29/2025

Germany.
Celebrations, beer for breakfast,
wandering a Victorian-style city with friends.
Beautiful lights shine as we sip Glühwein
at Christmas markets; cheer in our eyes,
untouched by fear.

New Year’s.
Welcoming 2025 with cupcakes
and dreams of what will be memorable;
our wedding quietly holding
the front of our minds.

A sickness falls over me, just for a moment.
Nothing to worry about.

My body grows weaker as days pass,
but naps and self-reassurance
wrap me in a cozy cover
for what lies beneath.

Mother’s Day.
Flowers, love, embraces; a sweetness in the air.
I wish I could hold this forever.

Another sickness emerges.
I share it with my doctor.

May 14.
The workup begins.
Worry. Uncertainty.
Fear of the unknown.
I place my trust in Mayo Clinic
and in God.

Transfusions, appointments,
doctor’s notes crowd my thoughts.
What does it all mean?

June 16.
Suspicious for high-grade neoplasm.
Surely it couldn’t be.

June 19.
Confirmed. Leukemia.
My life will never be the same.
Plans unravel.
Dreams turn upside down, some erased entirely.

We tie the knot
before life becomes measured
by appointments and treatments.
A moment to celebrate love,
to briefly escape reality.

A transplant on the horizon; far enough away not to overwhelm me.
Donors?

Matched.
Maria means hope.
Maria means health.
Maria means living again.

October 16.
A new beginning.
A new me.
Reborn, but where do I start?

Nausea, fatigue, night sweats
become daily visitors.
They overstay their welcome.

Living between two kingdoms,
learning how to thrive
in this gray arena.

Thirty strikes.
2026 approaches.
A renewed sense of being.
What comes next?
I do not know, but I trust.
I have faith.

Closing the door on a wild, unexpected year,
not with relief,
but with gratitude.

Thank you, 29.
You changed me.
You saved me.
Bring on 2026.