It's official, I've been discharged. Released from the care of my oncologist and free to live the life of a survivor.
Boy what a difference two years makes. That's 730 days or 17,120 hours- and if my math is good 1,027,200 minutes. Either way you look at it, time sure has flown by and all those memories that I thought would live in my mind forever are turning out to be quiet less memorable than I thought they would be.
I can no longer quote all the differing levels of Hcg that my body has seen. The only number that really matters has been a constant since June 2008 and that is less than 2. My scar is no longer the raise pink line that it once was, having fading down to something less noticeable, like so many other memories. Not that I don't see it on a regular basis, I still do, everyday. It's impossible to miss.
One thing that won't be impossible to miss will be the blood draws. No skin off my back where that's concerned and I mean that in the kindest way possible. If not for the ladies drawing my blood, or the people running the tests in the lab, the end to my story would have been a lot different. Thank God for the strides made in the medical field.
I will also miss, fondly, my doctor at UAB. He knows who he is and if he ever comes across this lowly blog, I want him to know what a terrific doctor he is and how highly I think of him.
He was honest with me from the start, entirely capable, and I never doubted his expertise for a second. I can think of no higher praise for a man in the occupation of oncology. I pray that he is blessed everyday with knowledge, wisdom, a steady hand, and a warm heart as he continues in his endeavors.
It's with a smile that I hope to never see you again. As the risk of recurrence is rather low, I don't think we'll ever run into each other again. But it's a small world, you never know.
And for the lost baby, the one that will never be forgotten, no matter how much time passes. Whether it be 50 years - 18,18,250 days- 449,000 hours, 26,940,000- minutes or 1,616,400,000 seconds (don't check my math) the memory of the baby I never got to name, never got to hold, kiss or cuddle will live on and I know that without a doubt, I will always continue to shed a tear when I think of the person who never got a chance to be
Fisher Clay Hayes or Graicee Laine Hayes.
Two years later, it is a mix of bittersweet memories that continue to live on. Triumph and tragedy.
Like in the past, future posts will be few and far between. I will continue to keep the lines of communication open for any future woman traveling down the path of a molar pregnancy journey. I'm just an email away.
Angela Hayes, gtdwarrior