The Floods

           Until the words were spoken, I hadn't realized I had been holding my breath for the past five days. Inwardly, I inhaled like a diver breaking the surface of the water after trying to touch the bottom of the ocean. “Hodgkin’s.” That was the best scenario we had been hoping for; that meant the numbers were heavily in our favor for beating this thing. The first flood was relief: I no longer had to guess, wonder, or hypothesize. I now knew my enemy, and I knew I could fight and win. The shadows of dread that had clung to me and tried to drag me down into an endless maze of worst-case scenarios finally washed away in the face of my new-found reality, albeit still less than ideal.

            The next flood that quickly followed was a slew of questions intermingled with new information. What were the treatment options? Where would be the best place to have those treatments done? What were the potential side effects? What was the survival rate? Could I stay in school? Why does lymphoma develop? Why did someone not catch this before? And on and on it went, all the while we soaked it up hungrily, eager to finally have some useful information of which we had been deprived for the better part of a week. The doctors that were working with us were extremely helpful and were happy to answer our relentless interrogations to the best of their abilities. One was even so kind as to set up a Skype session with my dad in order to catch him up to speed with all the new developments. Even though it was only on a computer screen, I can’t express how glad I was to see that reassuring face after feeling so isolated for days on end.

            We had a lot to work through, a lot of options to consider, but I was grateful that we at least could start devising our strategy. We would remain in Rochester for another day or two simply to complete a few preliminary tests to see if my body was strong enough to handle chemotherapy. Especially entertaining to watch was the echocardiogram I had done of my heart. Essentially it was like having an ultrasound, but instead of a baby I got to see the valves of my heart opening and closing like little hands high-fiving one another. Luckily everything checked out, so we could continue without any special restrictions or stipulations. Additionally, I finally felt comfortable sharing the news of my condition with friends and extended family since I could give them a definite diagnosis rather than freaking everyone out with a vague “I have a tumor, but we don’t know what it is for sure.”

            What quickly followed after letting the word out was the third flood: wave after wave of encouragement, support, and love, the likes of which I had never seen before. I can honestly say that from the time my diagnosis was made public to the present day, I have received some of the most uplifting and genuinely kind words from both friends and family; words that I could never imagine deserving, but words that I treasure and count just as important as any medicine to my recovery. Even writing this, I am blown away when I think about how lucky I am to have the people in my life that I do. It’s almost overwhelming, but in the best possible way, make no mistake.

            After what had felt like nothing short of an eternity, my mom and I finally found ourselves boarding the plane that would take us back home. I had been living in a state of near unreality for the past ten days, as if my time at Mayo Clinic had been a venture into some sort of purgatory, and I felt like returning home would finally reinstate me in the land of the living. As the world below shrank away into a sea of clouds and endless horizon, a final, creeping flood took hold of me: realization. Yes, I was returning home, and yes that was a huge relief, but I was slowly realizing that I was not returning as the same person. Though I would soon be in familiar surroundings with familiar people, I had already entered into a completely unfamiliar situation. It’s true, I had been sick for a long time; the only difference was now I knew what to call it. I suppose that knowledge and having some idea of what the road to getting better entailed contributed to the sense of fear and excitement that mingled together into an indistinguishable mass of anticipation that weighed and continues to weigh on me. Be that as it may, I knew I was not in this alone, and that was enough for me to welcome the challenge ahead with all the reserved confidence of one who firmly believes in victory, but is unsure of the journey to reach it.