I had my fourth biopsy a few days ago. To be honest, I was more than a little apprehensive going in. A biopsy always brings a wave of “what ifs” - what if they find something unexpected, what if the news changes the plan? But deep down, I know that whatever shows up, we’ll face it head on. What I want more than anything right now is to move forward with my stem cell transplant. Each delay feels like being stuck at the trailhead, staring at the mountains, knowing the climb is ahead but not yet taking the first step.
Last night, as I sat with that restlessness, I pulled up some old photos. They were from a climbing trip in the wide-open country with some of my friends who climbed with me in Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah. The kind of place where the sky feels endless and the rocks carry stories older than we can imagine. Looking at those pictures, I felt both the ache of missing that part of my life and the quiet conviction that I’ll get back there again.
Recovery, though, isn’t just about the big milestones like transplants and test results. It’s also about the small, stubborn victories. Over the past months, chemotherapy has left me with neuropathy in my left foot, a numbness and tingling that at times felt like the ground had been stolen from under me. Walking became uncertain, balance a challenge, and the thought of backpacking/climbing again seemed impossibly far away.
But lately, I’ve started to notice something new: a flicker of control returning. It’s small, a little more strength in my step, a little less hesitation when I put weight down, but it’s there. This little bit of progress is its own kind of hope. Just as the body slowly relearns what the medicine has taken, the spirit also learns that healing is rarely all at once. It comes in pieces, in moments that remind you that forward is still possible.
It won’t be quick, and it won’t be easy. Recovery will mean time, patience, and more physical therapy than I’d like to admit. But I can already picture the moment: camping under the stars, the night air sharp and clean, the silence broken only by the crackle of a fire and the whisper of wind through the canyon. That image, paired with the slow return of feeling in my own body is enough to keep me moving forward, one step at a time.
For now, I carry the hope that soon this season of biopsies, transfusions, and treatments will give way to another, one filled with climbs, open skies, and the kind of freedom only found in the wild places.