Silence

Silence


Hospital sounds are constant—machines hum and beep, air filters buzz, soft shoes of nurse’s swish quickly to patients. There is no overt silence. However, there is silence in my head as I begin to fully understanding the whirlwind of the past week. Last Monday, I felt awful and went to the doctor, and I had blood work done. By Wednesday, I was at Lowell General, with a bone marrow biopsy scheduled for the following Tuesday, and on Tuesday after the bone marrow, Blake and I found ourselves speeding down to Mass General (with a small stop in between to tell the kids) with a diagnosis of Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia (ALL).

My first chemo treatment began on Thursday—the big guns—with a follow-up on Friday. No hair loss as of yet, but I am assuming that will come. My treatments and blood counts are neatly scheduled on a calendar next to my bed, and I am trying to look at them only briefly to remind myself of what comes next.

What is most humbling is the hearts of our family and friends. When we were admitted, and I could not stop crying, the admitting nurse, a lovely and extremely capable woman named Meg, said that though I have the diagnosis, our family has the disease—and that extends to our dear, dear friends as well. The notes and calls and encouraging little gifts (meals for the family, iPods with hymns, clean underwear, loose, comfy sweatpants, books to fill the mind) and the prayers—especially the prayers—are the strength for us as we start this triathlon.
So I am now waiting for my husband—my own dear soul mate—to come and visit me as well as our Lizzy and her dear friend Meg. I am listening to the silence and I know how very rich I am. How blessed.
Zephaniah 3:17