Keep Breathing

I had never seen my husband cry. Well, I'm pretty certain he teared up when we exchanged our vows but he says he didn't. We left Dr. Klein's office and walked to the car in silence. Neither of us knew what to say. Once we got to the car, he cried. Sobbed. It broke my heart and seemed to make this entire nightmare real. Up to that point, I was certain this was going to be a little blip on the radar and something that would be done quickly. After all, the doctor had said I'd only be at Loyola for 2 weeks. I saw it as a chance to catch up on some reading, rest and maybe watch something on TV other than Daniel Tiger or that godforsaken Caillou. I mean, I could use a break from diapers and sidewalk chalk. But when Dan cried, I realized how very real this was and that it wasn't anything easy. Dan doesn't cry easily and he's always been my strength and safety zone in my life. Here he was falling apart. My heart ached and my head was spinning. We had just a few hours to get things together, tell family and pack for the hospital. Loyola would be calling anytime in the next few hours to tell me they had a room ready for me. I didn't know when or if I would ever come home again.

I remember calling my mom and Dan calling his parents. His parents were at our house with the kids. Telling my mom was surreal. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? A parent telling their adult child bad news about their health is common. I never expected to be telling my mom that I had cancer. I have no recollection of how she responded. I'm certain it was hard for her but I can't tell you what she said because I just don't know. Her life hasn't been easy and I felt bad adding another problem to her life. I remember thinking that I wouldn't have to ask her for help because she already had her hands full. I thought I wouldn't need help. Boy was I wrong. We made those phone calls from the car mostly because I had to tell someone. I had to make it real in my own head and telling someone did that for me. When we got home, I was mostly numb and my thoughts were racing. What do you pack for a 2 week stay in the hospital? I had no idea what I was in for. So I grabbed a notebook, a deck of cards, some books, my devotion book, comfy clothes, toothbrush and basic hygiene essentials. I figured anything else I needed, someone would bring me when I realized I needed it.

Then I had to tell the kids. Sean was 4, Ryan was 2 and Nolan had turned 1 just three weeks prior. What was I supposed to tell them? How do you explain to such young children that mommy was sick and had to go to the hospital and may not come home? I refused to say goodbye. All I could get out was "mommy is very sick and is going to lose all of her hair". Looking back now, I could've come up with something better but at the time, its all I had.

I continued to make phone calls. I called my dad. He left my mom and I when I was 6 and has made some pretty awful life choices since then. But, we've kept in touch despite having a pretty shallow relationship. Our conversations were few and far between and usually just about the weather, basic small talk and complaints about the Chicago Bears or Cubs, depending on the season. When I told him that I had leukemia, he was silent. He is never silent, always has a joke or complaint or comment. Then, for once, he was sincerely upset and concerned. I spoke with him more in the year that followed than I had in easily the past 20 years combined. Finally, I called my aunt and uncle. My one and only aunt and uncle lived in South Carolina. When I told my aunt, her response was "what? Say that again....". I could hear the crack in her voice as she asked me to repeat it. Disbelief. It's pretty much how we all felt. This couldn't be happening. But, it was.

Finally, the phone rang around dinner time. It was Loyola and I had to go. I said goodbye to my mother in law and father in law, my loyal Bailey dog, and somehow managed to tell my kids that I loved them very much and gave them hugs. Not knowing when or if I'd see them again was the hardest part of leaving. The unknown haunted me throughout this entire ordeal and still does today. Dan put my stuff in the car and we set off on the hour and a half long drive to Loyola. Turns out, it was the first of many many drives to Loyola we'd experience. At this point, all I knew was that I had AML and it wasn't good. In an effort to keep myself from falling apart, I focused on one goal: just keep breathing. I couldn't die if I just kept breathing.



This is what I was leaving behind. Three sweet boys and one incredible husband. The second picture is the last "normal" picture of me. I hardly recognize myself today.