On June 12, 2025, I called out of work, telling my bosses I had to get to the bottom of what was going on with my body. I had big bruises the size of golf balls up and down my leg. My gums, too, had turned purplish and were receding from my teeth. One telehealth doctor I will never forget told me to wait 2-3 months. "Bruises happen all the time," she said. "It's probably nothing." But I had a gut feeling, and that morning I made an appointment at another nearby hospital. Crucially, I asked my partner (who is not a morning person) to join me at my morning appointment. This was a move so startlingly un-me-like that he knew what I was experiencing had to be very serious for me to ask that of him. He said yes, and even though I felt really lame for needing a babysitter to go to the doctor, that decision ended up saving my life.
I went to my appointment, and my doctor seemed perplexed. She brought in a second doctor to give a second opinion. They ordered bloodwork, only I hadn't eaten that day. I told the staff at the lab that I needed to go eat before she drew any blood. My partner and I ambled into a nearby bodega. I picked up yogurt and blueberries and ate them on a bench on a busy street center divide. When I finished eating, I turned to my partner and said, "Why did you pick this out for me? I need real food." He was puzzled; hadn't I just picked that out for myself? But he ignored it and took me to a nearby restaurant, one of our favorites. Sitting there eating pasta, I asked him, "Are we going to see Sandra today?" He said, "Baby, are you messing with me right now?" I shook my head. Sandra is one of my best friends. She lives in Los Angeles. We live in New York. Something was very wrong.
For the next few minutes, he let me keep eating my food, figuring either way, I needed to eat before heading to the hospital. I kept calling my mom, forgetting I'd called her, calling her again. I would lose my train of thought mid-sentence. She told me to pass the phone to my partner. "I think she's having a stroke. You need to get her to the hospital," she said. My partner had already called a cab. At this point, I wasn't able to keep my food down, throwing up into a bag at the dining table. I still feel pretty embarrassed about that, but I have no memory of it.
I have no memory of all this, either. My partner took me to Mount Sinai in Morningside Heights. The woman at the front desk kept insisting he just sit down and wait. He refused to take a seat, insisting my condition was serious. Another friendlier staff member came over and asked me what year it was. "2016," I said, confident. He pointed to my partner and asked who he was. "That's my boyfriend." (We weren't dating in 2016, but I like to think in my wacked-out brain space, our love transcended space and time.) The rest of the night moved quickly. Tests and tests and tests. They found out I had a brain bleed. One doctor on staff recognized my condition, acute promyelocytic leukemia (APL), and ordered chemo for me that night. My boyfriend was big sad, he thought I was going to die.
Spoiler alert: I didn't die! What followed was two weeks in the neuro ICU and two in oncology. My brother and my sister-in-law flew out to see me, as did my mom. Because of the brain bleed, they had to tell me I had cancer many, many times. And each time, it was new to me. I'd cry and then forget. It took days for the news to stick.
The neuro ICU was brutal. Not being able to go outside. Feeling the fluid from my brain drip down my spine, causing the most intense pain. I remember getting these two physical therapists who were meant to walk me around the hospital. When I asked if they could push me around in my wheelchair, one blurted out, "We can't bill for that." Yikes. Guess they don't teach soft skills in her PT school. (To this PT: I will never forget your face or how you made me feel. Do better.) My mom and my friend wheeled me around instead to admire all the artwork on the floor.
The oncology ward was much better. I didn't have so many wires poked into me. I wasn't woken up every couple of hours and asked a slew of questions about what day it was and where we were, and what the most recent holiday was. I was allowed to go outside to that very sad little courtyard (but not to Central Park across the street). Slowly, I regained my strength.
This all feels very recent. I was discharged from the hospital in July 2025. It's the end of November now. I went to a party today and felt so far from everyone around me. They all had great hair, and mine is all wiry and frizzy (I lost a lot of hair, but mainly, the texture of it changed, and I have no idea what to do with it). It's an isolating thing, grief. Even though I didn't die, I got closer than I ever had. So, I'm grieving the spirited person I was before this. I'm trying to get back to normal. Trying to give this whole experience meaning. It is a slow, painful process, and one that would have been completely impossible had I not been surrounded by this big blanket of love (my partner, family, friends). So, if you're going through this, I'm sorry. It really sucks. Try making a list of stuff to look forward to and live for. Then do it. Life's too short.
Cinn
acute promyelocytic leukemia (APL)
