Battling A TUMOR NAMED Arnie: Our Crazy Cancer Ride
The day we discovered my husband's unwelcome companion, we decided to name it. Meet Arnie, a malignancy as unwelcome as a gate-crasher at a party.
It all began on an otherwise mundane Friday when Brandon, my husband, finally succumbed to my nagging and visited the family physician about his persistent cough that had been our uninvited guest for the past month. I was mildly alarmed when I received a call about him being rushed to the ER. Still, my mind readily concocted the most comforting possibility: just a severe case of pneumonia, a quick fix with some potent antibiotics, and he'd be right as rain. Little did I know that reality had a far crueler storyline penned for us.
The cough, it turned out, was merely a symptom of something far more sinister: a six-inch malignant growth lodged menacingly between his lungs, pressuring his heart and constricting his esophagus. A week later, we received the dreaded diagnosis: inoperable Large B-cell non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.
His treatment protocol entailed five grueling days of round-the-clock chemotherapy in the hospital, followed by a fortnight at home to recuperate before the next cycle. We had six such cycles to endure, and we couldn't afford the luxury of time given his critical condition.
As Brandon braved the first wave of chemo, I stood vigil, tears blurring my vision as I watched him sleep off the worst of it. Fear gripped my heart as I contemplated a future without him. In keeping with his character, he remained outwardly calm, even requesting his friends to look out for me if he were to succumb to his illness.
During his second treatment, I found myself escaping the sight of a large needle draining fluid from his lungs, only to stumble upon a grieving family in the hallway. The sight of a widowed man planning to send his children home while he waited for his wife's body was an all too real reminder of my own potential fate. I hurried back to Brandon, embracing him tightly once the ordeal was over.
On one of these days, a small altercation with a barista over a wrongly priced coffee revealed the extent of the stress I was shouldering. The silent pity in the eyes of the onlookers, as I vented my frustration was almost too much to bear.
As the treatments wore on, Brandon showed signs of improvement. With each passing cycle, his health improved; the need for fluid drainage ceased, his walks became more frequent, and we found solace in laughter – a coping mechanism for our shared fear. The toll of the treatment was evident in his diminishing weight and hair loss, but his spirit remained unbowed.
Finally, the last chemotherapy session concluded with a symbolic bell ring and heartfelt hugs from the nursing staff who had become like our extended family. Relief was short-lived, however, as we waited to know if the treatments had been successful.
The following months were a whirlwind of therapy sessions, doctor's appointments, and inevitable disagreements as we navigated our drastically changed lives. The day we received the news that Brandon was cancer-free was bittersweet; while it was a victory, the shadow of a potential recurrence loomed over us. A harsh reality we had to accept – once cancer enters your life, it never truly leaves.
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