To Bear Witness

Hello, Everyone—

I cannot emphasize the importance of self-advocating in your choice of care. This goes for ANY Multiple Myeloma Patient… regardless of stage…. There is a tangible HOPE for a better survival outcome. “Lean not on Google” for your Multiple Myeloma knowledge. Make a “careful” selection of an oncologist. Seek a specialist. IT MAKES A DIFFERENCE.

So far, no migraines. I’m not heavily medicated. My anxiety is low. I’ve got a new team of nurses and doctors this time, but everything else feels pretty much the same.

This time around, I brought books and art supplies—something to keep my hands and mind busy. If I can create something during all this alone time, at least I’ll have something to show for it. Barnes Jewish Hospital, aka the hotel of healing, has its perks. I don’t have to cook. I have unlimited ice water and chocolate Ensure. The bed shifts automatically all night like a restless robot nurse. Of course, there’s unlimited Wi-Fi.

But still, it can feel like a sanitized prison. The air freshener alternates between creamed corn and tomato soup. The escape hatch? The art room and exercise room downstairs—my own little rehab sanctuaries. I’m determined to get stronger, even though they’ve got me on steroids again. Ugh. I’ll probably whine about it, obsess over it, and then work out anyway. Worst-case scenario? I become a cheerier, hairless, chubby girl with biceps. Honestly, I can live with that.

I’m hopeful.

The first transplant did its job, technically. However, the chemo didn’t work well beforehand. My particular form of multiple myeloma is stubborn. Aggressive. I knew remission wasn’t likely, but I’m still here. That means something.

I’d rather go through a few brutal days of high-dose chemo than months of slow-drip misery. When the chemo washes out of my system, I get a small window—three months or so—of clean, free breathing. That’s something. After this transplant, I’ll start a low-grade maintenance chemo for the next few years… unless they find a cure. That’s the dream. Beat the beast into submission so it doesn’t build more tumors or crumble more bones.

Of course, chemo kills more than cancer. It leaves behind little wreckage trails. For me, it’s chemo brain. Once a punchline—now it’s a real worry. I’ve always had memory quirks, but now I rely on alarms for everything. If it’s not written down, it didn’t happen. I journal conversations just so I can remember them. I can recite movie lines, sing lyrics from decades ago, but don’t ask me your name or phone number. It’s gone before you finish saying it.

Then there’s the neuropathy—electric-shock legs and weak hands that drop everything. I was clumsy before all this, so now it’s like cancer gave me anti-superpowers. I’m basically the same girl who tripped over her own boots in uniform—just with more expensive hospital bills.

Strangely, cancer isn’t even the center of my worries anymore.

I’ve learned to place it where it belongs: in God’s hands. I can change my diet. I can adjust my activity level. I can manage my thoughts and choose my care team wisely. Beyond that, it’s out of my control. And I’m doing my best to live and walk in faith, even when I don’t fully understand it.

The divorce, however—that’s a different storm entirely.

We’ve been separated almost two years. The financial support stopped over a year ago. I could’ve worked around that, but then came the neck fracture, the cancer, the treatments, and everything fell apart. I had to stop working. I had to start surviving.

Now, I’m depending on friends just to stay afloat. I’ll need help even after I leave the hospital. And while I try to contribute where I can, this isn’t about pride. It’s about reality. I get frustrated. I’m human. I know not everything happens for a reason. Sometimes things just happen. I’m trying to make peace with that too.

My girls are my center. My fears are about them—their futures, their stability. I moved them here with the promise of healing, safety, their own space. A place where we could decorate rooms, collect treasures without the fear they’d be taken away, and start again. And now, I feel like I reneged on those promises.

I want so badly to train them to be strong, capable women in a harsh world. But how can I achieve this without the basics?

Going back to school was supposed to be the plan. Now it feels like I’m just collecting student loan debt to survive. It’s discouraging. This is why people stay in broken situations. Leaving feels impossible when there are kids involved. The system drags on, and survival becomes the whole game.

Still, I believe in the kindness of the people who have held us up. I am eternally grateful. But wanting my own space, my own life, doesn’t mean I’m not thankful. It just means I want to give my children the peace I promised them.

Because when this is over, we need a new plan. One where we’re not just scraping by. One where life feels like ours again.