🌀Mood: Reflective, Grounded, Bittersweet, Exposed, Grateful, Hopeful

(I’m writing this on my birthday, February 28th. By the time you’re reading it, the date will have passed — but I wanted to capture how today feels while I’m in it.)

We came home to Olympia the day before my birthday. I woke up in my own bed this morning — something that already felt like a gift.

And then the weight of what’s ahead hit me.

Not because it was my birthday.

But because I know what’s coming next.

The next phase feels bigger. More exposed. More final in some ways.

I let myself feel that for a few minutes.

And then I got up.

In the middle of a stem cell transplant, I was given something unexpected — a small reprieve.

Fred Hutch cleared me to leave Seattle for the day, and I was able to go back home. I showed my cousin the house Gustavo and I live in — the kitchen, the living room, the small details that feel sacred right now. She got to meet my cats. I didn’t realize how much I missed them until I walked through the door and they came padding over like nothing had changed.

There is something grounding about animals. They don’t see diagnosis. They don’t see treatment phases. They just see you.

I miss them more than I expected.

We went out to dinner for my birthday, and it felt wonderfully normal. Sitting at a table. Looking at a menu. Talking about ordinary things.

I ordered exactly what I wanted.

That may sound small, but it isn’t.

After transplant, my diet will shift significantly. For at least three months, I won’t be able to have things like steak cooked less than well done, blue cheese, sushi, or other foods that carry even a small risk of bacteria.

When your immune system is wiped out — essentially reset to that of a newborn — even ordinary food can become a risk.

So this dinner felt like a quiet goodbye to some of my favorites. Not forever. Just for a while.

There’s something humbling about realizing how much freedom lives in something as simple as ordering a meal.

The weather was even kind to us. Sunshine in Washington at the end of February feels like a gift in itself. Clear skies. Crisp air.

For a few hours, I wasn’t a transplant patient tracking lab values and counting down to chemo.

I was just home.

Halfway through transplant.
One week away from high-dose melphalan.
Two days before what they call Day 0.

It felt like standing between two worlds.

What Happens Next: The Melphalan

In one week, I’ll receive high-dose melphalan.

Melphalan is designed to destroy the cancerous plasma cells in my bone marrow. But it doesn’t just target cancer — it clears out my entire bone marrow environment.

Think of it like a controlled demolition.

It destroys the bad cells.
It destroys the good cells.
It leaves my body temporarily without an immune system.

Melphalan works by damaging the DNA of rapidly dividing cells. That includes the myeloma cells — which is what we want — but it also affects other fast-growing cells in the body.

That means:

-My bone marrow will stop producing blood cells.

-My red blood cells will drop (fatigue).

-My white blood cells will drop (infection risk).

-My platelets will drop (bleeding risk).

-The lining of my mouth and GI tract can be affected.

-And yes — my hair will fall out.

I keep calling this the “nuclear bomb” phase.

And if I’m honest, that’s the part that makes me nervous.

The stem cell collection was harder than I expected. So there’s a small voice that wonders: if that part was hard, what will this part feel like?

But I also know this — this is the treatment that gives me the best chance at a long remission.

This is the reset.

Day 0: The Stem Cell Rescue

Two days after melphalan, on March 9th, my previously collected stem cells will be infused back into my body.

It’s not surgery.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s an IV infusion.

But it represents something profound.

Those stem cells will travel back to my bone marrow and begin rebuilding what the chemo cleared out. Over the next 10–14 days, they’ll slowly begin producing new blood cells again. That process is called engraftment.

The days between melphalan and engraftment are the most vulnerable. My counts will drop to their lowest point. Labs daily. Monitoring. Waiting.

Days 0–3: Melphalan effects begin. Fatigue, nausea possible.
Days 4–7: Blood counts at their lowest. Infection risk highest.
Days 8–12: Watching and waiting for engraftment.
Around Days +12 to +14: Stem cells wake up. Counts begin to rise.

It’s not instant.

It’s rebuilding.

The Head Shaving

I’ll be shaving my head soon.

I knew this was coming. High-dose melphalan doesn’t leave much untouched — and hair follicles are fast-dividing cells. They’re collateral damage.

I’ve been watching my hair thin over the past few weeks. More strands in the brush. More on my pillow. Subtle, but noticeable.

And if I’m honest, part of me is afraid of the mirror.

Not because I think I’ll look bad.

But because I’ll look sick.

Bald won’t just be a style choice. It will be visible proof of what my body is going through. There will be no hiding it under a good blowout or pulling it back into something polished.

For most of my life, I’ve walked into rooms put together. Even in chemo, I’ve tried to hold on to that version of myself.

Losing my hair feels like crossing into a different phase.

A more exposed one.

But maybe that’s part of this too.

I don’t get to control what the chemo takes. But I do get to choose when I let it go. I’d rather shave it on my terms than watch it disappear strand by strand.

Hair will grow back.

This season is about rebuilding something much more important.

A Birthday in Between

This birthday felt like a pause between demolition and rebuilding.

A day at home before the next step. Sunshine on my face. A normal dinner. My cats weaving around my legs like nothing has changed.

I’m carrying those things with me into this next week.

March 9th is called Day 0. My re-birthday.

A reset.
A restart.
A chance for my body to begin again.

I’m nervous. And I’m still here.