🌀 Mood: Uncharted

Leaving the hospital was weird. Inside, I’d been in a bubble — protected, surrounded by people who knew what to do. Outside, the bubble burst. I was scared, confused, and still not processing that I had cancer. I went in for a blood transfusion, remember? Now I was leaving with cancer.

The ride home was quiet. My husband had hurt his foot — later diagnosed as gout — likely from stress. We were both still trying to digest everything.

At home, my two cats were thrilled to see me. They didn’t know anything had changed. I did. Moving slowly in my back brace, watching for cats under my feet on the stairs, I felt much older than my age. At night, I would forget I have cancer; in the morning, pain reminds me.

The first night home was rough — maybe two hours of sleep. The next day, I went to work so I could use my standing desk. Wearing the brace, not ready to tell people, I kept quiet — until lunch with a colleague. I told him the story of the last four days. He was stunned. Then he offered me his extra standing desk from his garage. I hesitated, but he insisted.

That simple act touched me deeply. I’ve always been the helper, never the helped. This journey will change that. That night, my husband set the desk up for me — a small piece of stability in a world that suddenly felt unrecognizable.