Southbound from NYC

March 3, 2026

I am writing this from the passenger seat, treating myself to some Twizzlers, as we head south on the New Jersey Turnpike. The New York City skyline fading behind us after my appointment. The sky is the color of battleship steel, thick and gray, hanging low over the highway. Every so often, a thin slice of sunlight breaks through the clouds. It feels as though nature itself understands the weight of my thoughts, allowing just enough light to remind me it is still there.

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.