February

It’s here. It’s well underway. February. The month that started it all. It actually started a year prior, in February 2016, with the death of my father. He died on the 25th and was buried on the 29th. I hate that it was such an unusual day. I’ll never be able to look at leap day as anything other than the day I buried my father. February 2017. Diagnosis day. Biopsies. Scans and tests and procedures. Appointment after appointment. Waiting. More waiting. We knew we were dealing with cancer but it took weeks to confirm the actual beast we were facing. Waiting to start treatment, worrying that the cancer cells were rapidly multiplying, taking over while we had to wait to find out what type of cancer, which would determine the treatment. Central line placement, pneumothorax, chest tube. All of this before treatment started, which finally began in March. Did that delay allow those microscopic cells to start taking off through her blood stream, unable to be detected by chemo? Or was it our delay? Brushing off her pain as an injury that would get better with rest? Or was she doomed to succumb no matter when we caught the cancer? February 2018. Fraught with anxiety. Recently off treatment, in between scans. Everything still so fresh in our minds, worrying about relapse. We got lots of congratulations at that time, but I just couldn’t fully celebrate. Because I wasn’t convinced the cancer wouldn’t return. February 2019. Started out so hopeful. Radiation did the job it was supposed to do. Ariella was cleared for bone marrow transplant. More tests and scans. More appointments. And some optimism and hope mixed in. February 11, spent all day at Hopkins for blood work and baseline tests and such. February 18, admitted for what we thought would be 4-6 weeks. Starting the pre-transplant radiation and chemo. Actually managed to have some fun in the hospital. We (thought) we knew what we were in for so were making the best of the situation. February 26, the day we were all waiting for. The day we hoped would cure her for good. The day that set her death in motion. Bone marrow transplant day. What people often call a “re-birthday”. I would give anything, anything to roll back the clock to that day and change things. Not do the transplant. Or do it a week earlier, or a week later. Anything that could possibly change the outcome. Ariella didn’t end up in the ICU until March but February started it all. And it kills me to think about what could have been, had it all gone well like we expected. Why? Why did this happen?