In Her Own Words 2

The morning of December 30, 2006, I woke feeling tired. But nothing unusual about that. I went to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. I fixed it and started to walk through the dining room and . . .

The next thing I remember my son, Joshua, was calling my name and I was sitting in the floor, cereal dripping off me. The left side of my head ached and my mind was fuzzy. As Josh and my husband, Bobby helped me from the floor, I was so mixed up I thought they were trying to pull me from my bed. I wasn’t ready to get up, I felt exhausted. Nothing made any sense.

Minutes later, Josh calls my mom and she insists on me going to the ER. Part of me didn’t see the reason for all the fuss but I went with her anyway.

After a CAT scan, the doctor brought the X-ray in and said, “You’ve got a mass on your brain as big as a golf ball.”

I rubbed my normal sized head in disbelief and said, “Golf ball?”

“Well, maybe a little smaller. I’m shipping you to Ruby Memorial in an ambulance right now.”

I was stunned. A mass? What could it be? I'd had chronic headaches for years and had scans before and they were always clear. I hated hospitals and the last place I wanted to go was Morgantown. The next day was New Year’s Eve and I wanted to be home with my family. But at the time, I seemed to have no energy to argue.

Because it was a holiday weekend, I lay in Ruby until Monday evening, New Year’s Day, before my brain biopsy was done. I remember so little after waking up; a horrible headache and the doctor standing at the foot of my bed with the news. “It's possible CNS Lymphoma.”

Cancer of the brain? Me? That just couldn’t be. It was a nightmare. It had to be. When I realized I was in ICU hooked up to several machines, I knew something had to be bad wrong. But cancer? It just couldn’t be.

The next day I was ready to walk out of that hospital without seeing any cancer specialist. But when Dr. Michael Craig walked into my room and sat down beside me, I listened.

“Becky, you’ve got CNS Lymphoma or cancer of the central nervous system of the brain. Only one percent of all cancer patients get this. It’s so rare and tough to treat.” He squeezed my hand and added, “I’m sorry, but your life has changed forever.

My composure cracked and shattered into a thousand pieces. I really had cancer. There was no doubt. Dr. Craig tucked tissues into my hand.

“You have a good chance of beating this if chemo is begun immediately. I believe you would have only lived a couple more months the way the tumor is growing.”

Through my tears and misery I asked, “How long do I have with the chemo?”

He rubbed my shoulder, “With intensive chemo five years or maybe forever. I don’t like statistics. Every patient is different. But you’ll read in the books your chance is 50/40. But with your age and good health I believe you’ll be fine.”

So my journey into hell began. I can’t describe the chemo in any other way. The first treatment was January 9. My regiment was five days of chemo during a six-day stay in the hospital. I got to go home for two weeks and then back in for a week. This was done six times. Only two sessions were a three-day stay. I had a total of twenty-six treatments.

It’s not only your hair you lose; it’s your life. For four and a half months, my life was ruled by chemo treatments. At times, they were so bad I have little memories of it. I’m not sure if it was the drugs or just my mind overwhelmed with the horror. I blocked it out. But I’m glad I can’t remember it all. I always got sicker the first two to three days after I came home. Thank God for my son and husband. Those days I stayed in bed too sick to move. My mom and sister helped as much as they could.

I would cry in desolation when I was too weak to walk from the couch to the refrigerator. I had no life for many days and months. And at this time I wonder how much will I ever get back?

I had my last chemo on April 24. I’m praying it’s the last one ever.

I have an MRI on Monday, May 14. If it’s clear, he says I’ll have a scan repeated every three months for two years. There’s a fifty percent chance of the tumor coming back. If he sees something, then its back for more chemo. He promises a milder form will be used, but I dread any part of treatment. It’s hard to forget the sharp needles that forever can’t get a vein, the three PIC lines that would not give blood, the spinals that hurt so much and the blood transfusion when my blood dropped too low. And the smell of chemo. No smell in the world can match it. It’s worse than sickening. I’d like to bury all these memories and be able to pretend this part of my life is gone forever. But that’s not reality.

Julie Ellsworth has been a friend who has went beyond friendship. She traveled all the way from Ohio and took off work to stay with me twice when I was in the hospital.

Karin Fuller is a jewel. It was overwhelming how far the story she wrote about me was read. It traveled across the US.

I want to especially thank Wilma Acree for coming to the hospital and spending time with me. It had to be hard for her watching me so sick. And she’s blessed me with so much more. She’s a true friend and I love her.

Another beloved friend is Chris Kuell who had anticipated my every need. I’m grateful for it all. There’s just too many to thank individually.

The donations, cards and gifts humbled me. I received so much love and support from everyone I just want to say I wish I had a way to thank everyone for everything they’ve done. But other than a heart-felt thank you, I know no other way to show how much it means.