In October of 2024, I was hospitalized for eight grueling days, plagued by severe jaundice. The days blurred into a haze of discomfort and uncertainty as doctors performed a barrage of tests, culminating in a liver biopsy. I was finally discharged, left with more questions than answers and a referral for further evaluation. The agonizing wait of 19 days felt like an eternit Finally, at Kirkland, an ultrasound revealed a mass in my pancreas. My heart sank as I was sent for additional tests, each one amplifying my anxiety. The confirmation came like a thunderclap: pancreatic cancer.
I was referred to an oncologist and chemo thearpist, thrust into a new world filled with medical jargon and treatment plans. The need for further testing to determine the cancer’s stage added to the whirlwind of emotions. Then chemo began floowed by Whipple surgery with more chemo in my furture.
The months of chemotherapy and surgery were already a monumental challenge, filled with struggles and small victories. Now, learning about the staggering $9,000 deductible plus 20% in additional costs feels like a cruel twist in an already difficult journey.
Reaching out feels vulnerable, like stripping away layers of armor I’ve built over the years. But in this moment of clarity, I realize that seeking help is not a sign of weakness; it’s a courageous act of self-care. I am learning that connection is a vital lifeline, that sharing burdens can lighten the load. So here I am, taking a leap of faith, hoping that by voicing my struggles, I can find the support I need to navigate through this storm and emerge stronger on the other side.