🌀Mood: overloaded, preparing, frustrated, holding on
I have a date. February 5th.
It’s the official start of my stem cell transplant journey. And now that it’s real, everything else is flooding in.
I thought setting the date would feel like crossing a finish line — or at least reaching a clear checkpoint. Instead, it feels like someone opened the floodgates.
The Insurance Loop That Won’t Close
To move forward, I have to live within 30 minutes of Fred Hutch — it’s medically necessary.
But the process of making that happen has been a nightmare.
When you call the insurance company, they say they help with lodging and there’s a standard form that Fred Hutch can fill out. They even say, “Fred Hutch will know exactly what form this is.”
But when you call Fred Hutch?
They say they’ve never heard of this form. And that in their experience, my insurance doesn’t usually pay for lodging.
So I’m stuck in the middle — going back and forth depending on who I talk to — while the clock keeps ticking.
Fred Hutch housing (if I even get in — I’m currently on the waitlist) is about $3,500 a month. That’s roughly $10,000 during the time I’ll need to be there. Add in my $5,000 deductible in January, and it starts to feel like a lot.
I still have a mortgage.
I still have bills.
I still have to find a way to make it all work — like so many others do.
I’m not sharing this to ask for anything — just to be real about what so many of us face when serious illness collides with real life.
What’s on My Mind Right Now
There are so many layers to this, and they’re all demanding space in my head at the same time:
-Making sure my team at work is set up for success
-Finishing key projects before I’m out
-Coordinating caregiver support
-Figuring out where we’re going to live (Fred Hutch housing or Airbnb?)
-Sorting through FMLA paperwork
-Trying to understand the financial impact of all of this
-Losing my hair
-Finding a wig
And now… figuring out what to pack. It’s a lot.
I’ve started making a list — pulling together insights from other stem cell transplant patients about what helped them get through.
Some of it’s practical (things you’d never expect to need until you do).
Some of it’s for comfort — like a silk pillowcase to ease the tenderness of a newly bald head.
It’s strange to prepare for something this life-altering with items like unscented lotion and protein & electrolyte drinks… but these are the things that might make the hard days a little more bearable.
I Wish It Didn’t Have to Be This Hard
I’m not asking for shortcuts. I’ll do the work.
But I do wish it didn’t feel like I had to fight for clarity at every step.
I don’t doubt this transplant is the right next move. But the logistics — the housing, the insurance, the paperwork, the coordination — feel like a second diagnosis. Something else I have to manage with energy I don’t always have.
I’m not writing this because I need help. I’m writing this because I want to name the invisible load that comes with getting sick in America. The cost isn’t just medical. It’s logistical, emotional, and often financial too.
February 5 is coming. I’ll be ready.
I wish this part of the journey was easier — that getting to treatment didn’t require so much navigation, negotiation, and noise.
But even in the swirl of all of it, I’m anchoring myself to what I can do.
I can plan. I can pack. I can keep going to my chemo appointments.
One checklist at a time.
One call at a time.
One breath at a time.
And I’m very grateful to the people in my corner — for the messages, the prayers, the quiet support that reminds me I’m not walking into this alone.
My Anchor Holds 