Well. In this case, it’s a pretty doggone HUGE favor.

I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. My husband is a walking miracle.

This morning, we met with Mike’s oncology team. We went into the appointment somewhat dreading it, wondering what fresh hell awaited us next.

But instead, we got some much-needed AMAZING news.

Duke sent back the final pathology consultation from Mike’s biopsy.

“The overall features in this biopsy specimen are most consistent with treatment effect.”

In other words, as the PA explained it:

“The biopsies didn’t really show much other than just a lot of necrotic tissue.”

No convincing evidence of active cancer in the tissue they sampled.

Y’ALL.

This is the most encouraging news we’ve had in MONTHS.

Now, let me give you a little breakdown of just how mentally and emotionally devious cancer can be.

Cancer is like a whole new family member. An unwanted family member who moves in, makes itself comfortable, and refuses to leave.

No matter what you do, you can’t seem to get rid of it.

You have good days. You have bad days. You go about your business, trying to live your life.

But it’s just always…there.

Now, throw in an abnormal scan or three, and suddenly that unwanted family member isn’t just hanging around in the background anymore.

It’s all up in your face. ALL. THE. TIME.

Let me explain.

June 15. MRI #1.

First of all, the weeks leading up to an MRI are harrowing enough. The questions. The what-ifs. The memories of everything you’ve already been through.

PTSD is real, y’all.

The results come back abnormal, but inconclusive.

Imagine you’re treading water. You’re getting tired, but you’re managing. Then, all of a sudden, a current starts pulling you away from shore.

You kick a little harder. You fight to keep your head above water.

It’s getting increasingly difficult, but dangit, you’re determined to stay afloat, come hell or high water.

July 16. MRI #2.

Still abnormal. Still inconclusive.

But now the spot is growing. And there may be other spots.

The recommendation? Continue monitoring.

So that’s what we do.

And here’s the thing. In between these scans, there are good days. There are even WONDERFUL days.

Good visits with great friends. Fellowship with the people we love. Laughter. Adventures. And a whole lotta normal.

Whatever normal even means anymore.

Those are the days we treasure.

Sometimes it’s the big things, sure. But sometimes it’s just a regular Tuesday. We put in a normal day’s work, cook supper, watch some TV, head to bed, and do it all over again the next day.

Those ordinary days have become extraordinary gifts.

But even on those days, that current is still there.

You can feel it tugging at your feet.

August 31. MRI #3.

And this is where the current gets downright vicious.

Our whole world is rocked when a resident radiologist, who apparently missed the entire lecture on bedside manner, sits us down and tells us the MRI likely indicates disease progression.

And hey, here’s this shiny new procedure we can do to zap it!

No big deal.

WAIT A SECOND.

HOLD UP.

This is not a “no big deal” kind of thing for us.

You, sir, may deal with cancer as part of your day job, but for us mere mortals, cancer is a HUGE deal.

It has rocked our world in ways most people cannot even begin to imagine.

And here this guy comes, delivering potentially devastating news like he’s telling us the cafeteria is out of chicken salad.

Sir. Read the room.

Remember that current?

Well, it just got a whole lot stronger.

And this time, it pretty much pulled us under.

So now we’re reeling. Fighting to get back to the surface long enough to catch our breath.

And then we meet with the neuro-oncologist.

Who essentially tells us…well, we’re not entirely sure.

It could be radiation necrosis. It could be disease progression. The imaging is atypical, and they can’t definitively distinguish between the two.

And they don’t want to add more radiation to the mix without knowing what they’re treating.

Which makes perfect sense.

Except the only way to get a more definitive answer is through a biopsy.

Which means…

ANOTHER. BRAIN. SURGERY.

Well, isn’t that just freaking fantastic?

What a roller coaster of emotions.

We’re still treading water, the current is still trying to pull us under, and now, just for good measure, there are SHARKS CIRCLING.

Because the ocean wasn’t dangerous enough already.

October 5. Surgery.

You already know most of what happened leading up to and after surgery.

Let’s just say that treading water while surrounded by sharks isn’t exactly conducive to handling life’s other little inconveniences with grace and dignity.

And leave it at that.

October 8. The phone call.

Dr. Engh’s PA calls with the preliminary pathology findings.

The news?

Initial pathology indicates disease progression rather than radiation changes.

And just like that, whatever strength I’d managed to scrape together to keep my head above water was gone.

The current won.

I went under.

And since that day, I have felt like I’ve been drowning.

Trying to function. Trying to stay positive. Trying to be strong for Mike. Trying to carry on with all the ordinary responsibilities that don’t magically disappear just because your world is falling apart.

And all the while, wondering what comes next.

Which leads us to…

October 19. TODAY.

Today, we finally got some good news.

Not just good news.

REALLY. FREAKING. GOOD. NEWS.

The final pathology consultation favors treatment effect. In other words, the findings are most consistent with radiation-related changes, including necrosis. Dead tissue from the treatment Mike endured to fight this horrible disease.

The biopsy did not show convincing evidence of active tumor in the tissue sampled.

Now, does that mean we’re completely out of the water?

No.

There’s still an abnormal area in his brain. There’s still healing to do. There are still some neurological symptoms we’re working through.

And there’s still monitoring. More MRIs. More waiting.

More of that delightful little phenomenon known as scanxiety.

And because the biopsy only sampled a small portion of the abnormal tissue, nobody can promise us with absolute certainty that there’s no active disease elsewhere.

But today, the evidence points toward something far more encouraging than the progression we were told to fear.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I can feel my head breaking through the surface.

I can breathe.

Not quite back to shore. Not yet.

The water is still deep. The current is still there. And I’m sure those damn sharks haven’t gone very far.

But today, I’m not drowning.

Today, I’m floating.

And that, my friends, is one hell of a reason to breathe a little easier. ❤️

---

Want to keep up with Mike? ❤️

I know a lot of people love him and want to know how he’s doing without having to stalk Facebook or wonder whether it’s a good time to text. Add your email below and I’ll let you know when I post a Mike update.