Twelve years ago today I became officially cancer-free after receiving healthy bone marrow from a donor — who happened to be my dad.
About 30 days later I went home from an Indianapolis hospital with a bag of medications, a list of foods I had to avoid and a face mask to wear anywhere other than my newly sterilized house.
Other than for well-being checkups, I never went back.
I know how fortunate I am to have survived leukemia, a diagnosis that came a couple of years before I graduated from high school. A lot of times it comes up when I meet someone new, and I find myself telling people how thankful I am and that I think about it every day.
Lately that hasn’t been entirely true. The demands of ordinary life — work, relationships, family, exercise — fill up the time. There are days, weeks even, when I don’t think about having survived a catastrophic illness and the gratitude that goes along with that.
But there are certain moments when it does come to mind.
I think about it every Feb. 18. On that cold day in 2002, a doctor sat across from my family and me in a cold hospital room and shattered our hearts. Yes, I would get very sick with the chemotherapy. Yes, I would lose my hair. No, he couldn’t say for sure that I would live. But, he told us, we must have hope.
I think about it whenever July 3 rolls around, the anniversary of my transplant. That night in the hospital, my mom and I watched Independence Day fireworks along the Indianapolis skyline from my room. Maybe it was teenage naivete or something bigger I’ll never understand, but I remember sitting there that night, feeling that everything would be OK.
I think about it every Feb. 9. On that date five years ago, my dad, a big, irascible but loving man, passed away after being sick for years. It was his time to go, but not before he was able to save my life.
I think about it when I can’t squelch my appetite with a kale salad and fruit and feel disappointed for wanting to eat lots of something less virtuous. I usually give in. There were days during chemotherapy when the sight or smell of a pizza could turn my stomach, and when keeping down a few spoonfuls of ice cream was a victory. Hunger is health.
I think about it every time I fill out a questionnaire that asks for a record of medications I take. Today there’s nothing to list, but 12 years ago I had daily fistfuls of fat pills and vile liquids to swallow.
I think about it after the occasional vigorous workout, my heart thumping and healthy blood flushing my face.
I think about it anytime I pass a children’s hospital. There’s likely a floor in that building where children lie in beds, bored or nauseated or scared, becoming adults quickly because they have to.
I think about it on the anniversaries of the deaths of some of the young people I met who died of the same disease that once swam in my body. Justin. Gage. Nick.
I think about it every time I have a fever or the symptoms of a head cold. Is it just a simple infection or virus — or is it something more sinister? The cancerous cells could creep up again any time. When days later I perk up, you can imagine the overwhelming relief.
I think about it anytime I hear of an acquaintance’s new diagnosis. I know their life is restricted by a new, consuming reality, an uncertainty of what’s to come.
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I want to tell them: Yes, it will be worse before it’s better. No, no one can say for sure if you’ll get better. But you must have hope.
And what a privilege it will be if, one day, you too can forget what you went through for days at a time.
Twitter @TribuneMM