🌀 Mood: Numb but steady

In the days after my diagnosis, I was still trying to process what it meant. Each morning in the hospital seemed to bring a new piece of news — some terrifying, some hopeful — but all of it life-changing.

I waited until after my husband’s shift to tell him. When he arrived at the hospital, I asked him to sit beside me and explained that a Kaiser Advocate had come in at midnight to tell me I have Multiple Myeloma — a blood cancer. I quickly added that the oncologist said I would survive. His eyes showed devastation, but he steadied himself: We’ll get through this together. Saying it out loud broke my heart. Even now, a week later, I’m still trying to come to terms with it.

The next morning, I thought he had gone to work, but at 8 a.m. he appeared in the doorway: “Where else would I be?” His timing was uncanny. Just an hour later, a neurosurgeon arrived to explain that Myeloma had weakened my bones, causing tumors and fractures in my 8th and 12th vertebrae. My spine was so fragile it could no longer support me. I would need an immediate Kyphoplasty — a procedure where a balloon is inserted into the vertebrae, inflated to restore height, then filled with bone cement. Relief washed over me that there was a fix, but the thought of needles in my spine was unnerving.

Before I had time to process that, another oncologist came in with my scans. “Your Myeloma is Stage 3,” he said — the most advanced stage. Then another blow: “You also have kidney damage.” My heart sank. Kidney disease is usually not reversible. My mind instantly began racing — thinking about dialysis and potentially a transplant at some stage? But then he said, “with treatment, your kidney damage will reverse”. A blessing…

The days blurred after that. Kaiser ran eight blood tests, the hospital forty-six more. The bone marrow biopsy was the hardest: oxygen, sedation, and a CT-guided needle into my back. I was grateful to be unconscious, but I woke up sick and nauseous for twelve long hours.

On my last day, when I thought there was nothing left to surprise me, they fitted me for a back brace. No one had mentioned it before. I was told I would have to wear it every waking hour for three-six months, lift nothing heavier than ten pounds, avoid soft chairs, and give up my daily lake walks. My body suddenly felt decades older, as though it belonged to someone else.

Every day in that hospital brought new information, new restrictions, and a new reality to face. The hospital days brought devastating news and strict new rules, but they also gave me the first glimmers of hope that treatment could help me heal.