It started with bruises.
In February of 2025, I began noticing some strange symptoms. Nosebleeds that wouldn’t stop. Bruises in places I couldn’t explain. And an exhaustion that went beyond tired . . . it was bone-deep. I’d had a clean bill of health in January, so I just figured I was run down and maybe fighting off something. But my ailments got weirder. My jaw started to ache terribly. Then I started feeling terrible tightness and pain in my chest, neck, and shoulders. My voice completely disappeared after a nasty virus hit me like a truck, and I felt like I was moving through wet cement. I started having numbness in my jaw when I chewed. Then I found small, hard bumps behind my ears and in my armpits. That’s when I started to really worry. Something wasn’t right, but I had no idea how serious it was.
I was visiting my parents in Arizona at the time, and we saw three different urgent care doctors. They said maybe it’s TMJ, maybe it’s stress, maybe it’s just a respiratory infection. So, when I got back to New Jersey, I called my GP’s office, and the nurse practitioner fit me in right away. She listened carefully — really listened — and sent me for bloodwork and a sonogram the very next day.
When we walked back into the house after the sonogram, my phone rang. It was the doctor. Her voice was calm, but I could hear the weight behind her words. “We need you to come back to the office.” The call you never want to get. “Why?” I asked. Pause. Then, “Your bloodwork is concerning. It indicates a blood disease, something like leukemia or lymphoma.”
I was stunned. Completely blindsided. A sound came out of me that I’d never made before — a deep, primal wail from somewhere in my soul. I collapsed into my husband's arms.
From there, everything moved so fast. An oncologist called and asked if I was bleeding. I told him I was having a heavy period. He said, “You need to go to the ER right now. You probably need a blood transfusion.”
We packed a bag and went. I was admitted that night, they gave me the transfusion, and then started running tests, and I ended up being in the hospital for 26 days. On March 6, I got my diagnosis, acute lymphoblastic leukemia (ALL).
I was terrified. Devastated. I felt physically awful . . . like my body had turned into a stranger. Emotionally, I was just unraveling. Even with people around me, I felt so alone. One question haunted me constantly: Am I going to die?
My sister got on a plane and flew out immediately. My parents wanted to come, too, but I knew if they were there, I’d spend all my energy worrying about them worrying about me. So, my sister came, and she held everything down. And then the messages started coming in, the texts, the DMs, the phone calls, the letters, and the cards. It was like a tidal wave of love crashing over me.
I have never felt more seen, more held, more deeply loved in my entire life. It was humbling. Overwhelming. Beautiful. And you know what? I wish everyone could experience that kind of love . . . just, y’know, maybe without the leukemia.
And with each call, each message, each visit, or unexpected gift, my hope started to return. It didn’t come all at once — it built, slowly and gently, like sunlight creeping in through a crack in the curtains. Every act of love became a little lifeline.
Treatment started quickly. I went through two rounds of chemo, which brought my MRD (measurable residual disease) from 79% to 0.05%. Technically remission. But my team wanted to get it as close to zero as possible before the next step.
After the first round of chemo, my doctors told me that my best shot at a full recovery, and a real chance at living a normal life again, was a bone marrow transplant. But that meant we needed to find a donor, a match. And this next part? The part that still makes my heart crack wide open? My match was my son. He was 13. He was brave. He was everything. He literally saved my life.
On August 1, I checked into the hospital for the transplant. First came three days of chemo, followed by four days of full-body radiation, twice a day. On August 8, they hooked up a bag of his stem cells to my IV line. It looked like a regular transfusion. Quiet. And surprisingly undramatic. But it was the moment my second chance began.
The next few weeks were brutal. I was so sick . . . nauseated, weak, covered in mouth and throat sores that made swallowing impossible for days. My hands burned. My body ached. I was exhausted in ways that felt existential. And worst of all, there were no guarantees. We wouldn’t know for weeks, maybe months, if the transplant had worked.
I stayed in the hospital for 33 days. And because I’m an interior designer, I refused to let that space be sterile and depressing. I completely transformed my hospital room — I brought soft bedding, cozy pillows for the loveseat and chair, colorful decals to give the walls a wallpaper look, and I even hung up artwork with command strips. The crown jewel? Paper butterflies, scattered all over the walls. They were a symbol of my own metamorphosis — of what my body and soul were going through.
When it came time to leave, I gathered all the butterflies and stuck them on my door with a little sign that said, “Take one.” By the time I rang the victory bell, every single nurse on that floor was wearing a butterfly. I burst into tears. It was one of the most moving moments of my life.
And those nurses? Angels. Heroes. Lifesavers. They are the ones who got me through the hardest days. Their compassion, their humor, their quiet strength — it carried me.
Then came the 100-day countdown, the most critical part of recovery. I barely left the house. When I did, I wore a mask. I avoided risk like it was my job (because it kind of was). But little by little, my body began to heal. And every day, I thanked her. I told her she was amazing. I apologized for being mean to her in the past. I praised her for showing up, for rebuilding, for holding me together through the unthinkable. I reminded her that what she was doing — creating a whole new immune system from someone else’s stem cells — was miraculous. And she did it. We did it.
Today, I’m over 160 days out from transplant. I’m working again, back to running my interior design business, helping clients turn their homes into beautiful, meaningful spaces. I’m going out again (still masking in crowds because safety first!). And I feel good.
Of course, there were nights I was filled with despair, nights I sobbed from the pain, the fear, the sheer exhaustion. But my husband held me through those. And I got up again.
And Zeke — my son, my literal lifesaver — has handled this all with a kind of grace and humor that amazes me. He’s been a constant source of laughter and comfort. One night, when I had a high fever and couldn’t stop shivering, he climbed into the hospital bed next to me. He turned on a meditation for us to listen to, and the warmth of his body stopped my teeth from chattering. He calmed my body and my mind. He was 13. And he was my safe place.
What got me through? My family. My friends. My dogs. My son. The same kid I brought into this world turned around and saved me. (He reminds me regularly, by the way. And I always remind him that I gave him life first. So, we’re even.)
More than anything, this experience has changed me.
I realized I’d been living like life was a race, like there was a giant scoreboard in the sky, keeping tabs on my productivity and successes. Cancer hit pause on all of that. I got very clear, very quickly, that I didn’t want to live that way anymore. I didn’t want to rush. I didn’t want to be constantly exhausted. I wanted joy. I wanted rest. I wanted more slow mornings and fewer deadlines. More laughter. More love. More quiet. More being.
And I knew one more thing with absolute certainty: I need to see my people more. Friends showed up for me in ways I will never forget — visits, calls, care packages, just presence. And I remember thinking, "Why don’t we do this more?" So I’ve made a promise to myself to make more time for friendship. To gather more often. To stop waiting for the "right" time.
To anyone newly diagnosed, take it one day at a time, some days, one hour at a time. And bring beauty into your space. Decorate your hospital room. Bring pillows and blankets and things that make you feel at home. You deserve comfort in the chaos.
People have asked me if I had a mantra. I didn’t, I just knew I wanted to live. I wanted to be here. And I knew my body and I were in it together. She fought for me. I fought for her.
And now? I’m still here. Alive. Healing. Laughing. Loving. Living.
Our little family of three is closer than ever.
And I have a teenage superhero to thank for it.
Kate
acute lymphoblastic leukemia (ALL)
