Part three. Receiving results after a bone marrow biopsy.

I felt it in my body a couple of days before. Something swirling.

As we got closer to the hospital, the volume turned up a hundred times. My heartbeat boom, boom, boom, hard and fast. I heard it in my ears, felt it through my whole body.

My stomach was sour, almost burning. My legs were shaky, like spaghetti. My mind was still,  not a calm, meditative stillness, but a paralyzed kind of still.

As we approached the ninth floor, I wanted to pee, vomit, sleep, and run at the same time. My body was in full fight-or-flight mode.

Jörgen tried to speak to me, but it was hard to hear him. I tried to breathe. Down into my belly. It wasn’t easy. It felt as if every muscle tightened to stop me.

Still, I kept trying.
Relax the belly.

Worry is a powerful thing. It has many faces and it can take over the body completely. The expression sick with worry suddenly made perfect sense.

In the doctor’s room, she said clearly:
“You have a lymphoma, and you are here to receive the results of the biopsy and the scans, and to discuss the next steps.”

“Yes,” we said. “That’s right.”

She continued.

“The results show nothing. It has not spread, as far as we can see. We will start planning for radiation.”

She kept explaining what would happen next, what to expect.

I had to stop her.

“Do you mean it hasn’t spread? That you see nothing? Do you mean… this is good?”

“This is the best result you can have in this situation.”

No spread.

Even after radiation there may still be a cell somewhere. I might get another lump somewhere else in the body. Or I might not.

This is a chronic cancer diagnosis.

After Easter, twelve days of radiation. Then a follow-up after three months. After that, once a year for ten years.

Ten years.
Chronic.

And still…

We left the hospital feeling light. Relieved. We almost floated out into the bright March sun.

It hasn’t spread.

I will continue to live.

Life is here.

Let’s celebrate.

If someone had told me a couple of months ago: You will receive a chronic cancer diagnosis. You will need radiation. And you will feel like the happiest person alive, full of life — I would have had a hard time believing it.

But it’s true.

I am alive.
I feel alive.
And I will celebrate life. Every day.

…

This is the third reflection in a series about receiving a diagnosis and learning to live with the unknown.