Sorry, I haven't blogged in a while. I want to share this personal health journey to foster understanding and connection with others facing similar challenges.
What I'm about to describe is an enormous amount to carry, and I'm tired.
From December of 2001 to November of 2003, I was the recipient of chemotherapy treatments. The chemo had a metallic taste, which caused me to get nauseous twice a week, and twice a month.
In 2026, I am facing stage two liver cancer and stage three liver failure. I was diagnosed with cancer just a week ago after a series of painful tests that raised difficult questions about how and why it happened.
My Cirrosis wasn't the result of heavy alcohol use or "partying it up." I never drank daily or on the weekends. The most "drinking" I did was in my senior year of High School, and during a party I attended in California, after getting sick and having a hangover, I knew drinking wasn't for me. However, when I turned thirty, I had a glass of wine, which turned out to be half a glass too much, because my ears got warm, and I knew it was some reaction. I got scared, and that was the last time I had wine or anything else, for that matter. That was it for me. Evidently, not only did the chemotherapy hurt my liver, but so did shot-gunning my system with Tylenol and Advil every six hours, just to be able to have somewhat of a painless day, or even a couple of hours.
Now I'm living with the consequences of a serious health problem.
I know I'm no longer on the donor list to receive a part of a donor's kidney. My daughter jumped at the chance to help her mom. When all the physicians conferred with one another, we found out that I was not eligible for liver donation because of the cancer lesion on my kidney. The doctors were in unison when they told her, "If your Mother does what she is supposed to do, and gets the ammonia down by drinking the medication to lower the ammonia in her system, she will have five to twelve months." "Otherwise, it's up to God." The look on my daughter's face was indescribable. You know when a child wants something and pitches a fit and starts to cry with those big ole crocodile tears? My daughter is thirty-six, and those were the tears falling from my daughter's eyes.
Since being diagnosed with liver cancer, I will go to a pain management doctor monthly. I am currently on a morphine patch for pain, and medication only to be taken at night to alleviate panic attacks due to my Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) from the abuse throughout the years by my first husband and my second husband's mother.
This latest experience naturally raises questions about the long-term cost of survival. It is called catastrophic insurance. I am glad that my husband talked me into getting the rider on my life insurance plan. One important distinction is that it is often very difficult to determine with certainty that the specific chemotherapy drug that was injected into me weekly caused a serious condition decades later. Some chemotherapy agents are known to have long-term toxicities, including effects on the liver or an increased risk of certain secondary cancers, but establishing a direct cause-and-effect relationship in an individual case usually requires a careful review of the medication that was used.
The last and final physical thing I am going through is my ammonia level. It started at 162, even though I'm drinking water, three to four 40-ounce Stanley Purple Bottles daily, and more so if it's hot, I sweat profusely. I don't cool down rapidly, especially when working in the flower beds or my little garden space, where I am currently growing tomatoes, white potatoes in grow bags, and sweet potatoes in another garden. I knew something was wrong in the latter part of 2025 when it became a feat to bend over without falling headfirst into the garden or my rosebushes in the front yard I planted. One of the funniest times was after I used the bathroom: I pitched forward and made a head-sized hole in my bathroom wall. My husband reminds me of this when my test records return, and my ammonia is high, he will say, this is not a good way of putting another doorway into your closet. My blood ammonia level is slowly going down; it was 136, then 125, and, as my doctor's nurse said today, 'you're below 100, you're going in the right direction!'
I was released from serving at the Temple because I had gotten so yellow. Besides that, the matron physically touched me to move me over, and she bruised me. I bruise really easy now, and my nose will suddenly start to bleed if I sneeze too hard. The physicians are baffled about where my red blood cells are going because I need platelet infusions. I was at a level three, four weeks ago. I feel my best at level 11, but within a week, I start losing my red blood cells.
One minute, your life is normal. The next minute, everything you thought you knew is gone. I know that moment. I've lived it. A medical crisis can change a life in seconds, not just for the patient, but for the entire family. But I've also learned this: God is with me; the hardest chapters don't get the final word; I have immersed myself in His word; and strength shows up when you least expect it. Hope finds you even when the road looks impossible.
However, the clock is still ticking, Tick - Tock - Tick - Tock.
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