Medical Update: I'm a Brave Jedi

June 8, 2026

Photo by R.D. Smith on Unsplash

Before I share yesterday's scan results, I want to talk about a word that has taken on an entirely new meaning for me over the last nineteen months.

Most people think about cancer in terms of "cured" or "in remission." Those are wonderful words when they apply, but they are not always the most accurate way to describe every cancer or every patient.

In my case, I have been treated for both Hodgkin lymphoma and T-cell/histiocyte-rich large B-cell lymphoma. Both are aggressive lymphomas, and after everything my body has been through, my oncology team isn't simply looking for a scan that says "gone." They're looking for the bigger picture.

Yesterday's PET scan tells that story.

The lymph nodes we've been watching haven't grown. They haven't spread. No new areas have appeared. The report repeatedly uses the word unchanged, and for lymphoma, that word carries a tremendous amount of weight.

There are no new suspicious lesions. No new lymph nodes lighting up. The spleen remains clear. My bone marrow continues to settle down after months of recovery. Even the small nodule in my parotid gland, which has been present since my original scans, remains unchanged and is still believed to be a benign Warthin's tumor.

Stable doesn't mean the cancer has been cured. It doesn't necessarily mean remission in the traditional sense either. It means the disease is not progressing. It means the scan looks essentially like the last one. There is no evidence that it is gaining ground.

For someone living with these lymphomas, stability is not settling for second best.

Stable is a victory.

Part of that victory is something many people never see.

The treatments that saved my life also erased much of my immune system's memory. CAR-T therapy didn't just train my immune system to fight cancer. The chemotherapy leading up to it wiped out much of the immune protection my body had spent decades building. In many ways, my immune system has been starting over from scratch.

Yestrrday marked another milestone in that rebuilding process.

One hundred eighty-eight days after my CAR-T infusion, I began receiving the next round of vaccines to teach my immune system what it once knew. That included COVID-19, pneumococcal, meningococcal conjugate, DTaP (diphtheria, tetanus, and pertussis), and hepatitis A and B vaccines. Most of us receive these throughout childhood and rarely think about them again. I found myself getting excited to receive them because they represent something far bigger than a series of shots.

As my nurse prepared the syringes, I smiled and told her, "I'm a strong Jedi."

She laughed, probably wondering where that came from.

I told her it was something our youngest son, Noah, used to say whenever he needed shots as a little boy. Noah hated needles, but before each one he'd square his shoulders, take a deep breath, and remind himself that he was a strong Jedi. It was his way of finding a little courage when he needed it most.

Yesterday, I borrowed a little of Noah's courage.

Life has a funny way of coming full circle. Years ago, we were encouraging our little boy through a few childhood vaccinations. I found myself repeating his words as I started rebuilding an immune system that had been wiped clean in order to save my life.

They represent recovery.

They represent an immune system that is strong enough to begin learning again.

It is a strange feeling to realize your body has forgotten so much of what it once knew. It is an even more incredible feeling to watch it slowly relearn.

That makes this scan even more meaningful.

While my immune system continues to rebuild itself, the lymphoma is not moving forward. My blood counts continue to improve. Physical therapy is helping me regain strength and balance. Each week brings another small reminder that healing is rarely dramatic. More often, it happens quietly, one step at a time.

Nineteen months ago, success meant making it to the next treatment.

Later, it meant seeing my blood counts slowly climb.

188 days after CAR-T, success means another stable PET scan, another round of vaccines, and another opportunity to keep moving forward.

Would I love to hear the words "cured?" Absolutely.

Would I celebrate hearing "complete remission?" Without question.

But for where I am today, stable is exactly the word I hoped to hear.

Stable means there is no new disease.

Stable means the disease isn't winning.

Stable means I get to keep planning adventures with Maria. It means more time with our children, family, friends, and my Scouts. It means I get to keep writing, keep hiking a little farther, keep rebuilding my strength, and keep looking toward the future instead of constantly over my shoulder.

Cancer has taught me that victories don't always come with fireworks.

Sometimes they arrive quietly in a radiology report that says "unchanged."

Sometimes they come in the form of a handful of vaccines that most people haven't thought about since they were children.

Sometimes victory isn't crossing the finish line.

Sometimes victory is simply earning another mile.

I'll gladly celebrate another mile, and I'll gladly celebrate one simple word.

Stable.

May the Force be with you.