The Plan Was Set-Until It Wasn't

Apparently, I like to keep my doctors on their toes.

The very next day—Friday—we were called in to meet with my oncologist. We knew what was coming: the plan, the next steps, the roadmap for whatever was ahead. The answer was CAR T-cell therapy. We had already spent months learning about it, wanting to be proactive, to prepare ourselves for this exact scenario, should it ever come. And now, here we were. The new, cutting-edge treatment, barely over a decade old, and FDA approved in 2022 for early relapsed DLBCL, had already saved so many lives. It was hope. That entire day, we clung to that hope. We watched video after video of success stories—people just like me, who had relapsed, gone through CAR T, and were now living full, cancer-free lives. We even spoke with a sweet woman that I've been inspired by, referred to us by a friend, whose story mirrored mine almost exactly. She had been where I was. She had walked through the fire, having relapsed, went through CAR T. And now? She was thriving—healthy, happy, raising her four beautiful children, living the life she fought so hard to keep. She gave us so much hope.

The plan was clear: - Step one: Get a biopsy as soon as possible. - Step two: Start chemo immediately to shrink the tumors and slow the disease. No time to waste. My biopsy was scheduled for Monday. Then, on Tuesday, everything fell apart. The biopsy results came back. I was CD19 negative. CD19 is a protein on cancer cells that CAR T is engineered to recognize and destroy. 95% of patients with DLBCL have it. The treatment is built around that antigen. It’s what makes the therapy work. I just happened to be part of the 5% who didn’t have it. Our hearts sank. Again. This couldn’t be true. I picked up my phone and texted George. "CD19 negative." He was in a meeting in the other room, but I heard his voice stop mid-sentence. Then, through the silence, he said to his team: "I have to go." Seconds later, he was standing in front of me, staring at my phone, rereading the results over and over like maybe—just maybe—he had misread them. He hadn’t. **What was happening?** **Why were we getting bad news after bad news?** **Was this it?** Am I meant to not survive this? Another wave of tears. Another wave of fear. Another moment where the future felt like it was slipping further from our grasp.

If you don’t know my husband, he is a next-level research king. Even my actual oncologist is impressed with the depth of his knowledge, the questions he asks, the studies he references. He’s not just my husband—he’s been welcomed onto the research team. And I am so incredibly grateful for that. I’ve told him not every husband would do this. Not to this level. He disagrees. "Anyone would," he says. But I know the truth. Not everyone would. He spends hours upon hours researching—pulling up trials, studying cases, finding hopeful outcomes. He brings them to me, wanting me to see the people who made it through, the ones who beat the odds. But I also know… he sees the other side. The statistics. The ones who didn’t make it. And so, his practical side is kicking in. He wants me to start preparing. To write letters—to the girls, to him, for birthdays, for milestones, for the moments they would want to hear my voice if I’m not here. I know that sounds morbid. I know that. But this is my reality. I need to fight with everything in me. I need to stay hopeful, to believe that I can still kick cancer’s butt out of here for good. But I also know how quickly things can go south. And if they do, if the worst happens, I don’t want to leave them without more of me. So I will do both. I will fight with all I've got to stay here. But I will also make sure, if I don’t, they will have me in every way I can still give them. Because that’s what a mother does.

And I’m not done being their wife or mother yet.

With all my love,

Blessy