Practicing Medicine

Day 80. It’s Christmas. A day that once felt magical and carefree now feels different. The decorations are up, the gifts are wrapped, and the familiar holiday tunes play softly in the background, but beneath it all, there’s an unshakable undercurrent of exhaustion and reflection. This year, Christmas isn’t just Christmas. It’s not just the festive season; it’s a marker of where I am in this journey. 80 days since my life took an unexpected turn. 80 days of appointments, treatments, side effects, and endless conversations about health and survival. But today, I’m determined to pause—to embrace the holiday for what it is, even if it looks and feels unlike any other.

The morning started early, as it always does when you have children in the house. My younger children burst into the room, filled with excitement about what was left under the tree. Their joy was infectious, and for a brief moment, I forgot about the fatigue that has been my constant companion. I got up, poured myself a cup of tea, and made my way to the living room where the tree stood tall, adorned with ornaments of the new color scheme of navy, silver and gold.

Watching them tear into their gifts reminded me why I keep pushing forward. These moments—their laughter, their amazement, the pure, unfiltered joy of childhood—are why I fight so hard to stay present. Still, it’s hard not to reflect on how much has changed. The energy I once brought to this day is nowhere to be found. Instead, I find myself pacing my energy, picking my moments carefully. This year, my husband prepared the Christmas meal with care, ensuring that he made my plate before everyone else started digging into the spread, knowing how important it was to protect me from potential exposure to bacteria. It’s a small gesture, but it means everything.

We traveled to my cousin’s house for Christmas brunch, which has become a tradition. As more family arrived, the house was filled with warmth and laughter. My aunt, who knows the full extent of my journey, gave me a knowing look as she hugged me tightly. “You’re doing amazing,” she whispered, and it was all I could do to keep the tears from spilling over. She could see the exhaustion in my eyes, even behind the festive façade I was trying so hard to maintain because everyone did not know. Close cousins, still unaware of my diagnosis, chatted with me as though everything was normal. I joked, I laughed, and I kept the secret to myself. Today wasn’t the right time to share or to seek comfort. Today was about creating memories, not centering myself.

As the evening wound down and the house grew quieter, I gathered the children so we could prepare for the journey home. I sat in the truck and let the stillness wash over me. I felt grateful for my family, for the moments of joy, and for the strength that has carried me through 80 days. Christmas may look different this year, but it’s no less meaningful. This holiday season, I’ve learned that it’s okay to let go. It’s okay to lean on others and to prioritize what truly matters. And it’s okay to feel a mix of emotions—joy, sadness, hope, and exhaustion—because all of them are part of this journey.

Day 80. It’s Christmas. And despite everything, I’m here. For that, I’m endlessly thankful.