Waking up the morning of Feb. 7, 2008, I began to form my plan of attack.
First thing on the list was to send an email to my pastor and let him know what was going on. I had decided that if it came to be that I was diagnosed with Gestational Trohpblastic Disease, I would ask for a partial hysterectomy and shave my head if need be. I would do whatever it took to get ahead of the of this disease, while getting a good kick to the devil in. This chain of thought would become my mantra for the next few weeks, because like the intuition I had before the miscarriage, I had the same feeling that I would need the chemo before it was all over.
My email was then sent on to the rest of the members of the church that were on the email prayer chain and because prayer is such a powerful thing, and I wanted to publicly acknowledge that I could be faced with cancer, that Sunday, I stood in front of entire church, to ask for prayers, letting them know about the miscarriage and the what it could result in. Before the service was over, everyone gathered around me and prayed over me.
We'd been going to our church for close to 2 years by this time and the members there had become like a second family to me. Church had become a sort of safe heaven from the day to day chores during the week, I LOVE the praise and worship service we have during the 9 o'clock service know as Fusion, a collection of upbeat and get you going music designed for the whole family to praise God and have fun. I can't carry a tune and all my musical ability seems to have been placed in my left foot as my hands can't clap a steady beat with the music unless I concentrate really hard, but my left foot seems to be immune to my lack of musical ability and is rarely still when the music is playing. Every Sunday, my mind finds refuge with the songs that are sung, leaving me feel like I'm floating on a cloud almost until the next Sunday.
I used that feeling to help get me through my first weekly blood drawl after learning what it really means, on Feb. 12, 2008.