Day Ten: A Playlist, Swollen Tears, and Forward Steps
January 17, 2025
Tobin surprised me today with a Spotify playlist he made just for me. It’s incredible how music can anchor you when everything else feels unsteady. Each song feels like a reminder that someone’s thinking of me, rooting for me. If you want to hear what care sounds like, here’s the link: Spotify Playlist.
The day started with some discomfort. My incision area was swollen this morning, likely from fluid buildup. Turning my neck feels like trying to move through wet cement—heavy, stiff, but thankfully not painful. These small challenges are constant reminders of what my body has endured and how much work it’s doing to repair itself. Every little ache is a quiet nudge: slow down, be patient, let it heal.
Amid all this, my friends have been a lifeline. Emails, texts, heartfelt messages—they’ve come pouring in and caught me off guard in the best way. Tears aren’t just for frustration or fear today; they’ve flowed from gratitude. I feel so fortunate to have people who care this deeply, who remind me I’m not walking this road alone. But one thing weighs heavy—telling the Scouts I’ve led for so many years. How do I explain this to them? How do I put into words what this chapter of my life looks like? The thought of their reactions brings tears to my eyes every time I imagine it.
Alex stopped by briefly today, a comforting presence in the whirlwind of emotions and logistics. Sometimes, just seeing a familiar face can ground you.
This morning, the attending physician visited but didn’t give me the green light for discharge. My kidney functions are still not where they need to be, and we’ve been monitoring them closely. The oncologist plans to review everything later, but I wasn’t expecting to head home until tomorrow.
And then—things shifted. Discharged after lunch.
Walking out of the hospital felt surreal. I’d been anticipating this moment, but there’s a quiet unease that comes with it too. Being at home again is a relief, but it’s also daunting. The next stage of this journey looms ahead, and I know it’s going to be harder than the first. The surgery was only the beginning—a physical hurdle I had to clear. Now, the mental and emotional work begins. Chemo starts soon, and the idea of that feels like standing at the base of a mountain, staring up, knowing the climb will test every ounce of my strength.
There’s so much to do, so much to prepare for. Scheduling appointments for next week is just the beginning. On Tuesday, I’ll have a port put in for chemo. It’s all happening so quickly, yet each step feels like it’s stretching time, making everything seem longer, heavier. The reality of what’s coming feels like a shadow just behind me, ever-present and impossible to ignore.
Dinner tonight was with Maria, just the two of us. We had Thai food—something I was looking forward to, but it wasn’t quite as satisfying as I’d hoped. Maybe it’s my taste buds adjusting, or maybe it’s that my mind is too busy to let me fully enjoy things right now.
As I anticipate sleeping in my own bed tonight, I feel a mix of emotions. Relief, for sure, to be in familiar surroundings, but also a sense of weight. Home is a sanctuary, but it’s also where I’ll begin this next phase—a phase that demands more from me than anything I’ve faced so far. I’ll need to summon mental strength I’m not sure I have yet. But for tonight, I’ll take a deep breath and focus on the small comforts: the softness of my pillow, the quiet of my room, the sense of being somewhere safe.
For now, it’s about keeping things simple:
Low sodium, high protein.
Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.
Rest as much as I can.
These small steps, these incremental efforts—they’re my foundation for what’s to come. Today taught me patience, but tomorrow will ask for resilience. I don’t know exactly how I’ll do it, but I know I will. One small step forward at a time, because forward is the only direction I can go.