This week was a lesson in precision: not just medical precision, but emotional, human precision. The kind that comes from holding still when everything inside you wants to move.
It began with mold-making for radiation. The new tech who was working with me didn’t explain much, and the way she was setting things up made it seem like I was about to get a full-body mold. For a moment, I actually wondered how that would work. Would they flip me halfway through like a pancake?
When I finally asked, the senior tech stepped in and explained the process with a smile. She told me it would be just a back mold, designed to hold me in the exact same position each time during radiation. That smile, calm, patient, and reassuring, made all the difference.
The mold itself is made of a warm, soft material that hardens around you like memory foam. You sink into it while it forms, the shape of your shoulders, your spine, even the curve of your head, all captured precisely so you can be placed the same way every time during treatment. No shifting, no guessing. Every beam must hit the same target, down to the millimeter. It feels both strangely impersonal and deeply intimate, science building a cradle to hold you still enough to heal.
Once the mold was complete, the team placed five permanent tattoo dots on my skin. They’re no bigger than freckles; in fact, they blend right in with the ones I already have, just a slightly different color. Small, almost invisible, but significant. These dots serve as anchor points, fixed coordinates that help the radiation machines find their mark. I have five new tattoos now, not chosen or decorative, but purposeful, functional, and permanent reminders of where the fight continues.
After the mold and tattoos came the PET scan, this time both with and without contrast. These scans are designed to see what cancer might still be there and where it’s hiding, to show what’s gone quiet and what still glows. Lying still in that narrow tunnel, you feel both incredibly small and incredibly seen. Every breath matters. Every still moment becomes data. There’s a quiet surrender in that, letting the machines do their work and trusting that the story they tell will be clear.
Later, I met with my oncologist to go over the results and outline the path forward. We talked about the radiation schedule, upcoming treatments, and my stubborn foot drop, a frustrating souvenir of nerve damage that refuses to resolve on its own. It’s a strange thing to look at your foot, will it to move, and have it ignore you completely. I’ll be starting physical therapy in New York, working to coax those signals back to life while the rest of me undergoes radiation. One system retraining itself while another is being rewired.
Friday brought an EKG, followed by something far less routine: the lumbar puncture, also known as a spinal tap. I’ll be honest, I was very nervous. I’d heard plenty of stories about people fainting, feeling pressure, or getting severe headaches afterward.
For the procedure, I sat on the edge of the bed, leaned forward over a table, and arched my back like a yoga pose for a cat stretch, the kind that opens the space between the vertebrae. Then I had to hold that position completely still. The nurse practitioner talked me through each step, but my palms were already sweating before she started, and soon I was sweating profusely.
The goal was to collect cerebrospinal fluid (CSF), the clear liquid that cushions the brain and spinal cord, to make sure the lymphoma hadn’t made its way into that system. The numbing worked, but the sensation was still unsettling: deep pressure, subtle shifts, and the awareness that something delicate was happening in a space you never think about.
It took three punctures before they could get a clean flow of fluid. During the second attempt, I heard her murmur, “Uh oh.” Not exactly the phrase you want to hear mid-procedure. Apparently, she’d hit bone, and while I didn’t feel sharp pain, the sound and those two words were enough to send a chill straight through me. I tried to stay calm, breathing slowly, focusing on the table beneath my hands, counting the seconds until it was over.
When it finally was, I was told to lie flat for several hours to avoid a spinal headache, the kind that can hit like a hammer if you sit up too soon. Maria drove us out of the city, and I reclined the front seat, letting the hum of traffic and the rhythm of motion carry me. The drive home took a little over four and a half hours. I was already half-asleep before we even made it out of Manhattan. The last thing I remember was telling Maria that one of the windows on the side of the World Trade Center looked like it was missing. A moment later, the pain medication caught up with me, and I drifted off. I didn’t wake again until our last rest stop in New Jersey, just before we crossed into Delaware.
My back ached, my head throbbed, and yet, I was oddly grateful. Grateful it was done. Grateful for the care, the precision, and for Maria’s steady presence beside me.
We’re now waiting to hear whether we’ll be able to stay at the American Cancer Society’s Hope Lodge during radiation. We found out yesterday that we’re on the waitlist. The Hope Lodge (https://tinyurl.com/HopeLodgeNYC), located on 32nd Street in Manhattan, is a residence run by the American Cancer Society that offers free lodging for cancer patients and their caregivers while they undergo treatment away from home. It’s more than just a place to sleep; it’s a space built on kindness, understanding, and community. People from all over the country stay there, sharing quiet conversations in the kitchen or small words of encouragement in the elevator.
If a room opens, it will be a huge relief, not just financially, but emotionally, to be surrounded by others walking the same hard road. If not, we’ll start looking for other places nearby, though it’s expensive in that part of town. One way or another, we’ll figure it out. We always do.
In a few weeks, I’ll be returning to New York City for treatment, this time for a longer stay. I’ll bring with me a custom mold, five tiny tattoos that blend in with the freckles on my skin, and the memory of a needle that found its way through the small spaces between fear and endurance.
The miracle, it turns out, was never going to be in the dramatic finish line. It was in the process itself. My hope now rests on the deep, enduring grace found in the slow, persistent courage of a life still being lived, fully and fiercely, one small, steady step at a time. This journey has stripped away the illusion of control and given me something far better: an unshakable trust in my own resilience. The quiet strength to simply keep going is the most powerful thing I have ever found.
With Maria, my family, and friends by my side, I am reminded that even in the hardest seasons, I have never walked alone.
My dear friend, stay the course and walk the hard trail…you are not alone, we walk with you —ODIN
Praying you never feel alone, and that God will continue to send friends, healers, helpers, and lodging to you at just the right time.