Fear-Touched, Yet Fearless

 As I had shared with you all earlier, there was a moment of hope in my journey. My disease was finally under control, and the doctors even reduced my chemo dosage. That felt like a small victory, but precious. We were overjoyed. For the next two months, I began living what I called my “new normal.” Those days gave my family and me a sense of relief, a breath of fresh air.  After those two months, my doctors suggested another scan. They said this might even be the last one  if the results came clean, we could stop the medication altogether. That possibility lit up our hearts. We walked into that scan carrying nothing but hope, expecting either further reduction or maybe even the complete disappearance of the disease.

But life had other plans. The results broke us. Instead of shrinking, the disease had grown. I was frozen,  shocked beyond words. It felt as though the ground beneath me had slipped away. To be sure, my doctors ordered another biopsy, and when it came back positive again, reality hit me harder. This time, my doctors had a different plan. They told us we needed to be aggressive, a Bone Marrow Transplant (BMT). Just the name itself was intimidating, and deep inside, I knew this was going to be one of the toughest battles yet.

Before the transplant, they wanted me to undergo a chemotherapy regimen called GDP. I didn’t even know the full names of those drugs; all I knew was how much they burned as they went through my veins. Every 21 days, I had to sit through that pain, reminding myself again and again: this is for your betterment, this is for your future.

Meanwhile, I learned what the BMT involved. The very thought haunted me day and night. They would insert a tube from my arm straight into my chest to give me medicines. And you all know how much I fear anything sticking inside my body, but this was no choice, it was survival. The transplant meant they would take out my stem cells, blast my body with the strongest chemo possible until my immune system was crushed to nothing, and then give me those stem cells back. During that time, I would be kept in complete isolation. Even doctors would enter my room dressed head-to-toe in protective gear, because a single germ could endanger my life. I tried to prepare myself mentally, but nothing could truly erase that fear. Still, I gathered every ounce of courage I had. But it wasn’t just about the BMT itself. What truly shook me was the thought of what they were going to do to me, and the emotional weight of being locked away in a hospital room for 30 long days. The idea of isolation, of not being able to see or feel the world outside, was crushing in itself.

I also couldn’t stop thinking about my parents. A 30-day hospital stay meant huge financial pressure, and I knew they were already stretched beyond their limits. Behind their encouraging smiles, I could clearly see the silent weight they carried every single day.

What hurt most was knowing they’d have to watch their child suffer, powerless to change anything, left only to hope, pray, and wait.

 And then, the day finally arrived  the day I left for my Bone Marrow Transplant.