The Wake-Up Call I Needed

Before I tell this story, I need to say this: no matter what happens to me, I have the utmost respect for my medical team.

My lead doctor, Dr. Al Malki, and my nurse practitioner, Rachel Davidians, are the best at what they do. They give me hope without sugarcoating reality. They know when to push, when to listen, and they customize my care in ways I didn’t know were possible. They save lives. And their commitment to helping people and advancing life saving treatments is something I still can’t fully wrap my head around.

About six months after my bone marrow transplant, I was meeting with my doctor weekly to review blood work and talk through the physical pain I was still dealing with. Medications were constantly being adjusted. My physical limits were changing week to week. Nothing felt stable.

One day, I walked into the office completely depleted. I broke down, crying in front of my doctor and nursing team.

As I sat there, looking to my doctor for sympathy, he looked at me and said:

“What’s wrong? Why are you crying? You’re here right now, I don’t understand.”

At first, I couldn’t believe his response. I had just endured months of brutal treatment and isolation. I was living with the side effects: the pain, the exhaustion, the unknown. In that moment, I was searching for understanding. Maybe even permission to feel sorry for myself.

Honestly, his response rubbed me the wrong way.

But later that week, I sat with what he said, and my perspective began to shift.

What he helped me realize was how lucky I was to be alive.

Later that same day, he would likely walk into another room and deliver news far worse than mine. News where there were no more options. No more next steps.

I realized I didn’t need sympathy.

I already had that from my family and friends. What he saw instead was someone beginning to shut down. Someone pausing their life instead of living it.

His questions pushed me to reconceptualize my experience, and in turn reminded me of the importance of always trying to lead with gratitude.

Bad things happen to everyone, and there is almost always someone carrying something heavier. Even at the weakest I’ve ever been, 115 pounds, stripped of everything I thought defined me, I knew that moment wasn’t meant for dwelling. I still had so much to be grateful for.

It was time to live again.

What I learned is this: tragedy and setbacks are inevitable. Complaining is human and sometimes necessary. But at a certain point, you have to close the chapter and move forward.

Not for anyone else.

But for yourself.