Yesterday marked the six month anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. March 4, 2010. So much has happened in so little time. Only six months, and my life has forever changed.
A lot of people have asked how anyone even discovered that I had cancer. And I tell them that it was a lucky accident. But here is what I wrote in my journal after that day:
"The pain was unbearable. Much to my roommate Lauren’s chagrin, I had spent the entire night unable to sleep, simply lying on the futon, crying, and staring at the clock on our microwave. Pain had never stopped me from sleeping before. I remember waiting until it was a “godly hour” (as opposed to an “ungodly hour”) so that I could call my mom. Moms can always make you feel better, especially when you feel sick. My mom knew that I was in bad shape, because I had been calling everyday to give her updates on the level of pain. But it was increasing quickly.
The symptoms started in January. The pain in my back, which, granted had been a very present nemesis since high school, had escalated. For about a month my legs had been going numb multiple times day, which for me sent up a red flag. Back pain was normal for me, but not this intense numbness. So, I had scheduled a meeting with an orthopedic surgeon. And the week before, he had told me that he thought I had a herniated disk, but he wanted to see me again to do an MRI to be sure.
So, at the “godly hour” of six o’clock the day before my follow-up appointment, I got up off the futon and limped to the hall bathroom to call my mom, who luckily was already awake. Upon hearing that I hadn’t slept and was practically immobile from pain, she quickly resolved to drive down to Greenville right away, to go to this appointment with me the next day. This turned out to be an unbelievable gift from God, for little did I know the news I was about to receive. I remember being so frustrated because I had a huge project due that morning, but I was unable to walk to class to present it.
My mom arrived, and the day of the appointment came. Although I was in pain, I don’t think that I was terribly nervous. I figured that they would just give me some medicine to make the pain go away, and everything would be back to normal.
We walked into the pristine office, and it was impossible to not see that I was the youngest person in the waiting room (by far). (In the coming months, I would become very used to this observation.) The nurse called me back and I prepared for my first ever MRI. The tube scared me at first, but I quickly figured out that it was easiest to close my eyes, and not think about the enclosed space and loud noises.
Mom said that we needed the results right away (leave it to Mom to make things happen quickly) and so we agreed to wait for it to be read. I was unable to sit in a normal chair, which became apparent to the nice nurse, who took me to a back room to let me lie down.
In a few minutes, the phone rang. The nurse answered, and told my mom that the doctor was calling to talk to her. She took her notebook and picked up the phone.
I remember the exact moment that I knew something was very wrong.
Mom was facing me talking on the phone. I was watching her. After a couple seconds of listening, she stammered, “Wait, I’m sorry, you are going to have to repeat that.” And she turned away from me, so that I could not see her face.
And I knew that something was very, very wrong. (Although in my head, the most extreme thing that I could manage to think was that maybe I had two herniated disks...)
After a couple minutes of frantic scribbling, my mom hung up the phone, and walked over to where I was lying. I think the nurse was saying something to us, but to be honest, I wasn’t paying attention at all. All my focus was zoomed in on my mom, who looked like she was about to be sick.
“What did he say?” I asked. Mom wasn’t making eye contact with me.
“He said you have lymphoma.” Still no eye contact.
“Lymphoma…wait isn’t that cancer?”
“Yes. But don’t worry, it is going to be okay.”
Somewhere in the very back of my mind, I was aware that the nurse was talking. I think that she might have been trying to encourage me. But my brain had already shut down. I heard nothing. Tears started welling up in my eyes, and amid my stunned silence, I started to cry. Mom and I walked out of the doctors’ office in shock. We had to stop at the front desk to pay before we left, and I remember the lady encouraging me, and saying that the MRIs freaked out lots of people. Unfortunately, that was not the reason I was crying.
We walked out to the car and Mom immediately called my dad. I am so glad that I did not hear the other end of that phone call. I don’t think that I would have been able to bear it.
Mom and I sat in silence in the hotel for hours that afternoon. I literally just sat there. We didn’t really cry. I think that we were both still reeling from the shock.
I was a normal college student. Spring Break was supposed to start the next day. I was supposed to go to Florida with my boyfriend. I was supposed to be going to France in the fall. I was supposed to be in class at that moment. I still had half a semester left. I was supposed to be normal. How had this happened?
In the midst of my shock, I turned on my computer, and started a playlist on my iTunes. The song “If You Want Me To” by Ginny Owens was the first to come on. I will never forget that. The song said exactly what I prayed I would be brave enough to say.
That night I had to go back to campus to tell a few of my close friends the news, and then to pack and leave. It was one of the most bizarre sensations. I walked back to campus in a cloud: a cloud of terror and sadness, a cloud of confusion and fear. But back at school, everything was exactly how I had left it. Girls on my hall were preparing to go out on dates. People were stressing about their midterms and frantically studying. And I walked through it all in a daze.
The faces of the people that I told that night will always haunt me. Never again do I want to say anything to put that look on their faces. My heart truly broke seeing their pain. It was a night of many tears. I packed enough stuff for two weeks, because the whole time Mom kept assuring me I would be back in no time. And the next morning I left for Richmond, to truly begin my journey with cancer."
This was one of the hardest days of my entire life. A couple days later, the doctor changed my diagnosis from lymphoma to Stage 4 kidney cancer, which was also a devastating blow. But life goes on. And now I am back at my beloved Furman, learning how to conquer each new day and each new trial. It has been a long journey, but now I am here! And I am a six month survivor! :)
"The Lord gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, even young men stumble and fall. But those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." -Isaiah 40:29-31
