🌀Mood: Chaotic, Disoriented, Determined, Tender, Held

I haven’t posted in a little while — not because I didn’t want to, but because these last two weeks have tested me in ways I wasn’t prepared for.

Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.

There were moments when I honestly didn’t know if I was going to make it to Seattle in time for my stem cell transplant.

The ER… Again

It started with excruciating stomach pain that landed me in urgent care for 7 hours… followed by another 6 hours in the ER.

And not just any ER — the same one where I was first diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma.

Walking back through those doors brought up a wave of emotion I wasn’t expecting. The fluorescent lights. The hallways. The feeling in my chest. Everything in me remembered.

They diagnosed colitis — inflammation of the colon — and started me on antibiotics. But at my follow-up appointment, my oncologist wasn’t happy with the dosage. He switched me to a stronger round, which started a fresh wave of concern.

I began getting calls from Fred Hutch, where my transplant will take place, expressing worry that if the colitis didn’t fully resolve, it could delay the transplant.

That’s not just a scheduling issue — it means I’d be off all treatment, and my cancer markers could climb, potentially compromising the success of the transplant. That possibility hit me like a freight train. The stress of it all made my stomach hurt even more.

The Housing Battle at Pete Gross

On top of that, I still didn’t know where I’d be living during treatment in Seattle.

I’d applied for the Pete Gross House, a residence for patients going through transplant at Fred Hutch. They told me I was approved, but something in their tone made me nervous. It didn’t feel like my spot was truly secured.

So my husband and I got in the car and drove down to Seattle — not to move in, but to fight for housing in person.

The first apartment they showed us was extremely dated. It didn’t feel safe or peaceful. Not the kind of place I could recover in.

They mentioned another unit on a higher floor that had never been lived in, but said it “had issues.” We asked to see it. It was clean. Quiet. Bright. It felt like something I could say yes to.

But the staff still hesitated. One employee, ready to go home, offered to “hold it” and said we could come back later in the week.

I knew better. I knew if we walked away without paying and getting the keys, that apartment would be gone.

So we pushed. We stayed. And even while I was signing the paperwork, they tried to give the apartment to other people who had just walked into the office.

It took six hours of advocating for myself — while still recovering from colitis, while still answering work calls, while still worried about the transplant — but we walked out with the keys.

Even then, I wasn’t fully convinced I’d return in a few days and find the apartment still mine.

And just for good measure, the parking garage access code we were given didn’t match the garage with our assigned spot. My husband had to go back upstairs and find someone to help us sort it out — which he did, calmly and gracefully, like he always does.

Saying Goodbye (For Now) to My Safe Space

In the middle of all this, I also had my last chemo session at my local oncology clinic before heading to Fred Hutch.

That clinic has been my safe space for the past six months. The nurses know me. They know my story. I never have to explain what I’m feeling or why I’m quiet or tired. They just get it.

I didn’t realize how much I relied on that comfort until I had to say goodbye. It’s not forever — I’ll return there for maintenance treatment after the transplant — but this temporary goodbye still felt heavy.

It’s the space that held me through the beginning of this journey. And stepping away from that into a bigger, more clinical, less personal environment brought its own grief.

Holding It All Together

All of this was happening at once:

ER visits and medical setbacks

A housing crisis with no guarantees

Transitioning my work life to remote

Preparing for the biggest medical treatment of my life

And through it all, I kept showing up — answering emails, calling doctors, fielding transplant updates, paying deposits, trying to stay calm when my body felt anything but.

Every decision felt high-stakes. Every conversation felt like it could change everything.

But somehow… I made it to Seattle. I’m here. I’m in the apartment. And I’ve started my testing and prep weeks at Fred Hutch.

Where God Was Throughout

God didn’t show up in one big, dramatic moment.

He showed up quietly — in the support I felt from my friends. In the way my work team stepped in and had my back. In the text messages that came right when I needed them. In the calm my husband brought into the room when I was barely holding it together.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. But I could feel it.

Even in the middle of the stress and the noise and the unknowns, there was a steadiness underneath all of it — like something holding me firm while the storm raged.

That’s how I know: my anchor holds.