🌀Mood: Supported, Loved, Humbled, Comforted, Transitioning, Carried

My cousin arrived on Tuesday February 17th.

And with her arrival, the apartment changed.

Up until then, this season had felt very focused and contained — appointments, work, quiet evenings, and a lot of internal processing. Work had been a helpful distraction, something to pour my energy into while waiting for transplant to begin.

But when she walked through the door, something shifted.

I felt excited.

Excited for the help.
Excited for the company.
Excited to not be alone in this apartment as things were about to get real.

A Few Sweet Days Before It Began

The timing was perfect.

The shots to stimulate my stem cells didn’t start until Thursday. My Hickman line placement was also scheduled for that day. So those first couple of days together were light.

We went out to dinner.
We laughed.
We talked.

There was something comforting about having a little pocket of normalcy before the intensity ramped up.

It felt like a soft landing into this next chapter.

The Apartment Feels Different Now

One of the things I didn’t expect was how much better I would sleep.

Just not being alone made a difference.

The apartment feels warmer now. Livelier. Safer in a way that’s hard to explain. There’s another presence here — someone to talk to, someone to sit with, someone to notice when I’m tired before I even say it out loud.

That matters more than I realized.

Learning to Be the One Receiving Help

I’ve spent most of my life being the helper.

So stepping into the role of “helpee” is a slow transition.

I still want to do as much as I can for myself while I can. That instinct doesn’t disappear overnight. But I’m learning to let her do things for me — small things, practical things, supportive things.

And honestly, it’s not easy.

But it is good.

Because caregiving is love in motion.

And I’m grateful to receive it.

A Sweet Surprise

We also discovered something I didn’t know — she has one year of nursing school under her belt.

That has already come in handy.

There’s comfort in having someone nearby who understands a little of the medical language, who isn’t intimidated by lines and medications and instructions. It adds another layer of reassurance as we move forward.

The Village

Cancer has taught me something very clearly:

You need a village.

You need emotional support.
You need people who advocate for you.
You need people who sit with you in waiting rooms and people who make you laugh over dinner.

My cousin is part of that village.

And so is my team at Fred Hutch.

Every person I’ve encountered there has been kind, thorough, and patient. No question feels too small. No concern is dismissed.

But I’m also learning something about my role in all of this.

I have to communicate.

I can’t minimize symptoms or hold things in because they feel “small.” I’m not the expert — they are. And the only way they can care for me well is if I tell them how I’m really feeling.

That’s a lesson I’m still practicing.

The Shift

Thursday marked the official start — injections, line placement, mobilization.

But Tuesday felt like the emotional beginning.

Because when my cousin arrived, I knew this:

I won’t walk through transplant alone.