Practicing Medicine

Today, I hosted a party for a special little two-year-old guest. It was the kind of celebration filled with balloons, cake, and the unmistakable sound of toddlers giggling (or crying—sometimes it’s hard to tell). Hosting a party is no small feat, but doing so while recovering from a trying treatment day just a few days prior? That’s next-level determination—or insanity, depending on how you look at it.

Family started arriving early to help with set-up. My favorite balloon vendor worked their magic, turning my chicken-scratch sketch into a stunning centerpiece and backdrop. They even nailed the exact shade of blue I had in mind—something between ocean breeze and not-quite-sky. As I stood back to admire the setup, I joked, “See, who needs Pinterest when you’ve got me?” My family laughed, and for a moment, I forgot about the exhaustion tugging at me.

Still, the fatigue wasn’t something I could entirely hide. My aunt, who’s in the loop about my health, took one look at me and said my eyes were telling on me. I laughed it off and smiled. She squeezed my hand, a silent acknowledgment of how much energy it had taken to pull this day together.

As more guests arrived, I was met with a mix of excitement and nervousness. A close cousin, who hadn’t been told about my diagnosis yet, showed up. I wasn’t ready for that conversation—not here, not today. So, I slipped into hostess mode, cracking jokes and keeping things light.

The party itself was a blur of balloons popping, cake crumbs scattering, and children running wild with goodie bags in hand. At one point, I caught myself zoning out, staring at the chaos with a plate of untouched food in front of me.

Hosting today wasn’t just about the party; it was about proving to myself that I could still show up, even on days when I felt like sitting out. It was about creating joy for someone else while quietly managing my own challenges. By the time the last guest left, I was running on fumes. But as I surveyed the post-party mess, I felt a sense of accomplishment.

Life doesn’t pause for us to catch up, and sometimes we must keep going, one balloon and one joke at a time. Today wasn’t about my diagnosis; it was about celebrating life—both theirs and mine. And while I’m definitely paying for it with every ache and ounce of fatigue, I’d do it all over again for that little two-year-old’s smile.