Maybe you’re wondering why it’s taken me a while to share an update on my health journey.

Honestly, it’s probably because I haven’t really been living the "drama" of cancer lately. I’ve got things to do, places to be, people to enjoy! Sometimes I have to remind myself that I was ever even diagnosed. During rounds 6 and 7, I caught myself thinking, “Wait… what cancer?”

Now that I’ve stopped putting my life on pause, whether it returns or not doesn’t change what I’m doing. My hope is to live fully with whatever I’ve been given, right up until the end. After all, I’m just a traveler in this Earth suit, along for the ride—wherever it leads.

But I can’t take full credit for this mindset. It wasn’t some lofty resolution or conscious shift to "live like I don’t have cancer." Rounds 6 and 7 were just so intense, they burned all the drama out of me. Incinerated it. And what I was left with was this: Whether I’m healing or declining—it doesn’t even matter. Not really. Not for what comes next.

I stopped trying to steer the outcome. I’ve done the work. It’s already in motion. I’ve ridden the roller coaster, faced the fear, and found peace.

Here’s how Round 8 went:

July 3, 2023

Day 1, 2am thoughts:

Cancer. I can gear up and fight it with all my might, or I can roll with it.

It reminds me of a demonstration I once saw. One person sat in a chair, arms locked straight out into another person’s hands. The person standing would push, tipping the chair. As long as the one sitting resisted, the one standing had total control.

But when the sitting person went limp—stopped resisting—the standing one lost all power. No matter how hard he pushed or twisted, it was like trying to push a noodle. Completely ineffective.

What you resist, persists.

That lesson stuck. The enemy loses power when we meet life’s blows with grace. That’s why I’m not “fighting” cancer. It’s there—or it isn’t—but I won’t give it control. I’ll just keep living.

It’s a paradox: surrendering to the force can actually make it powerless.

If that’s true, then even the phrase “turn the other cheek” has new meaning when cancer is the one striking. I’m not resisting. I’m living, and expecting a happy outcome—whatever that may be. I’m soaking up every blessing I can.

That’s why I love my doctor’s blog name: Complete Remission. He doesn’t update it much, but the title alone says everything—focused on the ideal, not the fight.

Mother Teresa once said, “I was asked why I don’t participate in anti-war demonstrations. I said that I will never do that, but as soon as you have a pro-peace rally, I’ll be there.” This kind of thinking helps me tap into that “peace that passeth all understanding.”

“And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:7)

That, to me, is the real path to living without fear.

Living Life to the Fullest

These last two rounds were some of my favorites because I got to spend so much time with family. Here are a few highlights:

Round 8 Week 1 Saturday:
Salt River tubing with the cousins

Dinner at Texas Roadhouse on the way home

Round 8 Week 2 Saturday:
Boating at Roosevelt Lake with family and our awesome neighbor who took us out

Just simple joy. Laughter. Sunshine. Togetherness.

But since this is a health update…

Side Effect Notes

I’m still going strong with my new diet and feeling so much better! Before cutting sugar, I was experiencing internal tremors daily. Now, they only pop up a few times a week.

For Round 8, my doctor put me on low-dose 5FU with Avastin. Side effects included:

• Temporary queasiness

• Mild stomach pain

• Slight (non-sugar) headaches

• Persistent shoulder pain (from a rib that loves to pop out)

• Runny nose

All in all, they were manageable, and I was able to function as normal. I’m grateful.

"It Doesn't Even Matter"

After my July 3rd infusion, I couldn’t stop hearing the words “It doesn’t even matter.” They echoed through my mornings and lingered all day.

Sure, I still hope to heal and live a long life. But I also feel a calm assurance: God’s not going to bring me Home before it’s my time. And when it is my time, it’ll be beautiful. A reunion.

Earth life is just so brief, no matter who you are. We’re eternal beings on a temporary stop. This life? Just a moment. A dot in eternity. Our choices here shape what comes next. The goal isn’t comfort—it’s growth. It’s joy. If we do it right, we’ll carry those rewards forever.

About Eternity

When I was a teen, one of my teachers stretched a piece of yarn across the classroom wall to wall. She placed a small dot in the middle.

She said, “This yarn represents your eternal life. The string before the dot? That’s your pre-Earth life. The dot? That’s your life here. The rest? That’s your life after.”

I’ve never forgotten that.

It’s helped me make hard choices in the moment that led to more joy and peace in the long run. I don’t always get it right, but I try. That eternal perspective makes all the difference.

Facing the What-Ifs

With this new peace, I finally let myself ask the questions I’d avoided:

What if I don’t get to grow old?
Could that be a gift? (Don’t be shocked—I think we all need to make peace with our mortality.)

As someone once asked a cancer patient, “What’s it like knowing you’re dying?”
The patient replied, “What’s it like pretending you’re not?”

I also came across some hard statistics. The average lifespan for someone with my type of cancer? Two to three years. That’s… not long.

But averages are just that. They include the short stories and the long ones. My prognosis has been on the better side—but it’s not guaranteed.

So I let that sink in, too:

• What if I get to go Home in 2–3 years? Imagine the reunion. The joy.

• What would I do with the time I have left?

• Have you ever asked yourself that question?

Live Like You’re Dying

It made me think of my friend Shantel McBride’s class, Live Like You’re Dying. Thinking “What if I only had a few years?” gave me fresh clarity. Less weight on what doesn’t matter. More attention to what does.

I even looked at the scarier stats: Only 13.1% of people with Stage 4 colon cancer make it past 5 years. Since my cancer was technically Stage 4—though “localized”—my odds might be closer to 72%.

Still, I let myself feel the gravity of the 13%.

Again, it’s all just data. I know statistics don’t dictate what any individual experience will look like—good or bad—including mine. My story will be uniquely mine, just as everyone’s is.

Still… what if 2–3 years is all I have left?

I sat with that question, not in fear, but with open, fearless curiosity—and to my surprise, I started to feel incredibly lucky. So many people fear death simply because they don’t know how they’ll go, and that fear of the unknown only amplifies the dread. But what if I do get to die of cancer? Strangely enough, taking the mystery out of that part might actually be a gift. Imagine if life could be like a movie without the jump scares—where you could roll with the punches and make peace with the expected, instead of living braced for a thousand terrifying, unpredictable ‘what ifs.’

Screeching Halt

Now cue the needle scratching off a vinyl record:
Wrrrreeek---
Because that’s exactly where that train of thought ends.

I’ve now fully explored the “sad” what ifs, and even some of the darker ones I haven’t shared here. And somehow, on the other side of that exploration, I found joy. I found peace. I even felt a sense of excitement.
And that, I suppose, is part of why I haven’t shared an update until now. Because saying you’re excited about dying isn’t exactly something that fits neatly into most conversations—or cultural norms.

But this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve felt this kind of homesickness for heaven. Life has had other hard chapters, and each time, that longing has returned. So this isn’t new. What’s new is the clarity it brought me.

And yes, I get that it's also a little selfish.

I don’t want to be selfish. Dying is so often hardest on the ones who stay. So, even though that line of thinking felt essential for my own peace of mind, it was just that—a phase. It served its purpose. And now I can come back to dreaming of a future, free of that nagging fear in the background, always begging for answers to the scariest “what ifs.”

Now that I have my answers, I can set those questions down. I can move forward with quiet confidence and curiosity, watching the story God is telling through my life, however it unfolds. I give it to Him, fully. I don’t need to direct it—I just get to watch it become.

A New Vision for the Future — The Grandparents’ Home

Looking toward a long and joy-filled life, Trevan and I started dreaming up the kind of home we’d love to have as grandparents someday. We talk about where it might be, how close it’ll be to cycling trails, what kind of land it’ll sit on, and the space it will offer for family gatherings. Having something to look forward to—even when you don’t know how or when it’ll happen—gives you power. Hope. Joy. There’s real magic in dreaming.

Not Without Discomfort

That’s not to say my days are all unicorns and rainbows now. Nothing has technically changed. But my health isn’t weighing on me the way it used to.

One day a headache started coming on—(not the sugar kind; those seem to be gone)—maybe it was from a hot day on the river, or maybe it was chemo-related. But instead of tensing up or getting upset, I just accepted it. I pictured myself lying on my side, resting inside this Earth suit like it was just a shell, and I simply observed the experience.
“Isn’t it interesting how this headache feels?”

Along those same lines, this clip is one I keep coming back to. I may have shared it before, but here it is again just in case you missed it. (It’ll open in a new window.)

Here’s a direct link to the reel. Wish I could embed it, but it’s not letting me:

https://www.facebook.com/reel/865990821085039

Anyway, thinking about the pain as just an Earth-suit experience—not a big deal—started to dissolve it. I pictured it literally melting away, flowing up and out of the shell through a little hinged lid on my side. Weird imagery, I know—but I didn’t invent it. That’s just how it looked in my mind. And soon after, the pain faded to almost nothing.

I Got My Miracle

Things aren’t going exactly as I imagined (I’ve still had a few mild headaches for the reasons I mentioned earlier, and my June scan didn’t come back perfectly clean), but I still feel like I’ve received a miracle.

The miracle, for me, is this: I’ve become convinced—deep in my core—that whatever happens next… it’s okay. It doesn’t matter in the way I once thought it did. And because of that, I feel so free. At least for now, I’m completely free of worry.

Do you have any idea how good it feels to not worry?? As my girls say: 10 out of 10, highly recommend.

And when it comes to life with the people I love—maybe nothing looks different from the outside—but inside, I’m cherishing every moment more deeply than I ever knew how to before. I love what the cancer has done for my relationships, and for my sense of confidence. It’s such a gift to have discovered:

• what I’m capable of,

• what the Lord has helped me endure,

• what no longer scares me, and

• what truly matters.

And what matters is this: I know that God is real. I know who I am. I know what life is for. And I know my relationships are eternal.

Deeper Dive Study

During round 8, I went down a bit of a research rabbit hole and read a lot of articles from medical journals. It helped me better understand what my doctor has been doing and why—and it actually made me open to the idea of continuing treatment even beyond a clean scan.

One thing I was really wondering about was the difference between maximum dose and low-dose chemo. I’d started to feel like if it wasn’t awful anymore, maybe it wasn’t doing anything. But a meta-analysis of six randomized controlled trials (with over 1,600 patients) showed that low-dose chemo was just as effective as high-dose chemo—without all the toxicity. That helped me stop second-guessing things.

Feeling more informed than ever, I felt ready for round 9.

Round 9

At this appointment, I told my doctor how much peace I’d been feeling lately and shared some of the research I’d found. In the past, these visits sometimes brought unexpected bad news. So this time we came in saying, "We're ready. We're at peace. Just tell us the hard stuff now so we don't have to be blindsided later."

Of course, Trevan isn’t quite as at peace with the idea of me going Home early as I am—but even he felt calm enough to ask the doctor outright about life expectancy.

The doctor told us: if the cancer goes away and stays away, that could be normal. But if it returns, that would significantly impact my prognosis. It's not like having a one-time cancer twice. A recurrence usually means resistance—and resistant cancer is a whole different challenge.

He said that even if my September scan looks clean, he may recommend radiation to the spot, just to reduce the chance of it returning. I had honestly felt pretty fortunate to have avoided radiation so far, but when he said that, I didn’t feel anxious. I just said, “I’d be okay with that.”

We’ll decide based on the scan and a lot of prayer. There’s still the option to go fully holistic—I know people who’ve lived long lives that way. But so far, Trevan and I both feel most at peace continuing with the medical path while it’s working.

What surprised me most was how quickly I said yes to radiation. Where is all this peace even coming from?? I can only give credit to God. I’m just so thankful.

Even my doctor seemed almost speechless at how my mindset had shifted. I told him, "It just doesn’t matter anymore what happens—because it doesn’t change how I live or how I spend my time." He said, “That’s profound.”

It was actually a really sweet visit. I think it was the first time masks weren’t required, so we finally got to see each other’s full faces—and it’s amazing how much deeper the connection feels that way. At the end, when I reached out to shake his hand, he surprised me and gave me a hug instead.

Then I got my infusion and pump, and we headed home.

This round turned out to be super fun—two of my boys flew into town right before our boating trip and stayed for a few days into the round. Having them here made all the difference. It helped keep my mind off chemo, so I felt mostly normal—just a little tired.

Day 3 was probably the toughest because my feet started burning, but thankfully the doctor had me take Gabapentin, and that knocked it out pretty quickly.

Surgery is scheduled!
During round 9, I finally got a surgery date: September 19. Not as soon as we’d hoped, but it was the earliest both surgeons could coordinate. And honestly, it's fine. It gives me a little extra time to get stronger so recovery can be smoother.

By the way, we’re still waiting on the results from a special test that checks for cancer cell DNA in my blood—kind of an early detection heads-up. It can take up to four weeks, and we’re just about there, so we’re hoping to hear something at my next appointment in a week.

Pulling the Cancer Card

One funny moment from round 9: My daughter was once again begging me for a dog. She’s in college. She lives away from home most of the year. But she wants me to get a dog, so she can play with it when she’s home.

I keep reminding her that while dogs are awesome, they’re also a big responsibility. I’m not exactly in a place to take that on right now. Plus, I’m just a couple years from being an empty-nester—I’m not looking to adopt something that needs 24/7 attention for the next 10–15 years.

Still, she’s relentless. She sends me pictures, gets her aunt involved, and even made a PowerPoint last year outlining all the reasons why I should do it—with promises to help out... except she doesn’t live here, so that’s hilarious.

Finally, I hit my limit and said,
"You want me to have an extra responsibility so you can have a few hours of fun during school breaks. You can go play with shelter animals whenever you want to get your fix. Plus, I have cancer, so you should be nice to me."
Totally joking—but apparently her friends were shocked.
"She pulled the cancer card??!!!"

Yes.
Yes I did.

I keep telling her: “You can get a dog when you have your own place.”
Her answer?
"I HAVE TO PURSUE AN EDUCATION!"

Yeah, well… it’s not like I have anything going on. 😂

Man, I love my kids. They crack me up—and that’s a good thing, because laughter really is the best medicine. So, while the drama may be burned out of the cancer storyline for now, I guess it lives on in other ways.

Thank you all for the continued love and support.
Next update.

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