Midway Through: A Pause and a Promise

May 13, 2025

Photo by Volodymyr Hryshchenko on Unsplash

Difficult

From the very start, my cancer came with a label: difficult. Not just medically complex, but truly difficult. That word lingers like a low fog, heavy, vague, and unwelcome. It doesn’t shout, but it hums with uncertainty.

In the world of medicine, “difficult” doesn’t mean untreatable. It doesn’t mean aggressive or terminal. But it does mean the road ahead won’t be simple. It means your case doesn’t quite fit the mold. The diagnosis doesn’t behave the way the textbooks say it should. The scans raise more questions than they answer. It’s the kind of file that makes doctors lean back in their chairs, scroll through the data again, and say, “This one’s not typical.”

This sounds like who I am when I’m healthy, unconventional, a little complex, maybe even a bit of a puzzle. I'm an Icon! So why would my cancer show up any differently?

It’s like trying to solve a puzzle where some of the pieces are missing and a few might belong to a different box altogether.

And for the patient, for me, it means more waiting. More testing. More conversations that start with “we want to double check something” or “we’re going to bring in another opinion.” It means learning how to live in the middle space where things are neither clearly better nor clearly worse. Just constantly shifting.

This kind of diagnosis doesn’t break you all at once. It wears at you slowly, like waves against a stubborn rock. But it teaches you something too. You become steadier. A little more patient. A little more unyielding. And a whole lot more determined.

Because difficult does not mean impossible.

It just means the trail is less worn, and I need to keep walking it anyway. Curability is still the goal. The steps may take more time, but the path is still there.

Testing, Scans and Biopsy Results

This week, we got the latest results from both the biopsy and the PET scan. And the verdic?

Drumroll, please.

We are hitting pause. No chemo. No Nivestym shots. Just stillness, for now.

The current treatment plan is working, but not as quickly or effectively as we had hoped. The tumors are shrinking, but they are dragging their feet. And my immune system is depleted. So much so that even a common cold could turn dangerous. Taking a break gives my body a chance to recover, and that recovery matters.

We are using this pause to regroup. To let my blood counts climb back to safer ground. To breathe.

Next week, we meet with a specialist from Johns Hopkins to get his perspective. Another voice in the room, another set of experienced eyes to help chart the next stretch of this journey. I’m grateful for that. We are at the halfway mark, and while I wish this report came with a little more celebration, I promised to share the truth. This is the truth.

It isn’t the chapter I would have written if I had the pen. But then again, nothing about this journey has followed a script. And if you have been walking beside me through these posts, you already know this isn’t a story about comfort. It’s a story about resilience. About choosing to take the next step, even when the road shifts beneath your feet.

Curability remains the destination. There are other treatments available, stronger, more aggressive ones. Some might knock me back a bit more. Others might come with new challenges. But we are not out of options. Not even close.

Shingles

The shingles are healing. Just a few stubborn nerve-tingles remain, hopefully the last flickers before it goes dormant for good. I’ve been applying healing lotion to the spots, doing what I can to prevent scars and ease the itch of healing. It’s slow work, but it’s progress.

Goals and Plans

My goals this week are simple. Rest when I can. Walk every day, even just a little. Eat to fuel the fight. Heal, in whatever ways I’m able. I'll be back to wearing a N-95 mask while I'm out among the people.

Maria and I are looking at taking a short trip. Nothing too far. Maybe somewhere with waves and warm breezes. I want to sit near the ocean and let the rhythm of the water remind me that nothing stays still forever. Not fear. Not pain. Not even cancer.

And in the quiet, something else has taken shape.

I’ve made a promise to myself. When this chapter ends, I am going to write two books.n

One of them has been in my heart for years. It’s a collection of thoughts, sayings, and stories I’ve gathered for my boys. A sort of field guide for living a brave and meaningful life. I want to leave them something that speaks beyond my voice, something they can turn to when life feels heavy or confusing. You’ll probably see pieces of it here on the blog as I begin to shape it. These posts will be my sketches, my rough drafts, the early versions of what I hope will one day speak clearly to them. And maybe to you, too.

So yes, this is the halfway point. A little bruised. A little worn. But still here. Still writing. Still fighting. Still choosing hope, even when it looks different than I expected.

And as always,

Let’s go, Cardinals!