Still Here Dancing

April 15, 2026

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.