The One Where I Got Cancer

The funny thing about cancer is, well nothing really, nothing at all. At least I got a good story out of it, not so much of a cautionary tale, but more of a celebratory story about family and community. That’s a pretty decent parting gift. Thanks, Cancer (you’re still a dick though).

During Memorial Day weekend last year, I was doing some yard work and got some bug bites, which, days later, became giant bruises all over my body. I thought I was having allergic reactions to the bites, so I ignored them, wore pants and put on some bug repellent. Easy peasy. Then I played some volleyball the following week, and everywhere I was touched by the ball I got bruised. I was mildly concerned, but didn’t think it could be that serious because I had just ran a 10K a few weeks prior and I was carrying 80 lb. bags of soil for my garden. I was a very healthy person in some serious denial. A week later, I woke up with my gums bleeding, and I literally and figuratively had a bad taste in my mouth. I went to my doctor for some blood work, and by late evening, after I played volleyball again, I got a call from the doctor telling me to go straight to the closest ER or I could spontaneously bleed internally and die. Welp, so much for my bug bite theory.

Two of my friends took me to the ER straight from the volleyball game, and my sister met us there. Initially, I was going to have my husband come, but he was home with the kids. And besides, my sister is a nurse, and I needed her brain because I felt like mine was in a tizzy. They admitted me to the ICU because my blood work was looking even more grim than earlier that morning and no one knew what was going on. Just then, a very nice doctor with salt and pepper hair, a thick Peruvian accent, and a sweet and calm demeanor, came into my room, held my hand, and said, “From the looks of your blood work, I think you have what is called APL, acute promyelocytic leukemia. It is a curable cancer, but there is a very high risk of mortality if you don’t get treated right away.” Hmm, interesting turn of events. Also, I think I just shit my pants.

He left my room to prep for my bone marrow biopsy. I looked at my sister from across the room, she stared back at me, and we had a very sisterly talk, as about heart to heart as it gets with us:

Me: “What the fuck? Did I hear him say cancer?”

Sister: “I know, right? Crazy.”

We sit in silence for about 2 seconds (because that’s about as long as we could ever be quiet) and then burst into laughter.

Me: “This is fucked up! I just signed the kids up in all of these summer activities, and of course, the first year I muster up the guts to get a pool pass, this shit happens!”

Sister: “Don’t be an idiot, that stuff doesn’t matter. Just cancel it. Man, we were so wrong about those bug bites.”

More inappropriate laughter.

Me: “Of all the kids, I really thought you’d get the cancer.”

Sister: “Totally, me too.”

Me: “Fuck! I couldn’t even get a cancer that would hook me up with a new set of boobs. This is bullshit.”

Finally, a more solemn pause.

Me: “What am I going to do with the kids?”

Sister: “Mom and Dad will help, your in-laws will help. Don’t worry.”

Me: “Poor Jamie.” (my husband)

Sister: “Poor Jamie.”

Me: “So no new boobs, huh?”

Sister: “No boobs.”

As the details of the disease and treatment unfolded, the fear, anxiety, and despair kicked in. And suddenly, all the stupid shit that I was complaining about the day before- a messy house, loud ass kids, a thigh gap that I’ve misplaced for several years now- it all disappeared. I told the oncologist that I had a trip planned in 2 weeks and another a week after that, and I asked if he thought I could travel. He tilted his head, gave me a sad look and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. The treatment for this leukemia requires you to stay in the hospital for at least a month for your first round of chemo. And then you will have several months of chemo after that.” I told him I couldn’t do that because I’m a stay-at-home mom and my kids need me to be at home. My sister looked at me and just shook her head, like, “No, it has to be this way.” I felt the wind and all my control sucked out of me. Like a knight without armor, I was a mom without a plan.

I was transferred to Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago, where I would get the best of the best care. My oncology team was fierce and exactly the kind of crew I needed in my corner, and my nurses became my second family. I started daily chemo, tried to exercise a little each day, and had so many friends and family visit me to lift my spirits up (i.e. bring me food). My parents and in-laws took care of the kids and the house, and friends brought meals to our home for several weeks to feed my family while I was away. My husband and my sister visited me every Wednesday, and Jamie stayed with me at the hospital every weekend. I was blown away by the love and support we were receiving from people near and far.

As the treatment continued, I faced new road blocks. My heart was having adverse reactions to the chemo, which led the team towards the decision to keep me in the hospital for all of my treatments. In total, I lived in the hospital for 5 out of 8 months, with occasional weekend privileges at home. I was away from my husband and children for what felt like an eternity. It was brutal for everyone involved, to say the least. While I sat by myself in a small hospital room reading books, watching Netflix, staring out of the window, or feeling sorry for myself, our parents learned the intricacies of the kids’ daily schedules, learned common core math to help my daughter with her homework, dealt with the kids’ tantrums, and tried to fill my shoes as best they can. Jamie had literally just started a new job 2 days before I got diagnosed, so he was trying be competent at work, while also being a combo mom and dad at home for the kids and a strong husband for me. As you could probably guess, he was the most insane person involved, but remained the family’s rock.

After 8 months of being in and out of the hospital for chemo and cardiac monitoring, I had my final bone marrow biopsy and was told I was cured. Cured, not even in remission, but cured, as in I just upgraded from patient to survivor status! It was not only great news, but a gift for everyone involved. So many people experienced the journey with me, and when I shared the news, I felt like the tribe in my corner was genuinely happy for me, like we were all cured. Perhaps the best thing that came out of this experience, besides life, was a new perspective; how to enjoy life a little more, freak out a little less about minutiae, be present, and find small victories during long days when I feel lost. It was, and continues to be, a long, arduous life lesson in patience, mental and emotional resilience, commitment to family, friendship, and faith.

I’m 6 months post-treatment now, and working on regaining my stamina and strength, and slowly getting the house back to an acceptable level of chaos. I’m back to living the dream- doing laundry, cleaning, feeding my forever hungry family, running around like a crazy person. There are definitely days when I miss the quiet solitude, the ability to hear my thoughts and actually finish my sentences before someone asks me to do something for them, the feeling of accomplishment I got for being up-to-date on all of my shows. But I wouldn’t trade my time with family for any of that, except for maybe Tuesdays (they suck).

We are all moving forward from this experience in a healthy manner. In fact, my kids have already forgotten the traumatic year behind them, as exemplified in this most recent conversation:

Daughter: “Gosh, I have it the worst this year with my broken toe.”

Son: “No, I do. I skinned my knee twice in the same spot.”

Daughter: “Oh wait, no, Daddy had it the worst with his knee surgery and all that physical therapy he had to do.”

Me: “Umm, guys? Cancer.”

Son: “Oh yeah, I forgot.”

Daughter: “Well, it’s not really a contest you want to win anyway.”

Me: “Well, I did, so everyone quit complaining.”

Oh life, I’m back.