Aches, Echoes, and Everything In Between

June 1, 2025

In today post we’re going to revisit bone pain. The kind of pain that shows up uninvited and sets up shop like it owns the lease.

Right now, my ankle and toe are leading the rebellion, and every step reminds me that healing isn’t always graceful. Sometimes, it limps, literally.

Protest from the Ground Up

The pain in my ankle has taken a turn for the dramatic. It’s the kind of sharp, punch-you-in-the-joint pain that makes your eyes water before your foot even hits the floor. Walking? That’s a gamble. Every step feels like my ankle is firing off a protest letter, loud, sharp, and with absolutely no chill. Less “let’s take a stroll,” and more “try that again and see what happens.”

Then there’s the big toe. Not to be left out, the site of a long-ago surgery has decided to rejoin the cast. It’s like an ex suddenly texting, “Just thinking of you,” and then proceeding to remind you exactly why it didn’t work out. It’s not as aggressive as the ankle, but it’s clingy. Quiet, throbbing, and just irritating enough to stay on my radar.

Shots That Sing (and Sting)

So, what’s behind this painful encore performance from old injuries? Growth factor shots. It isn't the same shifts I had earlier in my treatment, this new version is longer lasting, which means fewer injections overall. Sounds like a win, right? But here’s the catch: when they hit, they hit harder.

This isn’t just a little soreness you can stretch out or walk off. It’s deep, pulsing, bone-deep pain, the kind that makes you aware of bones you forgot you had. It feels like my skeleton’s been possessed by a grumpy percussionist, banging away from the inside with no rhythm, no rest, and no sense of mercy.

Still, I take them. Because as uncomfortable as they are, they work. They keep my immune system from crashing. They buy me time, energy, and another shot at recovery. Painful, yes, but part of the deal. When you're fighting cancer, every edge matters.

A Week with Purpose

Despite the aches and sharp reminders from my lower limbs, it was actually a good week.

Scouting

One of the highlights was presenting a remarkable young Scout to her Eagle Board of Review. She’s the kind of person who makes you remember why we volunteer, why we give up weekends, late nights, and free time. She’s sharp, resilient, and driven, a natural leader who’s already leaving the world better than she found it. I’ve had the privilege of watching her grow, and I’m proud to have played even a small role in that journey. Fly high "P" I am so proud of you

Friendship That Shows Up

I also had lunch with an old friend. He’s retired now and living a couple hours away, but this week, he made the drive. No agenda, no fanfare. Just the quiet kind of check-in that only special friendships can pull off.

He probably sensed it in one of our recent conversations, something in my tone, or maybe something I texted. Whatever it was, he knew I needed something: presence, perspective, maybe even permission to not have all the answers. He brought all of that.

We talked, we laughed, we lingered. The real nourishment came from the conversation. I miss those moments more than I realized, those long, meandering talks over food with people who know you well enough not to ask for updates, but to sit in the silence if needed.

Kitchen Repairs

While I’m using this quiet medical week to rest, Maria has been on a mission, taking full advantage of the lull to tackle some long-overdue kitchen repairs.

It started with a simple plan: replace the garbage disposal. But like all good home improvement stories, one thing led to another. As she pulled things apart, it became clear what we really needed wasn’t just a new disposal, we needed a new sink.

So off we went, making the rounds between the ReStore and Home Depot. I tagged along for one of the trips, mostly for moral support and to feel slightly useful while limping down the plumbing aisle. On her own, Maria hit another ReStore and found a sink she loved.

We’ll wait a few days before it gets installed, but I have to say, watching her dive into these projects is pretty incredible. She’s fearless in a way that goes beyond just tools and parts. She sees a problem, rolls up her sleeves, and starts fixing things. It’s not just about the sink, it’s about her strength, her grit, and the quiet way she keeps our world moving, even when mine slows to a crawl.

A Quiet Medical Week

Looking ahead, next week is what I’m calling a quiet medical week. I say that with cautious optimism.

No chemo. No growth factor shots. Just a couple lab draws and a check-in with my Nurse Practitioner. Compared to the usual gauntlet of appointments and infusions, it feels like someone hit the pause button.

It’s a window for rest, for catching my breath before the next wave begins.

Because the following week, we begin again. Chemo restarts. The process resets. I know what’s coming, and that knowledge carries both comfort and weariness. Familiarity doesn’t make it easier. Just clearer.

So for now, I’ll take the stillness. I’ll sleep when I can, move gently when I’m able, maybe even sneak in a short walk if my ankle stops yelling. These quiet weeks are rare. I’m learning not to squander them.

Because rest, real rest, isn’t a break from the fight. It’s part of it.