There’s a strange tension in my life right now. Physically, I feel good. Better than I have in a long time, honestly. I’m working through physical therapy, rebuilding strength, slowly increasing my cardio, trying to reclaim the parts of myself that treatment stripped away. Chemotherapy took more than hair and energy. It took endurance. It took muscle. It took the version of me that could disappear into the wilderness for two weeks with everything I needed strapped to my back and think nothing of the miles ahead.

That version of me is still there somewhere. I know that. Right now he’s just rebuilding.

I am improving in physical therapy. I can actually see the results now. The strength is returning to my body little by little, enough that I notice it in everyday things instead of just numbers on a chart or exercises on a worksheet. I’m trying to be smart about it and not overdo things. That can be difficult for me because mentally I always want to push harder and move faster than my body is ready for.

I’m also paying attention to what I eat. I’m back to around 195 pounds and eventually I’d like to get back down closer to 185. For now though, I keep getting told the same thing by the medical team: focus on balanced meals and healing first. The rest can come later.

They are probably right.

Still, I would be lying if I said part of me was not looking forward to getting my beach body back and reclaiming my sex symbol status. Humor helps. Sometimes you have to laugh a little after spending so much time in hospitals, treatment rooms, and waiting areas. Recovery needs moments of lightness too.

The hikes will come back. The strength will come back. The confidence in my body will come back too. Recovery is not dramatic most days. It is repetition. Small victories. One more exercise. One more walk without feeling exhausted. One more moment where your body reminds you that healing is happening, even if it is happening quietly.

Medically, things are moving in the right direction. The numbers continue to improve. We are slowly decreasing the amount of medications I need to boost my immune system because those numbers are getting close to normal again. That is a huge win. The kind of win that may not look dramatic from the outside, but means everything when you have spent months watching blood work and waiting for your body to recover.

I still have another scan coming up in a few weeks, and that will help determine the next course of action. Continue the current plan. Adjust it. Maybe move toward the next phase. Right now, a lot depends on those results.

That leaves me living in a strange kind of limbo.

It is an odd space to exist in because life outwardly looks normal again. I’m back to planning things. Thinking about hiking trails I want to revisit and trips I want to take. I can laugh, work, travel, and enjoy life again. Yet somewhere in the background there is always this quiet countdown to the next appointment, the next lab draw, the next scan result posted to a portal.

Cancer changes your relationship with time.

You stop looking too far ahead because you learn quickly that plans can change with a phone call. At the same time, you cannot stay frozen waiting for medical updates forever. So you learn to live in between. In between fear and hope. In between recovery and uncertainty. In between who you were and who you are becoming.

Some days that balance is easy. Other days it feels impossible.

I’m still cautious around large groups of people. I wear a mask when necessary. It makes me a little self-conscious sometimes, standing out in a crowd when most people have moved on from all of that. Still, I remind myself that caution is not weakness. It is part of recovery. Part of protecting the progress I have fought so hard to make.

Even the small things feel meaningful now.

My hair is growing back. We think I was losing some of it on top because that was still my “December hair.” Hair that had gone through the last heavy round of chemo before the CAR-T process. That treatment was designed to wipe out my immune system completely so it could rebuild. My hair probably never stood much of a chance against it either.

Now it is coming back.

That makes me happier than I expected it would.

Maybe that sounds a little vain, but I do not think it really is. Hair is one of those quiet parts of your identity you never think much about until it changes. I’m used to running my hands through it when I’m reading or thinking. It’s habit. Muscle memory. One of those small human routines tied to comfort and familiarity.

When cancer and treatment begin taking pieces of your routine, even tiny things matter when they return.

What I’m learning is that recovery has its own rhythm. You cannot force it. You cannot rush the process just because your mind is ready for life to return to normal. The body heals on its own timetable. Progress comes in layers, quietly stacking on top of one another until one day you realize you are stronger than you were a month ago.

Maybe that is the real challenge in all of this. Not waiting, but learning how to move forward without needing immediate certainty. Trusting the steady steps even when the destination is still unclear.

For most of my life, I have measured progress by distance covered, objectives completed, and mountains climbed. This season is teaching me to measure things differently. A good scan. Stronger blood work. A longer walk. A little more strength returning to my legs. Hair growing back. The ability to imagine future adventures again.

That is still movement forward. Quietly. Steadily. One step at a time.

I sat there getting ready to send my retirement notice to my Supervisor. The cursor blinked. It feels heavier than it should, like it understands what this moment carries.

It was harder than I expected.

There was a strange mix of emotions sitting just beneath the surface. Gratitude for the years, the work, the people. Pride in what was done and what was endured, and something quieter, harder to name. The realization that a chapter I once thought would define me is now something I am choosing to close.

On the radio, Pig by Dave Matthews Band comes on, and then the line hits:

All good things must come to an end sometime… oh, but don’t burn the day away.

It landed differently.

This is not an ending built on regret. It is not walking away from something broken. It is stepping away while there is still meaning in it, while the memories are still good, while the work still matters.

But my life is not defined by the work that I have done.

It is only one chapter, not the whole story. The job shaped me, tested me, and gave me a sense of purpose for a long time. It introduced me to people who became part of my life in ways I never expected. It gave me moments I will carry forever. But it does not get to write the ending.

There is more to me than the cases, the titles, the years of service. There are the quiet mornings, the time with family, the trails I have yet to walk, the conversations I have not had, the parts of life that were sometimes pushed aside in the name of the mission. Those parts are still there, waiting, steady and patient.

This next chapter is not about replacing what was. It is about rediscovering what else is.

That line from the song feels less like a warning and more like a reminder.

Do not rush through this moment.

Do not numb it.

Do not treat it like something to just get past.

There is weight here because it meant something.

So I sat with it a little longer. I think about the early days, the long hours, the cases that stayed with me, the people who stood beside me through it all. I think about how much of my life has been shaped by this work, and how much of me I am carrying forward because of it.

I am not burning the day away. My retirement date is June 27, 2026, and for the first time, that date feels real. It is no longer something out on the horizon. It is approaching, steady and certain.

Between now and then, there are still days to be lived inside this chapter. Conversations to have. Hands to shake. Quiet moments to take in and remember. A chance to close this part of my life with intention, not haste.

After that date, there is something else waiting. (More to follow.) Not an ending, but an opening. More time with family. More miles on trails. More mornings that are not defined by a schedule or a title. More space to simply be.

So I sat there, not rushing to send the email.

Because on that day, like all the others that led me here, deserves to be fully lived.

It caught my eye this morning without asking for attention.

My old hiking hat sat where I must have left it, quiet and familiar. The brim is softer now, shaped more by weather than by design. There are sweat stains worked deep into the fabric, the kind that no wash ever really removes. A thin layer of beeswax still clings to it, faintly tacky in places, giving off that subtle, earthy scent that only comes from years of use. When I picked it up, it felt exactly how I remembered. Broken in, not worn out.

That hat has lived a life.

It is older than Noah.

I remember buying it on a road trip that took me through Christiana, Delaware. I was not looking for anything in particular, just passing through, when I saw the Eastern Mountain Sports sign. Something about it pulled me in. I picked up the hat without much thought at the time. It felt right in my hands. Durable. Rugged. Built for use, not display.

They do not even make that model anymore.

At one point, I wanted to get one for each of the boys. Something they could carry with them, something that would last. Something that could take a beating and keep going.

This one did.

It has spent over 300 nights with me in a tent. Nights where the air turns sharp after sunset and the ground beneath never quite levels out. Mornings where the world wakes slowly, light filtering through trees or spilling across open land, and the hat goes back on before the first step of the day. It has absorbed sweat from long climbs and the cool mist from early mornings. It holds the scent of pine, dust, campfire smoke, ash, and rain.

Real rain. The kind that soaks through everything and turns trails into streams. I can still feel how the brim darkens as it takes on water, dripping steadily while I keep moving forward. Then there are the hot days, relentless sun overhead, the kind that bakes the ground and drains you faster than expected. That hat stays in place through all of it, shielding my face, buying me just a little more comfort.

It has stood atop my head on high peaks, resting there as the wind pressed in and the temperature dropped, protecting me from the mountain elements. In those moments, when the world stretches out below you and the air feels thin and sharp, it is a small thing that makes a real difference. A quiet layer between you and everything the mountain throws your way.

Sometimes, it gets switched out for a beanie. The cold demands it. When the wind cuts across your ears and settles deep, you learn quickly what matters. But even then, the hat is never far. It waits at base camp, or in thr pack on my sweaty back, ready for when the air softens again. I always come back to it.

At night, it takes on a different role. It becomes a place to keep the small things, a headlamp, a watch, a pocketknife, whatever I need close. Sitting right beside my head on that blow-up air pad, it is part of the rhythm of camp life. Not just something I wear, but something I rely on.

It has touched everything.

Desert sands that slip through your fingers and cling to everything you own. The heavy, slow-moving waters of the Atchafalaya Basin, thick with life and heat. Glacial ice that feels ancient under your feet. Hail that stings when it hits. Relentless sun that presses down hour after hour. Leaves brushing past on narrow trails. Bugs landing, crawling, existing in their own quiet world.

It has been part of all of it.

It went with me to Philmont Scout Ranch three times. Once with each of my boys. Even though I had thought I had forgotten it on my last trip out there, it was there in the bottom of my pack, I found it on the second to last day of the trek. Just patiently waiting for me. There to celebrate the end of the hike with me. To ride atop my head as we descended from the Tooth of Time into Basecamp.

That place has a way of shaping people. You watch young teens arrive unsure, still figuring things out, and over the course of miles and days, you see them change. The environment demands it. The elevation, the weight of a pack, the unpredictability of the trail. Problems show up whether you are ready or not, and they have to find solutions. Real ones. Creative ones. You can see the shift happen. They stand a little taller. Speak with a little more confidence. They become something more than they were when they started.

The hat was there for all of it and watched them grow.

It made the trip to Iceland, where the wind does not just blow, it cuts. The air there feels alive, cold and constant. I remember pulling that hat down tighter, letting it take the brunt of it.

It stood with me at the edge of the Grand Canyon, looking out over something so vast it almost silences you. That trip was different. Shared steps, shared views, shared moments that settle into you deeper than anything else.

Maria calls it my “hat meme.” Pronounced “me-me.” It always makes me smile. That is what the boys used to call their security blankets when they were little. The things they carried everywhere. The things that made the world feel steady when everything else was new or uncertain.

Somewhere along the way, this hat became that for me.

Now it sits here, showing every mile. Every storm. Every long day under the sun. It would be easy to see it as something past its prime.

But that is not what I see.

I see something that has endured.

Something shaped by time and experience. The stains are not flaws. They are proof. The beeswax, the wear, the softened edges, they all tell the story of a life lived fully, not carefully preserved.

I find myself in that reflection more than I expected.

This journey I am on right now is slower. It asks for patience I am still learning. There are days where I feel worn in ways that are hard to explain. Not broken, but changed.

But there is still purpose here.

That hat does not try to be new again. It does not need to. It is exactly what it is supposed to be now. Reliable. Proven. Carrying more meaning with every mile behind it.

Maybe that is the lesson sitting in front of me this morning.

Not everything that shows its age is fading. Some things are settling into what they were always meant to become.

Still useful. Still steady. Still ready for whatever comes next.

I picked it up, turned it over in my hands, and for a moment I could feel all those places again. The wind. The heat. The quiet. The weight of a pack. The sound of boots on dirt.

I set it back down where I found it, a little more carefully this time.

This morning, it reminded me of something I needed to hear.

There are still miles ahead of me. Not the same miles as before, not yet. This season asks for patience, for healing, for a different kind of strength. The trails will still be there when I am ready. The mountains are not going anywhere.

Neither is that hat.

This morning it reminded me that I have many more adventures ahead. Until I’m ready to be back out there, my old friend will be waiting.

Back at Virginia Cancer Specialists, there was a quiet buzz in the air today. Not loud or overwhelming, just a subtle shift you could feel if you were paying attention. The kind of energy that gathers when something meaningful is about to happen.

A young mom was preparing to ring the bell.

Her family filtered in slowly, one by one, filling the space with soft voices, hugs, and the kind of smiles that carry both relief and exhaustion. Then came her daughter, an infant small enough to be carried in one arm, completely unaware of the weight of the moment she had just entered.

Yet somehow, she changed the entire room.

There is something profoundly moving about seeing a young child in a place like that. In a space often defined by uncertainty, routine treatments, and quiet resilience, she brought something different.

Lightness. Innocence. A kind of unfiltered joy that asks nothing and carries no fear. She looked around with wide eyes, curious and present, alive in a way that reminded everyone else to be the same.

People noticed. Conversations paused. Faces softened. For a few moments, the room shifted from being about illness to being about life.
Her mother stood on the edge of a milestone that so many fight to reach. Right beside her stood the reason behind so much of that fight. It was easy to imagine the long nights, the quiet fears, and the determination it must have taken to get to this day.

Not just for herself, but for that little girl.

When the bell rang, it was more than a sound. It was release. It was victory. It marked a line between what was endured and what comes next.

What stayed with me most was not just the bell.

It was that child.

In a place where so much is uncertain, she served as a reminder of what is simple and true. Life continues. Joy finds its way in. Sometimes, the smallest presence carries the greatest weight.

Moments like that do not just pass through a room. They settle into you.
That feeling stayed with me as I thought back on last week in New Orleans.

On the first day, while Maria was at her conference, I set out on foot and let the city unfold. I ended up walking more than eight miles without really thinking about it. The streets have a rhythm of their own. Music spills out from open doors, conversations drift from balconies, and there is always the sense that something is happening just around the corner. I made my way to Preservation Hall, a place that feels less like a venue and more like a living piece of history.

Later, I found myself at Louis Armstrong Park, taking in a show as the evening settled in. The music felt rooted, real, connected to something much bigger than the moment.

Sunday slowed everything down in the best way. I spent the day with family in Morgan City. There is something grounding about being with people who know you beyond the moment you are in. Conversations came easily. Time moved differently. Sitting together, talking, laughing, and simply being present meant more than I can fully express. It left me wishing the time had stretched just a little longer, a reminder of how rare and valuable those moments are.

Each night, Maria and I wandered through the city with no real plan and no sense of urgency. We stopped for coffee and beignets, letting the night linger before making our way back to the room. Those quiet routines, simple as they were, became small anchors in the middle of everything else.

Monday brought a different kind of reflection at the National WWII Museum. It is a powerful place that does not just tell history but asks you to feel it. Walking through the exhibits, you are reminded of the scale of sacrifice and the weight carried by so many for something greater than themselves. It is a wonderful place, not because it is easy, but because it ensures those stories are never forgotten.

Later this evening, I will be heading to New York City for my next three-week visit. That routine has become part of the rhythm now. The travel, the appointments, the waiting, and the quiet moments in between all blend together. This time, I carry good news with me.

My labs and blood work continue to move in the right direction. They are slowly returning to normal. Not quite there yet, but closer than they have been in a long time. There is reassurance in that kind of progress. It is not dramatic or sudden. It is steady.

Right now, steady and stable means everything. I head into this next visit with a bit more confidence, a bit more calm, and a deep appreciation for how far things have come.

Along with this routine, I am also getting my local injections of Nplate and Nivestym. These have become part of the weekly cadence as well, helping support my platelet counts and white blood cells as my body works to recover. I had a moment of curiosity the other day and actually looked at the packaging a bit more closely. Turns out, one of them is produced using E. coli. I had to laugh at that. Not exactly the most appetizing thought, but also a reminder of how fascinating modern medicine really is. The science behind all of this is incredible, even if it occasionally gives you a moment of pause and a smile.

My blood work continues to climb. I am not quite back in the normal range for some of the most critical numbers yet, but we are getting close. More importantly, these are the best numbers I have seen since June of last year. That matters. It is steady, measurable progress. Slow improvement is still improvement and right now that is exactly what we want to see.

I started physical therapy last week, and it has been both encouraging and humbling. There is a lot of work ahead of me, but there is also a clear path forward. My short-range goal is to walk without tripping over my foot drop. It is simple, direct, and something I am working toward every day. My long-range goal is to get back to hiking and backpacking, to return to the mountains and the quiet places that have always brought me peace.

There is something about being out there that resets me. Away from the noise, away from the constant movement of daily life, I find clarity. I find peace. Standing at the top of a mountain has always felt like more than just a view. It feels like perspective. It feels like grace. I have often said that those moments are reminders of God’s presence and His desire for us to see the beauty of the world He created. That goal is still out there waiting for me and I hold onto it.

Physically, there are still some things we are trying to understand. My hair has been thinning more than expected, and we are not entirely sure why. It may be stress catching up with me, or possibly an autoimmune response related to my treatments. The body has a way of reacting in ways we do not always anticipate. For now, it is something we will continue to watch, another small piece of the bigger picture.

I am also working my way back into the office for a few days each week. It has been more challenging than I expected. Each day there seems to wear me out in a way I cannot fully explain. Maybe it is the building itself, old and carrying the weight of years. Maybe it is simply that I am not used to the daily grind of being in the office anymore. What stands out to me is that I can do the same work, for the same number of hours, from home without feeling that same level of exhaustion. It is something I am still trying to understand and work through.

I also know that my retirement from being a federal agent is approaching. It will be sometime this year, though I do not have the exact date yet. There is a lot tied to what comes next and much of that will depend on my scan in June. That scan will help shape what the next chapter looks like and what goals I set moving forward.

In the middle of all of this, there are moments I am genuinely looking forward to. This week, I will be heading to Nationals Park to watch the Cardinals take on the Nationals with a few great friends. It will be good to be out, to laugh, to feel a sense of normalcy again, even if just for an evening. Those moments matter more than they used to.

I am also taking a week of leave to travel to New Orleans while Maria presents at a conference. That trip feels like a gift. Time with my family members. Time to reconnect, to sit and talk without a schedule pressing in. I am planning to visit Preservation Hall, which has always been one of those places that captures the soul of the city. I am looking forward to the music, the atmosphere, the history in those walls. And of course, the food and the warmth that New Orleans always seems to offer so naturally.

After that, I will make my way back to New York City for my next three-week checkup. It will be a busy stretch with a fair amount of travel, moving from one place to the next, from appointments to moments of rest, from treatment to time with people I care about.

There is a rhythm to all of this now. Not one I would have chosen, but one I am learning to live within. It is a balance between pushing forward and being patient, between holding onto long-term goals and appreciating the small wins right in front of me.

I’m writing this on the train ride home from New York City, watching the world slide past the window. Once we cleared the city, the train settled into its steady rhythm, a soft chug and hum along the tracks that you feel just as much as you hear. It’s constant. Grounding. Almost reassuring in its predictability. Outside of my window, the sky is a clear and bright blue. The kind of blue you notice without trying. The kind that makes everything feel a little lighter, just like the few puffy clouds, that are floating far, far away.

Today was a good day.

Today was a scan and treatment day at Memorial Sloan Kettering. The routine is familiar now. The waiting. The quiet noise of the windowed rooms, that overlook the business of the city. The instinctive glances at my phone, knowing my scan and lab reports could come in at any moment.

One came earlier than anticipated.

The PET scan report read “largely unchanged.” My blood work echoed the same message, just in numbers instead of words. Slowly rising. Steady. No sharp jumps. No setbacks. Just quiet movement in the right direction.

That combination matters more than I ever thought it would.

Unchanged means nothing is getting worse. The labs reinforce it. My body is doing what it is supposed to do. Rebuilding. Responding. Finding its way forward. I feel good. Truly good.

There was more in the PET scan report. The spots on my spleen that were there before are now gone.

Just like that.

No buildup. No dramatic moment. Just a single line in the report saying they’re no longer there. The kind of line you could easily read past if you were not paying attention.

Reading that report, and then hearing my oncologist say it out loud, almost brought me to tears. Not the kind I’ve gotten used to. Not the heavy ones. These were different. Tears of joy, for once.

Something got better. I'll take it.

Although there is still a small nodule near my salivary gland we are watching. It has not changed. It still looks benign and unrelated to my cancer. It stays on the list, but not at the top. Just something we continue to keep an eye on. The Radiologist thinks it's a Warthin’s tumor or something similar.l

Some of what shows up on the scan is not disease at all. It is my body healing. Recovering. Doing exactly what it is supposed to do after everything it has been through. Even that leaves its imprint on these images.

This in its own quiet way, is reassuring.

It means something is working.

So we keep going.

The plan stays the same. Every 21 days, back here again. Labs. Treatment. Another dose of Pembro. It has become a rhythm now. Not one I would have chosen, but one that feels steady. Purposeful.

There is comfort in that.

I am not at the end of this. Not finished. But I am moving forward.

Nothing is getting worse.

Somethings are getting better.

Everything else is steady.

This is a good place to be.

Sitting here, with the sun coming through the window and that wide blue sky stretched out above everything, it feels a little easier to take it all in. To recognize progress for what it is, even when it is quiet.

I will take steady.

I will take quiet progress.

I will take good news, even when it comes in understated language.

Today was a good day.

Noah came home from spring break last week in a cast on his foot after a jumping injury that will sideline him for a few weeks. It was not the kind of souvenir, nor a memory, anyone hopes to bring back from a competition, but he is taking it in stride and focusing on healing up.

Gabriel came down as well, and for one day we had all three boys under our roof again. That does not happen often anymore, so it felt good. Really good. Having the house full, hearing their voices and laughter moving through the rooms again, gave my spirits a real boost. There was also some exciting news mixed in with the visit. Gabriel received his assignment to the USCG Cutter Bear, which is based out of Portsmouth, Virginia. That puts him only a quick drive away from Noah.

Knowing that the boys will all be relatively close by, just a few hours from home, brings a sense of comfort. After years of watching them scatter out into the world to find their paths, it feels pretty special to have them all within reach.

The weekly Nplate injections to boost my platelet count, along with Nivestym to stimulate bone marrow production, appear to be doing their job, just at their own deliberate pace. My numbers continue to inch upward week by week, which is encouraging, even if the progress feels slower than I would like.

Slow recovery, it seems, is simply how my body works now.

History has shown that my system takes its time bouncing back from the chemotherapy treatments I endured before. Those drugs did what they needed to do, but they also left their imprint. Bone marrow, the quiet factory responsible for producing the cells that keep our blood healthy, does not always restart overnight. Sometimes it needs time, support, and a great deal of patience before it settles back into its rhythm again.

Patience, however, is not one of my natural strengths.

I am someone who likes movement, progress, and momentum. I enjoy being out in the world, seeing friends, sharing meals, and catching up. I miss the routine of going into the office each day, walking the halls, and having conversations that happen naturally rather than through a screen. Those everyday interactions, the ones we often take for granted, are things I genuinely miss.

Right now, patience is the assignment.

While my counts are still recovering, I have made the decision to keep my world smaller for the time being. A quiet dinner here or there with a few close friends is manageable. Sitting around a table with people I trust, sharing stories and laughter, is something I can safely enjoy.

Large crowds, however, are a different matter. Packed gatherings and busy spaces carry risks that are simply not worth taking right now. With my immune system still rebuilding and my platelet counts not yet where they need to be, something as simple as catching a virus, or even sustaining a minor injury in a crowded environment, could set me back.

The situation reminds me at times of the early days of COVID. There is the same sense of stepping back from the world for a while. Familiar places and activities feel temporarily out of reach. Life continues moving forward, but I am observing parts of it from a bit of a distance.

This time the timeline is personal. The pace is dictated by my body rather than by public health guidance. Each week my lab numbers tell a small part of the story of recovery.

The good news is that I feel good. My energy has been improving, and I am happy with where my weight is right now. Mentally, I feel ready to push things forward again. I am eager to increase my cardio and begin building my strength back up.

There is still one lingering issue that I need to address. I continue to deal with drop foot, which has slowed some of my training plans. Physical therapy is scheduled to begin in a few weeks, and I am hopeful that it will help me regain strength and stability there as well.

For now, recovery continues in small but meaningful steps. My body is rebuilding, even if it prefers to do so at its own pace. Patience may not come naturally to me, but it is clearly part of the process. Each week brings a little more progress, and that is enough for now.

Walking back into MSK, this morning, felt surreal.

It had only been a few weeks since I was last there, yet it felt like stepping into a different chapter of my life. The building was unchanged. The rhythm familiar. The hum of quiet conversations. The clacking of keyboards behind dimly lit monitors. The steady procession of names being called. The sound of infusion pumps beeping and pulsing.

I was not quite the same.

Sitting in the twelfth floor waiting room, an unexpected wave of emotion rose in me. I watched the other patients and their families. Some stared into their phones, searching for distraction. Others held hands a little tighter, as if physical contact alone could steady what felt uncertain.

Places like this have their own language. It is made of forced smiles and gentle nods, of shared understanding without words. No one needs to explain why they are there. The room already knows.

I remembered what it felt like to sit there not knowing what would come next. The waiting. The bargaining. The silent prayers whispered inward. The fragile balance between hope and fear. Being back in that space stirred gratitude, but also empathy and a quiet ache for everyone still carrying that weight.

The truth is, I am still carrying it too.

This is not a war fought in open fields. It is a tête-à-tête, quiet and relentless. A battle carried out beneath the surface, cell against cell, intention against invasion. From the outside, things may look settled. I feel stronger. I look healthier. There is color in my face again. There is steadiness in my step.

Inside, the conversation continues.

We are in something like a détente. A temporary easing. The scans are steady. The numbers are acceptable. The treatment is doing its work. Nothing is surging forward.

A détente is not peace.

The cancers still intend to win, and so do I. They remain inside me. They have not surrendered or disappeared. They adapt and wait. My body, strengthened by treatment , Twizzlers and resolve, does the same.

Life may appear calmer, but the battle has not ended. It has simply grown quieter, more strategic, more patient.

Appointments continue. Questions linger. Uncertainty has not vanished simply because I have learned to stand more firmly within it. Sitting in that waiting room, I felt both like an observer and a participant. I understood the weight of the room because I am still carrying it.

They accessed my port to draw blood. It still surprises me how much quicker it is than another IV stick. What once felt foreign now feels procedural. Efficient, even. A small mercy in a process that rarely feels easy.

There was less pain around the port site this time. The skin has endured so many sticks that the nerves seem dulled, as if even they have grown tired of reacting. The body adapts in ways I never asked it to. It learns to withstand what it must.

After labs, we met with my oncologist and the nurse from my study team. Those meetings carry a quiet weight. Small talk. Vital signs. The silent scanning of lab numbers across a screen. Then the pause before the real conversation begins.

This time, the news was steady. I was cleared to receive my dose of Pembro.

Clearance sounds simple, almost clinical. It means my body is holding the line well enough to continue. The numbers are acceptable. The path forward remains open. I received the infusion with gratitude and resolve, aware that each dose is both a weapon and a reminder of why I need one.

I will return in three weeks for my next checkup. Another dose of Pembro, a PET scan, and possibly a bone marrow aspiration. Even writing those words carries a hint of anxiety. The calendar now stretches forward in measured increments.

Labs.

Shots.

Infusions.

Procedures.

Repeat.

On our way out of the city, we stopped to pick up a few things we have grown accustomed to while being here. Bagels. A slice of pizza. Hand pulled noodles from a small spot that never disappoints. It feels almost trivial to mention food after appointments and infusions, yet it matters more than I expected.

Somewhere along the way, my taste buds have sharpened. The chew of a proper bagel. The balance of sauce and crust in a good slice. The texture of fresh noodles pulled by hand. These small indulgences feel like a quiet reclaiming of normal life. Not every trip to the city is defined solely by treatment. There are still flavors. Still preferences. Still parts of me that are alive and paying attention.

Maria has mastered something during this season as well: driving in the city. A quick flick of the steering wheel. A well timed honk. A few choice words for the person who pulled in front of her. She moves through Manhattan traffic with confidence now, weaving between taxis and delivery trucks like she has always belonged there.

Watching her navigate those streets reminds me that we have adapted in more ways than one. We have learned new rhythms. New reflexes. New strengths we never planned on needing.

Small things matter more.

The fight has not paused. It moves in cycles, quietly and persistently.

Still, I left with something steadier than fear.

Determination.

I am still fighting and showing up.

I want to thank you for being a part of this journey. Your prayers, your messages, your quiet check-ins, and even your silent support have meant more than I can properly put into words. There are days when strength feels natural and steady. There are other days when it has to be borrowed. In many ways, I have borrowed courage from many of you.

This road is not one I would have chosen, but it is one I do not walk alone. Knowing that others are reading, caring, hoping, and believing alongside me adds weight to my resolve and light to the harder stretches.

Thank you for staying, for listening, and walking this with me.

We keep moving forward, together.

This morning we are driving up to New York City for my three week follow up appointment. My blood work is starting to give us some encouragement. The platelets and hemoglobin are up. The white counts are a bit down. It is still a balancing act.

Yesterday I got some labs drawn, another small checkpoint in this long road of numbers and nudges and necessary adjustments.

It unsettles me how something so invasive can start to feel ordinary. You sit in the chair. Roll up your sleeve. Make small talk. Look away or do not. The tourniquet tightens. The alcohol swab is cold. A vial fills, then another, then another. Labels printed. Bandage pressed. “Hold here.”

It becomes routine. But there is nothing routine about what it represents.

Every week, the labs tell a story my body is still writing. White counts. Hemoglobin. Platelets. Numbers that now feel like report cards. Some weeks they cooperate. Some weeks they do not. When they dip too low, the next step is already waiting.

Shots to boost the counts. Medication to remind the marrow what it is supposed to do. A quiet nudge to my body that says, “Come on. We need you to start working.”

Those shots sting in a different way. Not unbearable. Just persistent. A dull ache that lingers in the bones as they try to wake up and work harder. It is strange to feel effort happening inside you. My knees and calves seem to feel it the most.

Then there are the unexpected moments.

This week, during one of the draws, there was an accidental needle stick. A slip. A quick shift in energy in the room. Protocol kicks in. Calm voices. New gloves. More blood drawn, from not just me, but from the nurse as well.

It was not dramatic. No panic. Just another reminder that this process touches more than one body. There is something humbling about that.

Cancer treatment is often described as a fight. I understand why. It feels active. Determined. Courageous.

But some weeks it feels less like fighting and more like submitting to a rhythm you did not choose. Showing up. Extending an arm. Letting the numbers be what they are. Accepting the shot. Accepting the ache. Accepting that sometimes even the routine goes sideways.

What strikes me most is how quickly the extraordinary becomes normal.

Weekly labs. Boosting injections. Watching platelets like they are stock prices.

Learning the vocabulary of neutrophils and hemoglobin. Thanking nurses who have seen it all and still offer warmth.

This is the work now.

There is vulnerability in needing your blood checked to know if you can keep going.

There is vulnerability in relying on medication to build what once built itself effortlessly.

There is vulnerability in watching someone accidentally stick themselves while caring for you and realizing how fragile we all are.

Yet there is also quiet strength in returning each week. In sitting down again. In rolling up the sleeve again. In trusting the process again.

Healing, I am learning, is rarely cinematic. It is procedural. It is incremental. It is paperwork and lab slips and cotton balls taped to your arm. It is bone-deep aches from shots meant to help. It is small complications handled with steady professionalism.

It is resilience measured in vials.

So next week, I will go back. I will sit in the chair. I will extend my arm. I will watch the numbers. I will take the shot if I need it.

Not because I enjoy any of it. But because each vial drawn, each count boosted, each ordinary appointment is another step forward, and forward, even when it stings, is still forward.

I believe deeply in what Scouting can offer young people. Service. Responsibility. Leadership. Community. Those are gifts.

Yet I have struggled watching certain conversations unfold. Some insist Scouting m…

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Please read this first.

I am struggling with this more than I expected to.

I care deeply about the mission. I care about the Scouts. I care about what the organization has meant and what it has represented over the years. Those values were not abstract to me. Through scouting, I guided Scouts who learned preparedness, service, moral courage, and responsibility. I watched Scouts learn that character is built when no one is watching and tested when it matters most. Those lessons shaped not only them, but also my own understanding of integrity and leadership. They mattered.

Because of that, I am having a hard time reconciling those foundations with what feels like capitulation. I understand that institutions evolve. I understand that leadership faces complex pressures and difficult choices. Adaptation is often necessary. But when change feels less like thoughtful evolution and more like surrender of core principles, it creates a tension I cannot ignore.

A Scout is brave. Courage is woven into their bones and carried in their name. They stand firm when others hesitate, steady when the wind rises and the ground shifts beneath their feet. They do not yield to fear, nor do they bow to doubt. Capitulation is not in their nature. They may bend, but they do not break. They may retreat to regroup, but they do not surrender. Strength is not loud bravado, but quiet resolve. When the moment calls for it, a Scout answers with grit, loyalty, and an unshakable will to endure.

Those words are not just sentiment. They reflect the standard I try to hold for myself and the example I tried to set for the Scouts I served. Scouting teaches that bravery is steady and principled, not loud or reactive. It teaches that standing firm is sometimes the harder path. That is why this weighs on me.

This is not written in anger. It comes from disappointment and reflection. I am trying to be measured. I am trying to leave room for nuance. At the same time, I cannot pretend that I do not feel unsettled. I believe conviction matters. I believe integrity requires standing firm when it counts.

Right now, I am wrestling with whether I can continue to support an organization that, in my view, has yielded in ways that conflict with the very values it once taught. That internal conflict is real for me. I am still working through it.

This is just a quick update. I was officially released today, and we are heading back to Virginia this evening. In many ways, this closes my New York City chapter, even though I will still be coming back regularly for checkups, testing, and any procedures that may be needed along the way.

Leaving feels bittersweet. This city was good to us. It held us during some of our hardest days and quietly gave us strength when we needed it most. We learned its rhythms, found comfort in familiar streets, late-night lights, and small routines that slowly became part of our lives. We grew attached to places, people, and moments that only exist because we were here when we had to be. In ways I never expected, we came to love this season in New York, even though it was born out of something so difficult. Walking away now feels like closing a chapter that shaped us deeply.

There are still a few things we will continue to work on at home with my oncologist at Virginia Cancer Specialists, and I am grateful to have strong support waiting for me there. I am especially thankful for how closely my care teams are working together. My doctors at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center have been incredibly supportive and collaborative, and I truly appreciate their willingness to coordinate with my oncologist back home.

As we head south tonight, I am carrying a lot with me. Gratitude for the care I received. Appreciation for the city that became a temporary home. Relief to be returning home, and a quiet confidence that I am moving forward with an incredible team behind me, wherever I happen to be.

There is more to come, and I know the road is not over. But right now, I am claiming this moment. This breath. This hard-won victory in a long fight.

For our Valentine’s Day, Maria and I did something that felt both simple and meaningful. We went to Broadway to see The Lion King. That story has been tied to us for more than thirty years. It was the first movie we ever saw together in a theater in 1994. We were just two people then, sitting close in the dark, not knowing what the years ahead would hold. Somehow that night attached itself to our story and Simba and Nala have stayed with us ever since.

When the lights dimmed, the whole room seemed to settle into a shared breath. The opening notes rose slowly, and then the aisles came alive.

Giraffes moved past us with long golden necks that caught the light.

Bright birds swept overhead.

Antelopes crossed the stage in long, graceful strides.

The performers were visible and invisible at the same time. You could see the craft, but you also believed in the illusion.

The stage shifted without calling attention to itself. Colors changed with the mood. The savanna glowed with heat. The jungle felt dense and alive. Pride Rock stood there with quiet authority, more than a set piece, something steady and rooted.

The music did not stay on the stage. It reached into the audience. Drums carried a pulse that felt familiar. Voices rose and fell with a kind of honesty that caught me off guard. At times it felt less like entertainment and more like being part of something shared.

While I watched, I kept thinking about the time we took the boys to see the shorter version at Walt Disney World. I can still picture them sitting there, completely locked in. Their eyes were wide the entire time. They did not squirm or whisper. They just stared at the stage like they were afraid to miss a single second. Maria and I kept exchanging looks that said everything without words. It felt like watching the story pass from us to them.

Sitting beside her this time, I realized how much life has happened between that first movie in 1994 and now. We have been young and unsure. We have been parents watching our sons discover the world. Now we are here again, older, carrying more than we did back then, but still sharing that same sense of wonder. The story has grown up with us.

When the curtain fell, I did not feel like I had just seen a show. I felt grounded. Grateful. Steady. It reminded me where we started and how far we have come.

This past year in New York has not been easy. We built a life here around appointments, treatment schedules, and waiting rooms. We learned how to function inside uncertainty. We will still be back every three weeks, so the city will continue to be part of our rhythm. Even so, this season of living here full time is coming to a close.

When we look back, I think we will see this cancer stretch as my soggy middle. The part of the story where everything feels heavy and unresolved, where progress is slow and doubt is loud. It has also been, in many ways, a dark night of the soul. The season where fear, faith, exhaustion, love, and hope all sit at the same table. The season that strips you down and asks what really matters.

Last night on Broadway felt like a quiet answer to all of it. It said that beauty still exists. It said that joy still finds its way in. It said that we are still here.

We are still choosing to sit next to each other in dark theaters. We are still finding reasons to smile. We are still showing up for each other. Years from now, we will remember the stress and the fear, but we will also remember moments like this. Walking out into the cold night air. Holding hands. Knowing we went through it together.

Hakuna Matata.

It has been quiet here in New York. I have been resting, eating, drinking, and healing. We are getting closer to my eventual return home to Virginia, and the thought of being near friends and family again fills me with excitement and motivation. This has been a long, winding road, and I am ready to step off it for a while. I want to explore the side paths. I want to breathe again.

I have not shared an update about my latest scan until now because we needed time to speak with several doctors first. The results showed no signs of my cancer spreading!

That is good news, and we are grateful for it. At the same time, I have to remember that I am still a “one of one” in terms of data. There is no clear roadmap for what recovery should look like at this stage. The doctors are watching closely, and so are we. For now, this is a positive sign, and we are holding onto that.

Maria and I have spent most of the past few weeks working quietly and staying inside. It has been bitterly cold.

We did manage to get out to see Aladdin on Broadway, which felt like a small gift in the middle of everything.

I have also started walking more. My legs are weak, and rebuilding strength and endurance takes patience. Four blocks is my limit right now before I need to rest. We did walk to the barber shop yesterday to get my hair cut. I felt the need to get my old hair style back, a low fade and cleaned up on the top. I wasn't sure what my hair was going to do post-chemo. I didn't get my afro, but I did get thinner and softer hair. It isn't as thick as it use to be, but there is still a lot on the top. It did have some wave to it, before I had it cut.

This weekend, my thoughts are with a fraternity brother and his young family. He received some difficult health news this week. A cancer diagnosis, in any form, is a heavy thing to carry. It arrives suddenly and changes the way you see time, plans, and even yourself. It brings fear, uncertainty, and questions no one is ever fully prepared to answer.

Having walked this road myself, I know how overwhelming those first days can feel. The shock. The waiting. The endless swirl of information and emotion. It can feel isolating, even when you are surrounded by people who care.

My hope is that he feels the strength of the brotherhood around him right now. That he knows he is not walking this alone. That he has people ready to listen, to sit quietly when words fall short, and to stand beside him through every step ahead.

No one chooses this fight. But no one should have to face it alone.

What follows is a brief summary of my journey. If you have been reading the blog, much of this will sound familiar. I began writing this around the one-year anniversary of becoming a cancer patient, but I never finished it.

A few days ago, I came across the draft again and realized I had forgotten all about it. I had started it with the intention of sharing it here, and it felt wrong to let it fade away unfinished. So, I decided to bring it back and finally give it the space it deserves:

January 2025 arrived quietly, the way most winters do.

Cold air. Short days. Familiar routines.

Then, without warning, my body began to unravel.

It started with exhaustion and pain that made no sense. My appetite disappeared. My strength faded. Blood work revealed dangerously high calcium. Scans showed blocked kidneys and a large mass in my abdomen.

I was admitted to the hospital.

Within hours, doctors were talking about lymph nodes, biopsies, and words that felt too heavy to carry.

On January 9, a needle found its way deep into my abdomen. The results suggested lymphoma. Steroids began immediately. Two small tubes were placed to drain my kidneys and give them a second chance to work.

Slowly, painfully, my system stabilized.

I was still standing, but barely.

A week later came another surgery. Another biopsy. Another round of opinions.

Pathologists leaned toward Hodgkin’s lymphoma. The NIH agreed, though they admitted it was difficult. Something about the cells did not quite fit.

It sounded like a foreign language. It felt like someone else’s diagnosis.

But it was mine.

I began reading everything I could about blood cancers and treatment options.

By February, treatment began.

Infusion chairs replaced office chairs. IV poles replaced coffee cups. I stopped going into the office as my immune system weakened.

Nivolumab and chemotherapy entered my veins. Three cycles. Three months of hope mixed with nausea and fatigue.

Every scan became a referendum on my future.

In April, the results came back.

The cancer was still there. Loud. Persistent. Unimpressed.

More biopsies followed. More waiting rooms. More careful conversations that started gently and ended with harder truths.

In May, we tried again.

Stronger drugs. Harsher side effects.

BV-ICE chemotherapy. Three rounds.

One hospital admission for sepsis.

Gout. Shingles. Bone pain. All at once.

Fevers. Alarms. Nurses who became temporary family.

More pills and drips to manage the damage.

We began preparing for a stem cell transplant at a major hospital. I would need to stay there for months. All three of my boys were tested as potential donors. All three were brave enough to say yes without hesitation.

Plans were made. Testing completed.

Then, one evening, a week before the process was to begin, the phone rang.

“We can’t help you right now.”

Less than thirty seconds. No explanation. No questions allowed.

We were stunned.

My oncologist, calling from Ireland, was stunned too.

In July, new scans showed the disease was still standing.

So was I. But we were battered.

My hair was gone. My left foot stopped cooperating. I learned a new term: drop foot. A result of chemotherapy and physical decline.

By late summer, the strategy shifted again.

Pembrolizumab and GVD chemotherapy. Two more rounds.

More infusions. More hope. More prayers whispered in quiet rooms.

We traveled to Memorial Sloan Kettering in New York City after speaking with hospitals about experimental trials. Many had been canceled due to lost funding.

In New York, we were met with kindness and compassion. Genuine care. I spent a week undergoing tests, scans, and procedures.

The scans showed some improvement.

Not enough.

A biopsy revealed only dead tissue. No living cancer cells. No victory either.

Only uncertainty.

A review of my earlier pathologies from the biopsies revealed something unexpected. I may have had Hodgkin’s lymphoma at first, but the evidence was never definitive. What was clear now was that I did not have it anymore. Instead, I was diagnosed with T-cell/histiocyte-rich large B-cell lymphoma, a rare and aggressive variant of diffuse large B-cell lymphoma.

Radiation followed.

Targeted beams deep and precise into my abdomen. Twenty-eight hundred units. Added in were a few doses of Rituximab.

One more attempt to corner what refused to surrender.

For a moment, it felt like we might have won.

We moved toward transplant. An international donor was found.

Then November came.

A PET scan revealed new spots in my spleen. Another near my salivary gland. Activity where there should have been none.

The cancer was still moving. Still adapting. Still surviving.

Biopsies were too dangerous. Surgery was impossible.

The conclusion was unavoidable.

Refractory.

Treatment-resistant.

Stubborn.

In December, everything changed.

CAR-T therapy became the next chapter, as well as joining a study: Pembrolizumab every 21 days for the next two years.

My immune cells were collected. Reengineered. Trained. Armed. Returned to my body on December 31, 2025.

A strange way to end a year.

A stranger way to begin hope.

Before infusion, chemotherapy wiped my immune system clean. Cyclophosphamide. Fludarabine. A controlled demolition.

Then came the reinforcements.

Day Zero.

A small bag of clear liquid. A nurse. A quiet room.

My cells.

Hope.

The days that followed were filled with monitoring and vigilance. Every headache. Every fever. Every strange sensation mattered. My body and immune system were learning how to fight together.

For a few hours, I lost myself.

I forgot who I was.

I forgot who the love of my life was.

That hurt the most.

Losing your memory is the most terrifying thing I have ever experienced. I often knew the answers, but the words would not match what was in my head. Sometimes I did not know. Sometimes I did not care.

By mid-January 2026, I returned for follow-up.

Day Twenty-Nine.

I stood up in the waiting room and nearly collapsed. Dizziness flooded in. My heart raced. My blood pressure dropped.

Deconditioning. Dehydration.

A reminder that survival is not the same as strength.

Fluids steadied me. My numbers normalized. I walked out on my own.

Tired. Healing. Uncertain.

But there.

Gout returned. Steroids followed. My appetite slowly came back. Movement returned in fragments. I weigh much less than when all this started.

This timeline reads like a medical record.

Biopsies. Infusions. Scans. Protocols. Regimens.

What it does not show are the long nights. The whispered prayers. The way Maria held my hand when words failed. The way my boys watched with quiet worry. The friends and family who carried me when I could not carry myself.

It does not show the fear.

It does not show the faith.

It does not show the stubborn hope that refused to die.

This is not just a record of treatments.

It is a record of survival.

It is the story of a body pushed to its limits and a spirit that refused to surrender.

It is still being written.

I am still here.

I am still fighting.

Since my last post, much of my medical world has been surprisingly quiet. In this season, quiet feels like a gift. My weeks have settled into a steady rhythm. I receive a few liters of fluid through my PICC line each week, a gentle reminder that healing is still very much an active process. My care team has given me a simple prescription: rest, drink, eat. No heroics. No pushing. Just allowing my body the time and space to do what it knows how to do.

Last week brought a different kind of medicine. My dad came up on Wednesday, and Ethan joined him the following day. Together, they tackled what can only be described as the full Grand New York Tour. The 9/11 Memorial. Ellis Island. A cruise around Miss Liberty. The observation deck at the Empire State Building. The next day was spent wandering the halls of the Natural History Museum. By the end of it all, I am fairly certain my dad was running on fumes, but he carried on with that quiet determination dads seem to summon without complaint. Having him here meant more than I can easily explain. Having my family woven into my healing feels grounding, stabilizing, and necessary.

Ethan headed home by train just before the snow hit the city. Maria crossed paths with him at Moynihan Station, and the two of them shared a few moments together before his train pulled away. Dad ended up snowed in until Tuesday. His plans were delayed, but his patience never wavered. The trip home took longer than expected, but he made it back safely, which was all that mattered.

The snow softened New York for a few days. The city grew quiet. Streets emptied. Sounds dulled. It felt as though the city itself took a deep breath. That pause did not last long. The noise returned quickly, along with one lane of traffic in most places, honking horns, raised voices, and the familiar rhythm of controlled chaos. New York does not stay quiet for long, but I appreciated the stillness while it lasted.

What has not quieted is scan anxiety. There is no clean language for it, no tidy metaphor that fully captures the way it settles into my body. It arrives before every scan, uninvited and persistent, tightening my chest and filling the space between thoughts. I understand what these scans are meant to be. They are checkpoints. They are data. They are tools that help measure progress and guide decisions. They are not verdicts. Knowing that does little to soften their impact.

In the hours leading up to a scan, my mind runs ahead of me. It rehearses conversations that have not happened yet and imagines outcomes I cannot control. Every ache feels louder. Every unfamiliar sensation becomes suspect. My body and imagination seem to conspire against my better judgment. I remind myself that fear is not intuition and that anxiety is not prophecy, but those truths feel fragile when you are lying still inside a machine that demands silence and patience.

I live with this unease for a day or two at a time, carrying it quietly until I can sit across from my oncologist and hear the words that bring clarity. Until then, I exist in a narrow in between space. Healing is happening, yet I am unsure how it will be measured this time. Hope and anxiety coexist here, neither canceling the other out, both insisting on being acknowledged.

I have 17 vials of blood today, six for my normal labs, 11 for the study. I didn't pass out. Yeah for team Cooper.

I just received my infusion of the radioactive particle that will be used to trace any evidence of cancer, in me, when the PET scan hits me in about 30 minutes. I also finished my yummy contrast drink. It isn't really yummy but I try to fool myself into thinking it is, so I can get it to go down easier. A straw is key to drinking this vile concoction.

Tomorrow is a big day. It may give us a date or at least a direction for returning home and beginning the slow process of rebuilding something that resembles normal life. I know that normal will never look exactly like it used to. It cannot. I will need to eat better. I will need to sleep more and rest intentionally. I will need to drink less. Healing is no longer passive. It is an investment, and I want to make it wisely.

My thoughts keep drifting south toward Northern Virginia. I miss the simplicity of it. The parks tucked into neighborhoods. The trails that lead to unexpected waterfalls. The quiet company of birds and rustling leaves. I truly believe a night in a tent would do something essential for my soul. Cold air, thin walls, and morning light filtering through the trees feel restorative in ways I cannot fully explain. Fresh air reminds me who I am. It fills me with a happiness that feels clean and uncomplicated.

For now, I wait. I rest. I consume food and liquids. I trust the process, even when anxiety and hope occupy the same space, neither willing to leave.

Even heroes need rest.

Counting backward from 100 by seven.

It sounds so simple when you read it on a screen. Like a brain teaser on a placemat at a diner. Something to keep your hands busy while you wait for coffee.

In the hospital, it was a lifeline.

A nurse stood near the bed with calm eyes and a steady voice, and I could tell from the way the room tightened that this was not casual conversation. This was assessment. This was them checking the weather inside my head.

“Can you count backward from one hundred by sevens?”

I started.

Ninety-three.

Eighty-six.

Seventy-nine.

Then the numbers began to blur like someone had smeared ink across a page.

At some point, they switched gears.

Counting backward from 100 by ten.

Easy enough, right?

Ninety.

Eighty.

Seventy.

Then the instructions came from within my mind:

“Skip thirty and twenty.”

Skip thirty and twenty.

100, 90, 80, 70, 60, 50, 40, 10

The nurse told me to try again.

I nodded like I understood. Like my brain was still mine to command. Like I was fully in control.

100, 90, 80, 70, 60, 50, 40, 10

Here is the part that still makes me shake my head when I think about it.

I was wrong.

But I would not admit it.

Not because I was being stubborn on purpose. Not because I was trying to be difficult. It was something deeper and stranger than pride. It was like my mind had decided that being confident mattered more than being correct.

Like the truth was negotiable, and I could simply will my way through it with enough determination.

I kept answering with certainty, even when the certainty was made of sand.

That is the thing about neurotoxicity. It does not always arrive like a dramatic crash. Sometimes it comes like fog. The kind that creeps in slowly, thickens quietly, and makes you think you can still see the road even while you are drifting off the lane.

I did not know where I was.

I did not know what day it was.

I was answering questions, but I was floating somewhere else while I did it.

Then there was the moment that still hits me the hardest.

I did not remember Maria.

Not fully. Not right away.

My rock. My person. The one who has carried me through all of this with white Converse on her feet and a warrior’s calm in her voice.

I looked at her, and the recognition that should have been instant was delayed, like a slow-loading page.

That is not a feeling I ever want to experience again.

But even inside that fog, even while my mind was slipping in and out like a radio losing signal, something made it through.

I said her name.

Just not the one everyone else knows.

During those moments, I called Maria my secret name for her. The one that has belonged only to us since we were dating. The one that started back when we were trying to keep the whole thing quiet.

It came from the Colonel’s secretary, of all people.

Back then, when Maria would call me, the secretary gave her a name to use so everyone wouldn’t know we were dating. Something about me getting a warning not to date her. As if love can be regulated. As if two people choosing each other requires permission.

The name stuck.

A private nickname wrapped in a little bit of rebellion. A little bit of humor. A little bit of this is ours.

Somehow, even with neurotoxicity doing its worst, that name survived the storm.

Maria told me when I said it, she beamed.

Not a polite smile. Not a tired “he’s trying” expression.

A beam.

The kind that lights up a room. The kind that says, he’s still in there.

The nurse apparently said something when she heard it. A small comment, the kind people make when they realize they have stepped into a moment that wasn’t meant for them.

Maria did not miss a beat.

“He knows who I am,” she replied.

I love that line.

Not as a correction, but as a declaration.

Like she was planting her flag in the middle of the chaos.

You can take a lot from him right now. You can take his orientation. You can take his numbers. You can even take his certainty and twist it into something unreliable.

But you cannot take us.

You cannot erase the history written into the soft places. The names. The rituals. The way love brands itself into memory deeper than facts and dates ever will.

I wish I could fully remember that moment.

I wish I could remember the beam the way she describes it. I wish I could remember the exact look on her face when she heard that name come out of me like a thread leading back home.

But I can’t.

That part is missing.

All I have is the shape of it. The echo of it. The story she carried back to me afterward, told gently, like she was handing me something fragile and priceless at the same time.

When she explained it to me, I did see her smile.

Not the smile from the moment itself, but the smile from her memory of it. The way her face lit up all over again as she told me what happened.

It was a strange kind of gift.

Her joy, delivered secondhand.

Her relief, retold.

Her light, reflected back to me.

That is when it hit me: I do not have to personally hold every memory for it to matter.

Sometimes, the people who love us remember for us.

Sometimes, they carry the moment when we can’t.

Sometimes, the clearest version of a memory is the one seen through the eyes of someone steady, someone present, someone who stayed awake while you drifted somewhere beyond yourself.

Some memories are best through the eyes of others.

Even the hard ones.

Maybe especially the hard ones.

Thankfully, little by little, I started to come back.

The fog thinned.

The numbers began to make sense again.

The room stopped spinning into unfamiliarity.

I remember the first moment I realized I was improving. It was not dramatic. It wasn’t a movie moment with swelling music.

It was quiet.

A nurse asked me something again, and I answered it correctly, not just confidently.

Correctly.

I could feel the relief in the room. I could feel the way the staff relaxed, even if just a fraction. I could feel Maria breathe again.

So why did it happen?

Because this therapy is powerful. Because it is not just medicine moving through veins. It is an immune system being trained to hunt. It is the body going into an all-hands-on-deck state. When those T-Cells activate, they release chemical signals to do their work, and sometimes the whole system gets loud.

Sometimes that “loud” spills over into the brain.

Sometimes the inflammation and the storm that helps kill cancer also disrupts the delicate wiring that makes you you.

That is what neurotoxicity felt like for me.

Disorientation.

Confusion.

Stubborn certainty in the middle of being wrong.

The terrifying, hollow space of not recognizing the face I love most.

I hate that it happened.

But I am grateful they caught it quickly. I am grateful it was temporary. I am grateful for the people who asked me the right questions at the right time, even when I thought I was fine.

Especially when I thought I was fine.

The truth is, the counting was never about math.

It was about finding me again.

One number at a time.

One question at a time.

One secret name that somehow survived the fog.

The Detour After the Finish Line

I thought I was through the worst of it.

That is the tricky thing about discharge. It feels like a finish line. Like if you can just get the paperwork signed, get the IVs removed, and make it back to your own bed, then the danger must be behind you.

The hospital gives you this strange sense of closure. A door clicking shut. A chapter ending.

But my story, once again, had other plans.

Not long after I got home, I started to develop a hiccup.

That sounds harmless when you say it out loud. Almost funny, even. Like something you cure with a sip of water and a badly timed scare.

This wasn’t that.

This was my body reminding me, with violent consistency, that the T-Cells were still in there working. That the immune system was still loud. That the storm was still moving through my nervous system whether I was ready or not.

The simplest way I can explain what they told me is this: when those T-Cells activate, the body can stay inflamed and hypersensitive for a while. Nerves get irritated. Muscles don’t behave the way they normally do. The diaphragm, that muscle that should quietly and faithfully help you breathe, can start firing like a glitchy circuit.

So instead of a hiccup, you get something closer to a full-body jolt.

It lasted for two days.

Two days of my body jerking like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to inhale, exhale, or shake itself apart.

You know when babies get hiccups and their whole little bodies bounce?

Now imagine that in a full grown man.

Every thirty seconds.

Non-stop.

There were moments I truly thought I wasn’t going to breathe again.

I thought I had taken my last breath.

Not in a dramatic way. Not in the way movies do it with speeches and slow music.

Just this sudden, raw certainty that my body might finally quit the fight without warning.

Here is what scared me most: there was nothing I could do to stop it.

No willpower.

No grit.

No “suck it up.”

Just the helplessness of being trapped inside your own chest while it spasms against you.

I tried to relax.

I tried to let my body take over.

I tried not to fight it, because fighting made it worse. Fighting stole the little air I had left.

Except this time, I couldn’t tap out.

It was like fighting on the mat while your opponent hits you in the diaphragm again and again, and then pins you with his knee pressed into your solar plexus. Two hundred pounds grinding down while you try to remember how to breathe.

Over and over. That deep, hollow impact that makes your breath disappear.

(Shout out to the mat room.)

On the mat, you can tap.

Here, I couldn’t.

This was my body.

This was inside me.

This was survival with no referee.

It was the scariest moments of my life.

Eventually it got bad enough that I went back into the ER, where we spent thirty-six hours in the before I got a room.

Thirty-six hours of fluorescent lights, waiting, monitoring, trying to breathe through something that didn’t care how tired I was. Trying to stay calm while my body kept throwing punches at itself.

But I stayed.

Because the truth is, I wasn’t there for comfort.

I was there for the kind of treatment that could quiet the nervous system, relax the muscles, interrupt the chaos.

By hour forty-eight of my stay, it finally eased, awhen it stopped, it wasn’t like victory.

It was like mercy.

A quiet return.

A pause in the storm long enough to remember what normal breathing feels like.

I was released again, to go heal and relax.

A little more fragile, and very aware that this therapy is both miracle and monster depending on what hour of the day you catch it.

The Foot Pain and the Continued Search for the Super Soldier Serum

Two days after being home, my old foot pain came back.

That old familiar ache like an unwelcome guest who knows exactly where you keep the spare key.

At first, none of us could figure out why.

Not me. Not the doctors. Not the people who have studied bodies their whole lives.

It was just there.

Sharp.

Constant.

Limiting me in all the small humiliating ways pain does. Making the simple act of standing feel like a negotiation.

Then it dawned on me.

Gout.

The last time this happened was partly because of my Neupogen shots. I went back to my blog to get the dates, compared them to my medical history and bam!

That was the pattern. That was the clue. The kind you only catch when you’ve been living inside your own medical mystery long enough to recognize its habits.

So we brought it up to the nurse practitioner.

I tried to explain it, but I can’t speak fluent medical. I’m still over here struggling with counting backward from one hundred. Still working on one hundred to one by seven.

Funny aside: during the neurotoxicity testing, I refused to say zero was a number.

I said what I said, zero is not a number.

(Shout out to my math geeks.)

The doctors had many consultations about the foot. They took pity on me and started me on steroids. We had to consider what this does to the study results. We were all worried that it may mess up the study results and the answer came back that this regiment of steroids won’t be a problem. By the way, I wasn't going to chose the pain free option if it meant compromising the study. It means too much to me to provide good results.

I immediately joked that I’m always looking to build that super soldier serum. If my life is going to feel like a Marvel origin story, I might as well commit to the bit.

But here is the part that amazed me.

The steroids worked.

Not in days.

In hours.

The pain began to loosen its grip like it finally got tired of holding on, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I was able to walk to the bathroom on my own.

Maria was right behind me, of course.

Quiet.

Ready.

Making sure I didn’t fall.

Not hovering.

Guarding.

That is what she does. That is who she is.

Home Gets Louder Again

Gabriel and Grace Ann were here for the weekend.

I didn’t get to interact with them much because of the foot pain and the fatigue. My body was there, but my energy was rationed down to essentials.

But still, it was good to hear them in the apartment.

To hear their voices.

I’m so blessed they came to visit and I promised Grace Ann that I’ll go visit a museum with them, the next time they come down.

My dad and Ethan are coming to stay with me for a few days while Maria goes home.

That sentence alone feels like comfort.

It feels like family logistics and love moving into place. Like people taking turns holding the line.

Then there is Noah.

Noah has been putting in the work. It’s now track season and he is not joking about it.

He’s a 200 and 400 meter runner, plus relays.

He is also doing the long jump and triple jump.

School seems to easy for him. He is truly disciplined.

I am so proud of all three boys I can’t even fit it neatly into a sentence.

Pride is too small a word for it.

It is awe.

It is gratitude.

It is the strange emotional whiplash of watching your kids grow stronger while you are learning how to stand again.

I’m excited that my dad will be here with Ethan, and that they both get a chance to explore the city.

I’m probably still a bit too frail to be outside right now. My body is still rebuilding. My stamina is a rumor. My strength is coming back slowly, like a tide that refuses to be rushed.

But I heard they have plans and I love that brcause even if I’m not ready to be out in the world, the world is still here. Still moving. Still offering itself to the people I love. Still needing to be explored!

I’ll be here, listening to my new collection of inspired music by known other the the former Under-18 All-Valley Karate Tournament Johnny Lawrence. You can find the list on Spotify. If you can’t send me a message and I’ll get you the links.

Letting home be loud again.

Letting love take shifts.

Letting my body heal on its own schedule.

Breathing without having to do another all out match on mat.

I am grateful to just be breathing.

Finally, I’ve read your messages and emails. I see that some of you have called. I try to reach out when I can. Just know I appreciate the love. My eyes swell when I turn to my phone. Every time. Thank you for caring. I truly mean more than you will ever know.

As I was finishing this piece that kept on going through my journal and I’m sure I’ll revisit some of the other stuff in-between these days - I found this in my journal:

100, 93, 86, 79, 72, 65, 58, 51, 44, 37, 30, 23, 16, 9, 2

Yeah I was there all along. Trying to hack the system, by memorizing 100 backwards by 7.

Finally this was written in a inside to outside circle manner with my hand never turning:

“Sunlight holds fast in her hair She is effortless in her beauty unstudied in her poise She knows the room and the room bows to her In those white Adidas, built for the long wait she is Aphrodite welding a caduceus staff”

I’ll post this picture when I can explain some of the other things on the page. Brain fog and neurotoxicity are weird, like Mad-Tea party weird.

Be well my friends and family, especially to all my prayer warriors. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Our voices are being heard.

I feel well.

Happy Birthday Gabriel Owen!

After all the buildup, the science, the weeks of planning and preparation, it arrived as just another bag hanging from the IV pole.

Clear. Quiet. No drama. No ceremony.

If you didn’t know what it was, you might assume it was fluids or medication like everything else that had come before it.

What struck me most was how ordinary it looked compared to what it represented. These weren’t donor cells or something foreign. This was me, returned to myself. Cells that had been collected weeks earlier, engineered and trained outside my body, now making their way back through a simple IV line. No fanfare. Just a steady drip, gravity doing its job, science meeting patience.

I took it well and remember thinking this was the moment where everything shifted. Before this, it was preparation. After this, it was action. The cells were home.

Vitals continued every hour. Time slowed into those familiar hospital rhythms, measured in blood pressure cuffs, temperature checks, and quiet footsteps in the hallway.

By evening, fatigue settled in. I tried to eat. I kept pushing fluids. I walked a bit, which took far more out of me than I expected. Healing demands patience, even when your mind wants momentum.

On day +1, in the evening, I spiked a fever.

This, I was told, is not unexpected. When T-Cells return and begin doing what they were trained to do, they release signaling chemicals called cytokines. It’s how they communicate, how they rally other parts of the immune system, and how they go to work. That surge can cause inflammation, and inflammation often announces itself as a fever.

In a strange way, the fever is evidence of activity.

Still, it’s something the team watches closely. They monitor for signs of cytokine release syndrome, changes in blood pressure, oxygen levels, heart rate, and any neurological symptoms. Confusion. Headaches. Trouble finding words. Subtle things that can matter. The goal is to let the immune system work while staying one step ahead of anything that could tip too far.

When the fever hit, the nurses moved quickly. Blood work. Cultures. Fluids. Calm, practiced efficiency that steadied both my body and my nerves.

Earlier that day/night, I had the Harry Potter marathon on in the background. Comfort television. Familiar stories. Wizards and battles between good and evil playing softly as the day wound down.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, a phlebotomist came in to draw blood cultures. In my fevered state, I was convinced he looked like a member of House Slytherin. He spoke very softly and told me he didn’t need the light on, even after I said it was okay to turn it on. I remember thinking this was entirely on brand for someone aligned with dark magic.

I’m not entirely sure that’s how it actually went down. But it is how I remember it.

When I told the PA about it during morning rounds, she chuckled and admitted that some of the night staff were, indeed, unique.

By morning, I was back in a good place.

Now, time is what I need most. Time for these cells to do their work. Time for my body to rest, adapt, and rebuild.

Through all of this, Maria sits beside me, illuminated by the soft glow of the morning sun. She works quietly, effortlessly shifting between her own world and mine, always watching, always present.

***

As I was putting the final touches on this entry, the news came.

My dear friend Ken Jones passed away on December 29.

Right now, my heart is in a million pieces.

Ken was one of the most dedicated Scout leaders I have ever known. Steady, patient, and deeply committed to the young people he served. He was always there to listen, always ready with advice, never seeking recognition, only impact. The kind of leader who shaped lives simply by showing up, again and again.

Even Scoutmasters need someone to help light the way, and he was one of mine.

I was also lucky to call him my friend.

There is something humbling about receiving a second chance at life while mourning someone who should still be here. The timing feels cruel, and yet it sharpens everything. Gratitude and grief sitting side by side, neither willing to give ground.

Rest well, my brother.

I’ll keep the fire going.

Here is my last check-in for 2025. Notice to all my readers, I use two curse words within the last few paragraphs, skip those if you may be offended, you won't miss out on the main part of this post. (I’ll give you a prompt to stop reading.) I needed to use a word to put an exclamation point on my thoughts, and this is the only word that would some up my thoughts.

This week started with three days of chemotherapy, beginning two days later than planned. Treatment finally started on the 26th. Each session passed quickly and mercifully, without any embarrassing moments or unexpected drama. Still, chemo has a way of leaving its mark quietly. The familiar malaise arrived without ceremony, settled in, and refused to leave.

By my off day on the 29th, the fatigue had fully taken hold. It followed me into the 30th, when I checked into the hospital. The effects were cumulative in the way only chemo can be. My body felt heavy. My appetite disappeared. Even drinking felt like work.

Maria watched all of this closely and made sure I ate and drank anyway. We are too close now to let a bad decision or a moment of stubbornness derail what we have fought so hard to reach. Those two days were spent mostly sleeping, resting, and letting my body do what it needed to do without interference.

I cannot fully explain the level of anxiety I have carried over the last few days and even today. It does not scream, nor disable, but it hums. It sits just beneath the surface, steady and persistent. At the same time, there is relief. We are only hours away from receiving my T-cells. After 357 days of scans, needle stabs, biopsies, treatments, setbacks, and waiting, this moment feels monumental.

Fear and hope sit side by side, neither willing to leave. They exist in a tense truce, each aware of the other, each shaping how I breathe, think, and wait. Above them hangs my familiar “show me” attitude, a quiet skepticism that refuses to fully lift. It is not cynicism, exactly, but a hard-earned caution, built from months of detours, delays, and lessons learned the long way. I want to believe fully, to surrender to optimism without reservation, but experience has taught me to watch, to measure, and to wait for proof. So I stand here balanced between what I want to trust and what I have learned to brace for, holding both without letting either take control. I am a “true son" of Missouri.

Last evening, my D&D friends played our annual holiday season game. I felt a real pang knowing I would miss it. Those nights matter to me more than people probably realize. Still, hospital check-in was always going to take hours. Some traditions have to pause. Some moments wait, even when you wish they would not.

I will be completely off work until late January. The risk of neurotoxicity makes that necessary, and in a strange way, it grants me permission to do something I am not naturally good at: focus entirely on healing. I miss the comfort of my office and the familiarity of my coworkers. I miss the rhythm of work and the sense of normalcy it brings. But for now, my only job is to get myself well enough to return to that version of life.

Today started early. Testing began at 6:30 this morning and ran straight through until about 11:30. In those few hours, I had multiple visits from neurology, a visit from occupational therapy, constant check-ins from nurses, more blood work, EKGs, and time with both my PA and my attending. It was a lot. A steady stream of people, questions, assessments, wires, and monitors. Exhausting in its own way. But I am through it now. I am upright, steady, and about to get in the shower before we start prep for the return of my T-cells.

Check-in and testing blur together after a while. Labs. Neurological exams. IV lines. Questions layered on top of questions. One part of the neuro exam had me counting backward from 100 by sevens, which sounds simple until you are lying in a hospital bed, hyper-aware of every pause. Another part had me identify a lion, rhino, and a camel. I was the best ever at this. I knew them all. Better than the patient that was in this room before me, better than any patient in this room before me. :) (Sorry, political humor.)

Around two this afternoon, I will get my T-cells back.

The use of a curse word is coming up if you will be offended, stop reading and I’ll write more next year!

It feels like a strange, hopeful, and fitting way to put a period and close out this clusterfuck of a year. Ending this year with a new beginning feels right.

Finally after Maria left the hospital last night, I laid in my bed listening to a mix of my favorite Billy Joel, Prince, and the Dave Matthews Band songs I needed their music with me. Something familiar. Something steady. A reminder of who I am beneath the hospital gown, the IVs, and the fear. A reminder of the parts of me that are still untouched by any of this.

I am ready now.

Because, Baby, I am a Fucking Star!

P.S. A shout out to my Brother - Marcus, who had called as I was finishing up this post. Thank you for the years of friendship and love! Your call came at an excellent time today!

If you have been with me on this journey from the beginning, you already know this, but my body and my treatment have never followed a straight line. They prefer the unconventional route. Detours seem to be their specialty, especially the unexpected ones.

So buckle up, friends. Here comes another detour.

This week was supposed to be straightforward. Gabriel was with me throughout, while Maria was home for a few days. On Christmas Eve, I was scheduled for a blood draw and my first dose of lymphodepleting chemotherapy. Maria would be on the train when we started but would arrive before I finished.

These were familiar steps. The necessary clearing of the runway so my T-cells could come home and do what science now believes they can do. I have done labs. I have done chemo. I know the rhythm.

Bodies, it turns out, do not always cooperate with plans.

After twelve vials of blood were drawn from my PICC line, some for standard labs and some for the study, I experienced a vasovagal syncope episode during the draw. That is the clinical way of saying I passed out.

Not my coolest moment.

I remember feeling clammy first, then nauseous, then suddenly very far away from myself. Somewhere in that process, I took off my face mask because I was struggling to catch my breath. Then everything went dark.

When I came back, the overhead lights felt brighter and there were people everywhere. I was drenched in sweat. About fifteen nurses filled the room, all talking at once. Some questions were directed at me, others at the nurse drawing the labs, and others at Gabriel.

I was awake but not fully present. Disoriented in a way that is hard to explain. I was hooked up to an EKG. When they tried to place the electrodes on my chest, they would not stick because of the sweat, so they taped them on. Someone wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm. Someone else drew more blood for cultures. Hands were on my shoulders, arms, and wrists. I kept hearing, he is still clammy, still sweaty.

I remember thinking that I just needed a nap and some silence and I would be fine.

Voices came from every direction.

The questions came quickly.

What is your name.

Where are you.

What day is it.

Do you know why you are here.

I could answer them, but slowly, as if my thoughts were moving through water. The sheer volume of activity made it harder to focus and added to the disorientation. At one point, I asked them to please ask one question at a time and wait for my answer before moving on.

I remember asking them to get Gabriel and make sure he knew what was happening. I knew he would relay everything to Maria.

As I started to come out of the fog, one question stuck with me. Someone asked if I was a diplomat. I said no. Then they asked what I did for a living. I answered, which led to the next question.

Was I FBI.

Apparently, I scoffed.

I do not remember doing that, but Gabriel does. He calmly answered for me. No, he is not.

According to him, I was so visibly offended by the suggestion that I never actually answered the question. I simply rejected it outright.

I was sweaty, shaky, embarrassed, and deeply uncomfortable.

The truth is, this one is on me. I did not hydrate enough. I did not sleep enough. I tried to push through instead of preparing properly. Cancer treatment has taught me many things, and one of them is that shortcuts always come due.

Gabriel stayed steady, calm, and present through all of it.

They transferred my care to urgent care so I could recover and receive fluids. Two liters of them, slowly dripping back into me. That transfer involved Gabriel and me riding together in the back of an ambulance. It was not exactly the holiday outing we had planned, but it felt oddly appropriate for this season of unexpected logistics.

About thirty minutes after I was admitted, Maria arrived. She always does, somehow at exactly the right moment. Gabriel headed back to the apartment, and Maria and I sat together for about six hours. There was no drama. Just time, fluids, monitoring, and waiting for my body to remember how to be upright again.

At one point, an attending doctor made an offhand comment that she knew we were not from the New York area. I initially assumed she had read my T-shirt, which had “hey y’all” printed on the front. That was not it.

Apparently, I have a Southern accent.

This was news to me. I have always thought my tone was fairly neutral, not Southern at all. That, in my mind, is my dad’s accent. His vowels linger. Mine, I thought, had moved on.

But there it was, clear enough for a stranger to hear within a few sentences. A reminder that no matter how many places you live, how many rooms you learn to belong in, or how carefully you think you have smoothed the edges, pieces of home stay with you. They surface quietly, without asking permission.

It made me smile more than anything else. In a hospital room full of wires, monitors, clipped conversations, and clinical efficiency, something familiar slipped through. A trace of where I started. A sound shaped by back roads, front porches, long conversations, June bugs, and voices that never rushed to get to the point.

Even there, far from home, with my body doing its own unpredictable thing, that small detail felt grounding. Proof that I am not just a patient, a chart, or a diagnosis. I am still someone’s son, still carrying echoes of a place and people who raised me. Apparently, I carry them right there in my voice.

Christmas Eve was supposed to mark the start of chemotherapy. Instead, everything shifted by forty-eight hours. Christmas Day became a pause, a real one. I rested. I unplugged. I stayed away from email, texts, and most electronics. I allowed myself to simply exist without tracking vitals, schedules, or plans.

There was something quietly grounding about that day. No treatment. No urgency. Just presence. It reminded me that even in the middle of medical chaos, stillness can be its own kind of medicine.

If you texted, called, or emailed me around then, I promise I was not ignoring you. I will do my best to get back to you. I truly took a break on Christmas, and I needed it more than I realized.

Friday, the 26th, became the real beginning.

I was anxious walking into the blood draw. That kind of anxiety lives in your chest, not your thoughts. As the nurse used my PICC line to collect blood, I could feel the quiet attention of the department on me. Not alarmed, just observant. The kind that follows someone who has had a recent incident.

I could also feel the nurse’s nervousness. She was calm and professional, but carefully watching me. I used humor, not just for myself, but for her as well. It helped ease the moment and reminded us both that this was just a blood draw, not a high-wire act.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had the sense that everyone was wondering if I was about to do my best impression of Jake Paul.

I did not.

Everything went smoothly. No dizziness. No cold sweats. No floor rushing up to meet me.

I asked about some of the questions they had posed when I was out of it. I asked the nurse if she had been the one who asked whether I was a diplomat. She was not, but she remembered it being asked. We laughed.

Several others came in to check on me before we began chemotherapy. I answered their questions and told them I was feeling better and better hydrated.

Then we did the thing.

Chemotherapy started, not as an ending, but as preparation. This is the work that makes room for what comes next. The clearing before the rebuilding. The quiet before something very loud and very hopeful happens inside my body.

This is not a heroic story. It is not particularly brave. It is messy, human, and a little embarrassing in places.

But it is honest.

Honesty, I am learning, is its own kind of strength.

One step closer.

Tomorrow, I officially begin the T-Cell process.

A PICC line will be placed into my arm, a quiet but necessary gateway. It will allow my T-Cells to make their way back into me and give my care team access to administer whatever medication/fluids/blood/plasma I may need while I’m hospitalized. Unremarkable on paper, yet, it marks a turning point.

I’ll spend Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and the first day of Kwanza receiving chemotherapy. On December 29th, my T-Cells will be infused back into my body. After that, I’ll remain in the hospital for roughly a week to ten days, monitored closely as my body adjusts. Once discharged, I’ll be checked daily for several weeks before I’m finally released to return home.

Even then, this isn’t finished.

The study requires that I return to New York City every twenty-one days for checkups, injections, and diagnostics for the next two years.

This is not a short yes.

It’s a sustained one.

Which brings me to the question that has been sitting with me longer than the dates, longer than the logistics:

Why am I doing this study?

Not what I’m doing. Not how. But why I am choosing to step into a clinical study after everything my body has already endured. After the infusions. The radiation. The scans. The biopsies. The protocols that worked for a while and then didn’t. The treatments that carried hope and exacted a cost.

The answer isn’t simple, but it is clear.

Because science only moves forward when people are willing to step into the unknown.

Every treatment I’ve received exists because someone before me agreed to be counted. Every option placed in front of me was shaped by data gathered from bodies that bore the weight of uncertainty. Cancer care doesn’t advance through theory alone. It advances through participation. Through patients who allow their experience to become evidence.

This study isn’t just about me. It’s about the community of science, medicine, and patients that stretches backward and forward in time. It’s about turning maybe into knowledge. About helping clinicians ask better questions, refine treatments, reduce harm, and open doors for those who will walk this path after me.

If what I’ve already endured can help shape something better, something clearer, something kinder for the next person, then saying yes feels necessary.

I didn’t arrive at this decision lightly.

I arrived here through nearly a year of treatment and persistence. Through sitting in infusion chairs longer than anyone ever wants to. Through radiation that marked my body and fatigue that settled into my bones. Through biopsies and scans that reminded me how fragile progress can be. Through waiting rooms filled with children, elderly patients, mothers and fathers, all carrying stories heavier than they should have to hold.

Watching them changed me.

Suffering stopped being abstract. It became communal. Shared. Unavoidable.

That’s when an older question began to surface, one I’ve known for years but heard differently now:

“Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?”

Isaiah 6:8 comes after the prophet is undone by holiness. After he confronts his own limits and brokenness. After grace meets him exactly where he is. Only then does God ask the question. And Isaiah responds without conditions or guarantees:

“Here am I. Send me.”

Isaiah doesn’t know the outcome. He doesn’t know how his message will be received. He doesn’t know the cost. He only knows that he has been changed, and that change demands response.

That’s what this season has revealed to me.

My calling cannot stop at reflection alone. It has to move. It has to contribute. It has to step beyond documenting the experience and into offering something tangible to the world beyond myself.

Cancer has reshaped my understanding of purpose. God has reshaped my understanding of availability. My prayers are simpler now. My ambitions quieter. I’m less interested in control and more committed to faithfulness. Less focused on explanations and more attentive to response.

Participating in this study is my yes.

It is offering my body as data. My endurance as part of a larger story. My experience as one small thread in the fabric of scientific progress that depends on trust, courage, and community.

This has to mean more than a blog that informs, reflects, or occasionally rants about Christmas songs or provides an outlet for my wandering thoughts. Those words matter, but they are not enough for this moment. The trials placed in front of me were not random. They were formative. They were shaping me toward something that asks for more than commentary.

They were asking for commitment.

Here am I.

Not because I am finished with this fight.

Not because I am fearless.

Not because I know how this ends.

But because science needs participants, faith requires response, and calling sometimes looks like staying in the process long enough for something good to emerge.

The question was asked long ago, but it still stands.

Whom shall I send?

At this moment, in this body, in this season, my answer remains:

Here am I. Send me.

I’m deeply grateful to my friend Quentin, who brought this verse back to me when I needed it most. Sometimes calling doesn’t arrive as a revelation. Sometimes it comes as a quiet reminder from someone who sees you clearly and knows when to place the right words in front of you.

This one did exactly that.