Diagnosis. Confirmation. Yes, you have Hodgkin’s. “Good.” GOOD? I said good? What?
I suppose now we know what it is. Though we already did and this felt like such an unnecessary, time-wasting step. There are rapidly dividing cells in my body right now, trying to kill me.
Well maybe it’s not that bad. “Looks localized.” CT scan. Bone marrow aspiration. Bones pierced with a needle. Sore. Waiting for more results. Chemo. It’ll be chemo we’ll use to treat this.
Run away for a holiday. Manage to forget, most of the time. Have one or two break downs, when no one can see. Cry about everything you’ll lose. Wipe the snot and buck up. It’s just hair. Even if I don’t really believe that bald is beautiful, and I have a roadmap of scars on my head.
But what if I want to have babies? Maybe it’s not meant to be.
It’s not just me that I’m taking it from. I know my husband wants babies one day. He wants to see if they look like him or me. He wants to play hockey with them, teach them to skate and throw a ball. Be the parent who’s at every sporting event.
He says he’s okay if we can’t. He has to be, really. It’s that or we just let the cancer win. But it’s just not fair. Chemo attacks everything that rapidly divides. It can’t tell the difference between eggs and cancer.
What can I do?
IVF. They’ll take your eggs and your husband’s sperm and freeze them until you’re ready to have a baby.
“It’s about 10 thousand dollars.”
Are you fucking kidding me?! I can barely afford to pay the bills I have now. Big rig cheques, big debt. We don’t have a spare 10 thousand dollars. That option is not an option at all.
“We can try Lupron. It will put you into medical menopause. But you won’t know if your period stopped because of the Lupron (good) or the chemo. (bad).”
One more shot to take with the chemo. Then when the chemo is done, so is the Lupron. Hold your breath and pray everything goes back to normal afterwards.
Pray so hard. My husband deserves better than this.
CT says cancer is in the neck and the chest. Need a PET scan to confirm. But the bone marrow is clean. Thank you Jesus.
“We’ll start you on chemo this week.”
What? I’m not ready. I am not ready. Chemo side effects. Menopause at 25. So what if it’s not forever — I still have to deal with it.
Ready or not. Here we go.
dancing with dr hodge 