was that I might go into kidney failure before making it to MDA (After checking my kidney function weekly, I’m still doing great).
When I started this blog again a few weeks ago, I wanted to share the good and hopeful in the midst of dark days we all have. I could never have known I’d be writing from this vantage point. But here I am. Yes, I have cried in fear, in shame, in anger, in frustration, and even sometimes in despair. But there’s more: I have also experienced unspeakable joy and healing, and my fear of abandonment has yielded to the surrender of being carried. The peace of steadfast friendship and surety of unbreakable sisterhood has overtaken me. And I am discovering endless layers of unexplored strength.
If you are drowning, if every path before you looks like sorrow, if you are desperate for meaning and joy, I have secrets I want to share with you. I’ll be here, uncovering the treasures hidden in every moment. I welcome your company—if you want to move in or just come to visit. As always, you’ll have a safe place beside me.