the diagnosis
On July 17th, 2022, I knew something was horribly wrong.
Honestly, I had known something was wrong since December of 2020, but countless doctor's appointments and dead ends left me without answers.
July 17th was supposed to be one of my most exciting days of this year. The movers were scheduled. My boyfriend, Chris, and I would be moving out of my 800-square-foot one-bedroom apartment and into our first house. The one filled with the perfect natural light. The one where we'd each have our own offices. The one with the kitchen skylight that makes the entire room glow. The one with the tree-covered backyard where we'd play with our golden retriever puppy, Chimey. The one that would be ours to make memories in for the next 12 months.
I wasn't supposed to wake up that morning with a terrifying amount of blood crusted all over my face, shirt, and pillow. I wasn't supposed to be profusely bleeding from my mouth without explanation. I wasn't supposed to sit in the empty closet of the 800-square-foot one-bedroom apartment and have a panic attack because I knew in my gut that something was seriously wrong with me.
Chris did his best to calm my nerves and took control of the movers so I could head to the new house and continue my panic attack in private. The second I got there, I laid down on the floor of my future office and called my mom. I explained what was happening and sought guidance from her on what to do in between sobs. She stayed strong through her advice, but deep down, she knew something wasn't right just as well as I did. Call it mother's intuition.
On top of it being moving day for Chris and me, I was also scheduled to board an 8:00 am flight the following day to go to Memphis for my company's bi-annual summit, which I had been looking forward to for months.
As I cried to my mom, we did our best to figure out what next steps needed to happen. I did a mental scan of my body over and over again. Was I just run down and having a weird dental issue? Why was I so incredibly exhausted? Why did it feel like my body was about to shut down any minute? Why were my lips colorless, my face pale, and my legs covered in bruises? Why had I been on the heaviest period of my entire life for over a month?
We eventually decided that I would let the rest of the day play out and make a game-time decision about going to the dentist in the morning based on the bleeding. The movers finished the job, and Chris brought Mcdonald's to where I was lying on the couch. I did my best to let myself feel the excitement of officially being in our new place, but every bite of my lunch was accompanied by the metallic taste of blood, making it hard to switch my mind to anything aside from my health.
In the middle of the first (and only) night I've slept in that house, I woke up drenched. Again. My entire shirt and comforter were covered in blood coming from my mouth. I was immediately nauseated and filled with panic. After changing my shirt and cleaning up, I decided I'd need to reschedule my morning flight to Memphis to nighttime. Around 7 am, I called my company's travel agency.
"Hi, I have a dental emergency and want to see if I can switch my flight from 8 am to 8 pm tonight instead?" I said.
"Honey, if I were you, I'd give me a call back after the dentist. You don't want to get in one of those tubes in the sky after getting dental work done", she replied.
The fear of missing out quickly overcame me, but I heeded her advice and headed to my emergency appointment at West Davis Dental. I walked into that dentist's office with zero expectations. I was so exhausted that I almost felt drunk. I remember feeling like I was in a complete and total fog as the front desk requested my new insurance information. It took every single ounce of effort I had to look it up on my phone.
Finally, I went back. The dental assistant immediately gave me gauze to bite on because the bleeding in my mouth was so extreme. I could tell from how she looked at my mouth that she knew something I didn't. And it wasn't good. She took x-rays and did her due diligence, but I was beginning to realize they probably wouldn't be able to help me. When the dentist came in, his first look was at my mouth, but his last look was at my bruised legs. The words that came out of his mouth still give me chills when I think back.
"This gum bleeding is not dental related. Do not go to your primary care doctor, do not go to an oral surgeon, and do not go home. You need to go to the emergency room."
I texted my boyfriend, parents, and best friend and headed to a standalone emergency room. This visit was not the first time I'd been there within the past few months. At this point, I recognized the front desk agent and knew the drill for getting checked in.
Once I was back in a room, they drew my blood. I wasn't sure what the doctor was even checking for, and all I could think about was that I was missing out on my work trip. After a while, the doctor came in with a sheet of paper that said "critically low" next to five different things: White blood cells. Red blood cells. Hemoglobin. Hematocrit. Platelets.
I looked at him with a puzzled expression, and he looked back at me with a nervous one.
"So...is this basically saying if I were to get in a car accident or something right now, I'd bleed out and die?" I joked.
"Yes. You're not going to make it to Memphis. We will need to get you transferred to a hospital to see a hematologist.", he replied.
"A hematologist? Like a blood doctor?" I asked.
He took a second to respond.
"A hematologist is a word we use interchangeably with an oncologist."
At that point, Chris had made it to the emergency room to sit with me while I waited for them to get me a transfer to Medical City Dallas. Once the transfer arrangements were officially made, we headed to the car. I hadn't eaten all day, so of course, I insisted that Chris needed to stop at Taco Bell before taking me to the next hospital. Priorities. It feels so surreal thinking back on that moment. Despite the doctor telling me I'd be meeting with an oncologist, I still never thought it could be cancer. I ate my chicken quesadilla, drank my Baja blast, and then started on more tests and bloodwork at Medical City.
That night, I was officially admitted to the oncology floor. Chris and I looked at each other in shock when we entered room 905. There was an eerie sense of permanence about it. Something about the mini fridge, the closet, the TV, the large windows, and the shower felt more like a long-term hotel stay than a temporary hospital room. We then proceeded into what was one of the scariest nights of my life. They couldn't control my bleeding, and I felt like I was living in a nightmare. I did my best to mentally and physically survive the sleepless night of bleeding, vomiting, pain, and extreme fear of the unknown.
The next day was my bone marrow biopsy. I felt uneasy going into it because I was informed it could take 3-5 days to get the results. I couldn't even fathom sitting in the hospital for that long, forced to wonder what could be wrong with my health. Lucky for me, I didn't have to. Less than four hours after my procedure, the doctor entered my room. Chris sat on the hospital bed with me and wrapped his arm around me. We could both see where this was going from the look on his face.
Dr. Matthews led with the good news: a 90% survival rate. If there's leukemia you want to have, it's Acute Promyelocytic Leukemia. Of course, I was grateful to be given a prognosis like that. I didn't even cry at first. Until he said I'd be in the hospital for 30 or more days. That's when it hit me. Regardless of the prognosis, I was about to have to fight for my life. And it's going to be a full-time job. And my entire world as I know it is going to change. And my body is no longer my own. And I don't get to live in the house I just moved into with the love of my life for who knows how long. And I'm going to miss my friend's weddings and bachelorette parties and birthdays. And I will have to stop working temporarily even though I love my job and coworkers. And everything is going to change.
The doctor scribbled words and diagrams onto a whiteboard in front of us. Life started to flash before me precisely like they show in the movies. I saw short highlight reels of my favorite moments playing in my head. Dr. Matthews was speaking, but I wasn't hearing him. I was hearing the first time Chris told me he loved me. I saw the apartment I had lived in with my best friend Fran and her dog Teddy for years. I was reliving nights out with friends and trips to my favorite places. I was running through the seven stages of grief repeatedly like a marathon. The doctor eventually left the room, and Chris and I took time to process together before calling our families.
I wouldn't wish that phone call on anyone. Ever.
I started chemotherapy on July 21st, and as of today, I have completed 20 out of my 35 treatments that have to be done before I can leave the hospital. And I am freaking proud of that.
Explaining what the last 23 days in the hospital have been like is challenging. How I feel mentally and physically can change in a day or a second. Room 905 has been where I've screamed out in pain on a bad day, but it's also been where I've danced with Chris on a good day. This room has seen me bawling my eyes out, but it's also seen me sitting with friends and family laughing until I cry. My nurses have picked me up off the bathroom floor after passing out in the shower, and Chris has tucked me in with a forehead kiss after watching The Bachelorette. The IV pole attached to my body for 23 days straight has made me cry out in frustration, but I've also pole danced on it. Every second is different. Every day is unpredictable. Every emotion has most likely been felt at some point now.
The first two weeks I was here, I had a constant, nagging restlessness because I felt I needed to know and understand immediately why this happened to me. I put immense pressure on myself to find a way to use this for good and to make it a part of my story. That was exhausting.
I finally hit a point where I decided that just trying to get better was all I'd require of myself for now. However, I feel this massive purpose deep in my soul, and I plan to continue to write about my journey. I want to share my story with as many people as I can reach because there is so much I have learned and so much that I will never take for granted again.
To close out my first blog, I want to attempt to thank the incredible community I have surrounding me. My friends, family, and coworkers are unparalleled. Cancer can be an incredibly alienating thing to go through, but I have felt an overwhelming amount of love and support. I have never felt alone. To anyone who has texted me, called me, visited me, donated to me, mailed something to me, prayed for me, thought about me, anything:
Thank you. I love you. I am eternally grateful to have you in my corner.
To Fran:
I am the luckiest person on the planet to have you as my best friend. You have turned the pain you went through with your dad's battle with cancer into purpose as you use that experience to help me navigate my battle every day. Thank you for studying every resource you can find about my cancer and relaying it to me, so I understand what's going on in my body. Thank you for every visit and every laugh. Thank you for constantly checking in on me. Thank you for the video you made. Thank you for bringing Teddy to see me. Thank you for informing people about how I'm doing when I am too exhausted. Thank you for keeping me hopeful for the future and everything we will do once I'm out of here. Thank you for everything.
To Chris:
Thank you for being my rock and constantly finding ways to make me laugh. Words will never be able to convey how much pain you've taken away from me during this time. I fall in love with you all over again every single day in this hospital. You give me a sense of calm that no one else can and that peace keeps me going through the hard days. I can't wait to finally live in our house together on August 25th.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to kicking cancer's ass.
