Holding Steady: A Gentle Update on My Cancer Journey

🌿 A Quieter Season, With One Unexpected Detour

It’s been a while since I’ve written a cancer update, and this one arrives in a softer tone than the last. Not a storm, not a crisis, not even a burst of unexpected light — more like a long, steady inhale. A quieter season. But tucked inside that quiet was one sharp detour I didn’t see coming.

Back in the spring, we thought my last treatment would land at the end of May. I had circled the date. My friends had circled the date. They flew in, they brought matching t‑shirts, a special T for me, they made a banner, they even crafted a celebratory hat. It was supposed to be a milestone — the finish line we had all been walking toward for months.

And then the doctor walked in and asked, “How are you feeling.”

I should have been prepared for a glitch.  I had a PET scan the previous week and unlike other scans, the results hadn’t been posted to my portal.  I kept looking for them.  I assumed that the doctor wanted to give me the good news in person. 

Sadly, that was not the case.  When he asked me how I was feeling, I remember looking at him and thinking “why is he asking me this?”.  I don’t really remember what I said.  Probably “no worse than normal” or “Still struggling with the nausea”.  Such a simple question, the reason he was asking because a change had been spotted in my scan.   Instead of ringing a bell or closing a chapter, we found ourselves opening another one. The finish line moved. The celebration paused. And I had to sit with the disappointment of that — not just mine, but the disappointment reflected in the faces of the people who had shown up to cheer me across.

That moment was a detour. A plot twist. A reminder that cancer doesn’t always honor the timelines we build around it.

🌱 The Lymph Node Mystery

Based on that most recent petscan, a new question entered the picture: a cervical lymph node and a couple mediastinal ones that didn’t look quite right. Plans were made to biopsy the cervical one first because it was easier to reach.  While I was laying on the table waiting for the procedure to start, the doctor asked, almost casually:

“Did you have pneumonia?”

I almost jumped off the table and shouted “YES!”!  Finally, someone was thinking along the lines I had been thinking.  That the spots, nodes, nodules that were showing on my various scans and Xrays were related to my past pneumonia.  

After a few days, the results of the bioposy came back clear.  No signs of cancer in this cervical lymph node. 

🌬 Then came the EBUS

The cancer doctor wanted to get a better idea of what was causing the activity in the mediastinal lymph nodes.  This required finding a special kind of pulmonologist, one that could perform something called an EBUS.   Endobronchial Ultrasound or EBUS is a minimally invasive procedure that uses a bronchoscope with an ultrasound probe to examine the lungs and nearby lymph nodes.

It was supposed to be the test that finally explained everything.

Instead, it explained nothing.

The samples were too small. Too diluted. Too obscured by blood. Flow cytometry was clean. Cultures were clean. Cytology was clean. And yet… no diagnosis.

It was frustrating, but also strangely clarifying: whatever this lymph node issue is, it didn’t alter the original treatment plan. It didn’t rewrite the story. It didn’t change the path we were already on.

It simply added another layer of uncertainty — one I’ve had to learn to carry without letting it take over my days.

And that became the theme of the next few months: things that looked concerning, but didn’t actually change the course of treatment.

I should mention that lymphoma was ruled out by the tests they performed on the “wash” or fluid that was collected from my airway.  

In order to get a more definitive answer about the mediastinal lymph nodes, there are two other ways to perform a bioposy but both are more invasive and could cause further complications.  

So, we wait, we watch, we monitor.  I will have periodic CT scans and bloodwork.  

🌾 And Then, a Quiet Victory in Cincinnati

Somewhere in the middle of all the biopsies, the questions, the “did you have pneumonia” conversations, and the EBUS that explained absolutely nothing… life handed me a small, unexpected gift.

I was able to travel to Cincinnati.  Actually, it was a mini tour of Kentucky, Southeast Indiana and Cincinnati. 

Not just travel — thrive. Five full days. Walking, exploring, talking, laughing. And not a single nap. I visited friends, went to favorite spots in Cincinnati, ate things I probably shouldn’t have!

I was able to see a cousin I hadn’t seen in 7 years.

It felt almost defiant, in the gentlest way — like my body was reminding me that it still had strength tucked away, even after months of fatigue and uncertainty. I didn’t realize how much I needed that trip until I was in the middle of it, moving through the days with a kind of ease I hadn’t felt in a long time.

It wasn’t a dramatic victory. It wasn’t a finish line. But it was a quiet one — the kind that settles into your heart and whispers, “You’re still here. You’re still living. You’re still capable of joy.”

And honestly, that small triumph will help carry me through the next season.

 🌤 The Quiet Season After the Detour

My next scan is in Mid-November.  My doctors are watching closely. Fatigue has become a more regular visitor, and I’m learning to listen to my body before it has to shout.

This season isn’t dramatic — it’s quieter, slower, more reflective. It’s the kind of season where you learn to live inside the in‑between: not in crisis, not in celebration, just here.

My creative rhythms are returning, gently. I’m writing again, planning again, finding my way back to the parts of life that make me feel like myself. Not with urgency — with intention. With softness.

And even in the quiet, light keeps showing up. A laugh I didn’t expect. A day that felt more normal than it had any right to. A reminder that even when the finish line moves, the journey still holds beauty.

I don’t have a dramatic update this time. I have steadiness. I have gratitude. I have the reminder that healing isn’t always loud — sometimes it’s stitched together by small mercies and the people who show up wearing matching t‑shirts, ready to celebrate you even when the celebration has to wait.

Thank you for being here, for reading, for caring, for walking this long road with me. I don’t know exactly what the next chapter will look like, but I do know this: I’m still moving forward. I’m still choosing light. And I’m still finding my way, one quiet season — and one unexpected detour — at a time.