Letter Series Vol. 2 // A Letter To My Donor

Writing a letter to someone you don't know and thanking them for something of this magnitude is a hard task to tackle.

I think I've written a letter to someone I didn't know before. It was probably many years ago and in grade school a few times--a member of our military, a child overseas, etc--a designated pen-pal, if you will.

You probably remember those. The one thing I do know about you is you're around my age, so I'm assuming you remember handwritten letters and good ole snail mail. And after all of this time, of all of the countless letters I've written, if I could choose one to be handwritten, it would be this one.

Maybe eventually I can send you one through the donor registry, but until then I have a lot of work to do... so I guess I should focus there first.

But a day doesn't go by that I wonder who you are and what you're like.

Is she from the US?
Does she live in Germany?
Does she have kids?
What kinds of hobbies she like to do?
Does she want to meet me?
What did she think when she got a phone call saying she was a match?
Why did she decide to become a part of the registry?

I have so many questions and thoughts running through my brain about the kind of person you are.

But now that I've gone through with the transplant and parts of who you are becoming part of me, I wanted to write and really try to explain my thoughts, feelings and gratitude.

I've never dreamt I'd write a letter to you--whoever you are--and say the following, but here it goes:

Thank you for giving me a chance, a chance to live a longer life with my family and friends. 

Thank you for giving me an opportunity to make a difference in their lives. 

Thank you for saving me from being released from the gravity of this Earth too soon. 

Thank you for giving me something that is rightfully yours that was internally and scientifically made for you for your body, and sharing it with me to give me a chance to live longer.

Thank you for giving me hope. 

Thank you for giving my family hope and some peace of mind.

Thank you for taking the time to fill out the registry. Who would have ever thought that there are two people essentially made up of the same DNA--blood or whatever inside--and we've never even met? 

Thank you for taking time out of your life to do this for someone you don't know. It shows how unselfish and thoughtful you are.

Thank you for not passing up this opportunity to save someone's life. I hope that you will want to meet me one day, as I'd love to meet you.

Please never feel guilty if you never want to be contacted. I couldn't imagine giving something from your body--some of your anatomy--to save a stranger's life and finding out it didn't work. 

If that happens (it won't) but if it did, it's not your fault. You tried. You just happened to be the lucky person to have to the inside-goodies to match mine.

And that's what matters; you found that out and you've followed through donating your stem cells and  given me a fighting chance at life. There is nothing more I can ask for than that, truly.

Some people battling this disease don't even make it this far; they never make it into remission. I did it in one try. It seems like I'm supposed to go through this, right? Maybe we are supposed to meet and this is just the way we have to do it. 

Who knows what God has in store for us? 

What I do know is that I could NEVER express my gratitude for your act of kindness. I just wish there was someway I could give back or give back to the community for your act of selflessness. 

I wish I knew what I could do or what to say to you, but the truth is I don't. I don't know what to say. 

I'm sorry for that. 

The magnitude of the possibility of what you're giving me is far too large for a few words on a tiny screen. I wish I could do more. I wish I could say more. I've honestly never been so at a loss for words in my life. And to the people who know that personally have never witnessed that in my 27 years of life. I'm a talker;  I like to talk.

But I truly don't know what to say.

And maybe it's better not to say too much in this case. The simplest "thank you" may be the best. 

Thank you for giving me some more light at the end of my life. Whether it's one minute, one year, two years, ten, twenty or fifty, thank you to you, my donor, whoever and whereever you are.

I will cherish every bit of it and bask in the rays of light. 

Forever grateful & warm,

Letter Series Vol. 1 // A Letter To My Sons

I just can't seem to find it in my heart tonight.

I know I was meant to battle through this time and for a purpose, but as I look at photos of my boys the "reason" for going through this doesn't bring me solace as I lay in the hospital bed away from them.

My heart and soul are 40 miles away from me tonight, but feel 5000. I can't bare to think about how I haven't seen them since Monday or that they can't come up here to see me everyday because it puts other patients with low immune systems at risk.

I know that life isn't fair. I just can't find it in my heart to push through these feelings tonight. I'm not as strong as I sound on paper [or technically] your screen.

I can push through some emotions and utilize my acceptance for what is, but I can't do it tonight. I can only think of them--my precious babies.

That's all that's on my mind tonight.

I can't help but feel the burden that I'm forcing onto others for having to care for my children that bore into this world. It's not OK with me.

People shouldn't have to care for MY babies. I should be able to do that. I should be able to care for them.

There is nothing more precious in this life than to become a parent, and this disease [or any serious illness, for that matter] can take that away from you.

So here I lay in a hospital bed in Dallas with three more days of chemo left and another two weeks or more stuck in his dungeon. OK, this dungeon is much better than the where I did my first round of chemo in November, but it's still a dungeon if you can't get out into the light and feel fresh air on your face.

I'm laying here... eyes closed and typing away (and yes, I can type with my eyes close because I'm a bad ass). Anyway, ahem, like I was typing with my eyes closed, I'm imagining feeling the air on my face and watching Brody run around outside on a sunny day much like he did on Sunday, the day before I committed to being in this place.

I picture holding baby Bex and kissing the sweetest little nose and smile, I've ever seen. I just want that baby-smell to intoxicate me again. It's crazy that a smell can make everything melt away and keep me calm and content with where I am.

--

[[A letter to my sons]]

Hi, my lovely babies.

Today is day 4 I've been away from you and it may not feel like it for you two, but it feels like an eternity on my end. I miss your snuggles, your smiles, your giggles, and your smell--except for when you go number two... Bro, Bro, you know I'm talking to you. Shewwwwwweeeeee. Stinky poo poo.

But despite what comes out of both of your rear-ends, I'd deal with it to just be home with you again.

Brody, I miss your loud "zombie-acting" skills and watching Bex smile when he hears that the "Zombie is coming to get me."

You two are the most precious things to me. I'm just so thankful that I chose the best daddy for you two. He does everything mommy does, if not more. Probably more. It's more, guys. There I admit it. He does more. He does it all. And he is the best daddy in the whole world, that I can promise you.

You know I may not have known that this was going to happen to me, but I definitely felt something was off in my bones. About half my way through my pregnancy with Bex, I felt a fear in my heart I'd never felt and terror swarmed around me.

Questions popped in my head:

"What if something terrible happens to me or the baby during this pregnancy?"
"What would we do if something is wrong with the baby?"
"What if I leave my Bro behind?"

I feared for the unknown.

But when his cancer decided to show its face to us, it fortunately impacted me and my life and not jeopardize the life of my second baby, boy Bex.

Bex, you don't know it yet or have any clue, but you saved mommy's life when you started to grow in my belly. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have been getting routine check-ups and regular blood work done. I wouldn't have found the cancer as quickly as we did if you weren't in there growing inside of me.

Just three days after seeing the hematologist, I went to the hospital because you were kicking and causing spasms in my lower back that weren't normal. You were trying to tell me to go to the doctor to get checked out. And I did.

Essentially, I didn't expect to have you a week later, nor did I expect to get the news I got the very next day--mommy is very sick with AML If it hadn't been for your rocking around like a crazy person in womb, I wouldn't have went back to the doctor that week. Everything about my treatment would have been pushed back another week, another day, another hour and it all seems like too much time when your trying to fight for your life.

It wasn't until you came out and I saw the knot in your cord that I realized I helped save your life too. I had a placenta-hormone issue we discovered early on in the pregnancy that had us already monitoring you closely. There was a chance the placenta could give out before birth and you'd stop growing and getting the nutrients you needed to survive. But kowing that while you were still my tummy, and then seeing the pretzel-tied knot in your cord solidified your reason for being here on Earth as much as mine.

You were supposed to arrive 10 weeks early.
You weren't supposed to go full-term.
That's not who you are, Bex.
You were ready for this world the minute you started to sprout inside of me.
You were never going to wait.
You were going to beat to your own drum and you did, bud.

You pounded on my back to get mommy help--to save me. You did that. You saved me. And because you saved me, I kinda saved you too I suppose. Though, technically you probably saved yourself; just go ahead kid, you can have the credit.

I honestly don't care. But typing this story tonight made me feel much better. Imagining how you came into the world crying and reaching for air. You breathed on your own with no help.

You're tough, little guy. They said you wouldn't be. They said you'd be weak, but you proved them wrong. Your my rough and tough little baby boy.

You were out of the NICU so fast and on the special care nursery and home in five-weeks time.

And your brother has never shown one iota of jealousy. He has been so proud of you from the very first moment he saw a photo of you. He loves his "baby brudder" and he watches out for you all the time.

Brody gets on to me if you're crying and I don't get up fast enough to feed you or change your diaper.

"Mommy, feed baby brudder now!" he demands. "He needs you."

Oh boy, Bro. You both do, in so many more ways that you know. That's why I'm stuck in this dungeon fighting for my life.

I'm fighting for you--both of you. I love you so much.

I don't ever want to leave you, ever. And I won't.
I will be here for you always, but I can't make promises.

All I can do is tell you that you've given me the best gift and the most appreciation for life I've had in my 27-years on Earth. Thank you for that. How could I ever want more?

And don't think I'm giving up. I'm not. Mommy's heart just hurts tonight. I just long to be around your snuggles and watch you smile, grin and giggle. You fill up a room when you giggle, Brody. It's the best sound in the world.

I'll still be there to watch your first football game, to walk you in on your first day of school and I'll probably catch you touching yourself for the first time... (gosh I dread that one).

I know you're gonna hate me for putting that on the FOREVER-lasting internet. Sorry, just the way I roll boys! Mommy has to embarrass you sometimes. It's a right of passage. I've been there, trust me. Plus, by the time you're old enough to be typing things on the internet, computers will probably be a thing of the past... maybe not. But something new will be the latest and the greatest, and people won't remember what a blog was.

That's the reason I want to write you, and share my experiences with you--other people might not remember what a blog was, but I will save these for you to read later in life.

Whether it's public, private or gets lost on the interweb, I want you to know who your mom is in the thick of it. I want you to know that I try to find ways to lighten the mood at any chance I get. Mommy just doesn't like to knee-deep in tears; that's not me. I don't want tears to constantly stream down my face. But there are days I have to feel it and this afternoon was just one of those days for me.

But I promise you, I will always try to find some light in the darkness. It's how we move through this life. And it's how you will move through yours.

That is one thing I know now after having both of you.

Life has purpose.

We aren't a bunch of wandering stars in galaxies; it's a pretty thought, but it's not true. God is there. I've never felt closer to Him. I doubted Him before, now I know he is in my heart.

Our story is proof of that. We've witnessed reason beyond reasoning this past year.

Never forget it, my loves.

With love forever and ever and always,
Mom