Day One: A Journey I Never Saw Coming
January 8, 2025
If you had told me a week ago that I’d be lying in a hospital bed, writing about an unexpected mass in my abdomen, I wouldn’t have believed you. Yet, here I am. What began as a routine trip to the ER for what I thought was a kidney stone has turned into the start of a journey I never saw coming.
It started with pain—sharp and insistent, impossible to ignore. I was sure I’d leave with a diagnosis of a pesky kidney stone, a prescription for painkillers, and the usual advice to drink more water. I’d been managing this pain for weeks, after all. Instead, I stared at an aging imaging tech whose solemn expression told me everything before the words came: I had a long road ahead.
The attending ER physician broke the news with the kind of calm that felt surreal and sobering all at once. There it was—a mass in my abdomen, measuring 12.9 x 9.2 cm. My heart sank. I sat in silence, trying to process the words, and the weight of what they meant. My thoughts drifted to my mother. She was my age when she faced a similar diagnosis. She fought hard but didn’t win her battle. But I am not my mother. I will win this battle.
The first step was telling someone, and that someone was Maria. When I broke the news, her cry shattered me more than the diagnosis itself. I still cry thinking about that moment. She rushed to the ER, her love and worry etched on her face. Having her by my side gave me strength but also reminded me of the weight this would place on the people I love.
The scan results felt like a foreign language. I had to Google half the terms to make sense of them: Enlarged mesenteric and retroperitoneal lymph nodes, a dominant retroperitoneal nodal mass of 12.9 x 9.2 cm, an index mesenteric lymph node, and some small ascites. The spleen is enlarged at 15.8 cm. Even typing these words doesn’t make it feel real.
Discharged from the ER, I stopped at home briefly—a moment to hug the dogs, catch a glimpse of Noah, and note Ethan’s absence. Gabriel is still at the Academy, wrestling with COVID. Being home, even for a few fleeting minutes, felt grounding. It reminded me of normalcy, of the life I am determined to fight for. I packed a few things and left behind others. Somehow, reading a biography on Grover Cleveland didn’t seem like hospital material.
Now I’m here at Inova, awaiting more tests—a CT-guided biopsy and a renal ultrasound tomorrow. The doctor I met today looked so young, like he could be my nephew, but he was thorough, kind, and confident. That counts for more than I expected.
Maria stayed by my side as long as she could before heading home to rest. The toll this is taking on her weighs heavy on me. We haven’t told the boys yet; I need more answers first. Limbo is hard enough without pulling them into it prematurely.
Last night, I stayed up until 1 a.m., reaching out to a few close friends. There are others I can’t tell yet—not because I don’t trust them, but because they’ve already endured so much pain in recent years. I need to heal, not just for myself, but for them and my family.
My dad’s prayer group is already praying for me. Faith feels like one of the few steady things I can hold onto right now. That, and the small comforts: an oxy pill that dulled the pain enough for me to sleep, and one last text from Maria—my rock.
This is the start of a journey I never wanted, but here I am. The biggest fight of my life has begun, and I’m starting from behind. But there’s one thing I know for sure. While cancer may knock me down, I will keep getting back up.
“I can do this all day.”