The doctor then told me I was being transferred to the main hospital. All I could focus on is the word “children”. I immediately, and seriously asked if I was going to the children’s hospital or adult hospital.

The doctor looked at me kind of funny and simply said “adult”. I replied: “Good because my husband can’t be within 100 feet of children.” My husband just facepalmed. It was funny to me at the time, but honestly? I deflect how I feel with humor. As I’m being wheeled into the hospital, I’m still making jokes.  (Keep in mind it was valentine's day.)

I vividly remember joking to two women there saying “I guess they don’t make Valentines’ day cards saying ‘Happy Valentines’ Day, you have cancer." But anyways, that night I was admitted.

I didn’t expect to stay there long. But, that night turned into 28 days.

My dad came into the hospital that night, and I couldn’t say the word “cancer” to him.

I made my husband tell him.

I couldn’t even say the word for almost a year.

Later, it was confirmed via 3 bone marrow biopsies that weekend that I did have Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.

Which, as a 31-year-old, was really rare. Nearly unheard of. So rare I was pretty much a specimen in a teaching hospital for treatment. There were always about ten people in the room for rounds every morning. Overwhelming, to say the least.

It felt like I was on a rollercoaster I couldn’t get off of. 

I felt exposed - they were all young, attractive, smart people. And here I am, smelly because I haven’t showered in 3 days talking about my bowel movements... all while they run test after test on me.

It was honestly like the cast of Grey’s Anatomy in my room every day (young, smart, attractive humans). But, every day, I was numb & in constant pain. I just remember thinking that if these people can make me feel better, it’s worth it.

Pretty much right away, I began Chemo.

When the chemo started it still didn’t hit me.

When they told me I’d start losing my hair, it didn’t fully hit me. I was like okay but it’s just hair, no big deal, right?

I fell to my knees sobbing on a disgusting hospital bathroom shower. 

My husband knocked on the door asking: “Are you okay?”

I replied: “No, I’m not okay. I have fucking cancer.”

It was then that I truly realized I had cancer. This was my life now. I never in a million years thought that I would get cancer, let alone at 31 - but here I was. Even then, it didn’t hit me how much my life was going to change, or for how long. The entire beginning of the cancer was such a whirlwind.

"Test here, test there, move here, move there. We think you have this, but you might have that."

I didn’t have time to even think about everything yet.

It felt like I was watching a TV show with myself being the main character.

Between coming to grips with cancer, and starting Chemo, I was bedridden for quite a few days. My husband and father visited every day, but on this particular day, my husband was pacing outside my room. He saw a (probably) 70-year-old man flying around doing laps around the floor I was on. 

He told my husband to get me out of bed and to get me to start walking. I’m a pretty goal-oriented gal, so I took up the challenge. The first time walking around the floor, though, took me literally 20 minutes. 

This was my first lesson on never giving up.

I was in a coma for a couple of days. 

It left me temporarily paralyzed on my left side, so on top of going through treatment I was in rehab 3 hours a day, 5 days a week, learning how to walk and use my left side. 

 My husband had to bathe me, he had to help me go to the bathroom. It was incredibly humbling. I frequently cried of embarrassment. Though I was heavily medicated and pretty numb.

I knew I still had to keep my head down and focus.

I had to get back to being independent like before.

There was never a day during Chemo where I didn't feel like garbage, it was just a question of how much will I feel like garbage today. I forgot what it felt like to feel healthy.

I’d describe it as literally poisoning yourself in hopes you kill the cancer before the treatment kills you. But nonetheless, I stayed focused on getting healthy, doing my best.

Chemo wasn’t an option because my body became resistant to the treatment.

My choices were either:

1. Immunotherapy
2. A clinical trial to go on.

 We chose immunotherapy first because it was the less aggressive route, knowing the trial was still an option. The Immunotherapy failed, almost sending me into a coma. So, I put in for the clinical trial.

Only issue? It shut down one week before I was supposed to start it. So, we didn’t really have options.

We could do nothing but wait. I was in the hospital for 68 days before they finally let me go home right before Christmas after spending my Birthday, Anniversary, and Thanksgiving in the hospital.

In fact, I left out a conversation I had with my dad after my first remission. (And, I think you’d get something from it.) He was over at my place. I had just learned the cancer was back. As I’m holding back tears and I turned to him and said: “You know I might die, right?” He just said in a matter-of-fact type of way:

I just kept holding my breath thinking:

• “Yeah, it’s gone – but for how long?”
• Even though it was over, I was a mess.
• I had survived what had felt impossible.
• I got therapy and everything.

On top of that?

Not one survivor I talked to ever talked about the fear or anxiety they had when treatment ended, so I felt broken for having it. I felt even more alone than in treatment. I blamed myself for allowing my family to go through it.

Simply stated: I had survived the unsurvivable, yet I felt even worse than before having cancer.

I was the definition of survivor's guilt. My family spent over $100,000 just to keep me alive. I felt lost. I had beaten cancer, but what was I supposed to do now? Just go back to life after all of that? How do you do that? I could hardly sleep. I was always on edge ready to hear that cancer was back.

Nothing about what I was thinking or doing said “I am a survivor”. I wasn’t proud, rather embarrassed, feeling defeated by life. I mean...

How do you rebuild after that? I was completely fucking lost.

You know, trying stuff like:

• Reading self-help after self-help book
• Talking to “experts”
• Going on healing retreats
• And beyond (you name it I probably did it...)

That was when I truly realized...

It took me years to understand this. It took me countless therapists. Trying X, Y, and Z.  You’ll never be “normal” like before. You’ll forever be different. But, that’s not a bad thing - You’ll be stronger than before. Life can go back to normal, just not the old normal. It will be the new normal. Yes, believe it or not...