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This year I ordered a new Christmas tree. Two reasons:

1. I didn’t like my old one.
2. After the year we’ve had, I wanted something easy to assemble.

Done and done…or so I thought.

When I was online shopping, I could not remember how tall our ceilings are. Not a clue. So, using highly advanced Girl Math™, I looked at Mike standing in the living room and decided our ceilings were roughly one and a half Mikes tall. Mike is 6’2”, so clearly, CLEARLY, our ceilings are about 10 feet.

Naturally, I ordered a beautifully lit, FULL, pre-lit 9-foot tree that flips, locks, and just needs the top added. Easiest assembly ever.

Except…y’all.

This thing is MASSIVE.

It takes up half the dang living room.

It literally touches the ceiling (obviously no room for the angel).

Once we had put that tree down, flipped it, and reversed it, I stood back, giggling like an idiot, and said, “Little full. Lotta sap. Looks GREAT,” because it is giving full Griswold energy.

And then came the fluffing.

I completely underestimated how long it would take to fluff a 9-foot, fully packed tree. After two nights, several glasses of bubbly, and one moment where I contemplated just yeeting the whole thing into the yard, I knew I needed reinforcements. So I enlisted Mom and Cole to help. (They’ll say I voluntold them. Tomato, tomahto.)

Standing here this morning, coffee in hand, admiring the fruits of our labor with this tree from the seventh circle of Hobby Lobby hell, I felt something deeper tug at me. And today, the 25th anniversary of my daddy’s passing, it hit me:

My life for the last eight months has felt a lot like this tree.

A beast.

Too big.

Too much.

A lot of sap.

But with a whole lotta coffee, a little bit of sass, some questionable language, and a whole heck of a lot of love from our people…we’ve managed to fluff it out. Shape it. Light it. Stand it up. Make it beautiful.

We’ve lived through things we never asked for: loss, chemo, grief layered on grief…but somehow also found moments to live in spite of it all. To choose joy anyway. To create it when it didn’t show up on its own.

And that’s the lesson this ridiculous tree gave me:

Life is short. Live now. Live loudly. Live fully. Even when the branches feel heavy, and you’re three glasses of bubbly deep questioning your life choices and your ceiling height math.

She’s a beaut!!

Yesterday, while Mike was back for another MRI, I found myself doing the thing every caregiver knows too well: sitting in a waiting room pretending I’m relaxed while my stomach does Olympic-level gymnastics.

Then a woman across from me started talking to me – just easy small talk at first. But somehow, in that strange way the universe has of nudging you into exactly the right conversation at exactly the right moment, we ended up sharing real things. Hard things. True things. And before I knew it, I was telling her our story.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pity me. She just… saw me.
And then she prayed over me, right there in the waiting room.
We exchanged numbers, and when Mike was finished, I walked out feeling steadier than when I walked in.

I’ve learned that blessings don’t always show up wearing halos. Sometimes they’re wearing comfortable shoes and holding a coffee cup in a radiology waiting room.

And God knows, waiting on MRI results is its own private hell. Every single time I hope, pray, bargain, breathe – that there’s no new tumor growth. That maintenance is working. That we get more of the good days.

But today – on Thanksgiving – I don’t want to sit in the fear.
Today, I want to sit in the gratitude.

I’m thankful for my family, the one I was born into and the one I’ve chosen. My tribe. My people. The ones who hold me up when I feel like collapsing on the kitchen floor at 2 p.m. for absolutely no reason other than life being too much.

They’re the ones who make it possible for me to hold things together the way I have – even when the pieces don’t feel like they fit anymore.

And then there’s Mike.

This week, we made a big decision. Maybe a bittersweet one, but definitely a hopeful one.

He may never get full function back in his hand. He knows it. I know it. And his motorcycle has been calling to him for months – but so has the fear of what might happen if he dropped it, if his balance betrayed him, if his hand wouldn’t do what he needed it to do.

So we did something brave:
We traded it in for a trike.

It’ll have a special clutch installed for his left hand, and it gets delivered in just a few days. He’s been smiling in a way I haven’t seen in a long time – hopeful, excited, alive in a way cancer tried to steal.

And I’m thankful for that, too.
For new beginnings that don’t look like we imagined but still feel like freedom.
For the grit it takes to keep moving forward.
For small miracles in waiting rooms.

And for all of you – for being part of our story, for cheering for us, cooking for us, texting us, praying for us, loving us.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends.
May today bring you whatever blessing you didn’t know you needed.

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Ringing a bell for a MUCH better reason!

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Someone asked me the other day if I planned to watch the Super Bowl halftime show and what I thought about “Bad Bunny.” I know there’s some kind of controversy swirling around them, but honestly…I haven’t really looked into it. Not because I don’t care what people think or feel — but because, after the last seven months, my brain has a different definition of “worth my energy.”

It made me realize how much we’re all carrying. How easy it is to get swept into the latest headline or argument, especially when life feels heavy in other places. And how sometimes, without even noticing it, we let things that aren’t actually important take up space that could be used for peace, breath, or healing. Sometimes it’s a distraction; sometimes it’s connection; sometimes it’s just noise. And all of that is valid.

But for me right now? The things that truly matter feel a lot simpler. Softer. Closer to home.

• It’s that first sip of coffee in the morning when the world is still quiet.

• The pure joy of my dogs when I walk through the door, as if I hung the moon.

• The tiny thrill of a package on the doorstep — even when it’s just toilet paper.

• The soft, chewy, gooey center of a really good chocolate chip cookie.

• Mike’s good days, when he feels well enough to drive to the store and pick up a few groceries so I don’t have to.

• The unexpected kindness of a friend buying me dinner simply because they care.

These are the things that matter to me right now.

Real moments. Real comfort. Real life.

So when someone asks my opinion on the halftime show — or any of the various and sundry outrageous things going on in the world at any given time — it’s not that I think the conversation is silly or unimportant. It’s just that my heart is tuned to different things these days. And maybe that’s the whole point: we all get to choose what we hold close, what we release, and what we let be background noise.

No judgment. Just a gentle reminder, for me and maybe for you too, to pay attention to the things that actually bring peace, joy, or meaning — and let the rest sit where it sits.

I feel like I’m in limbo.

And honestly? It sucks.

Waiting is its own kind of agony — too still to move forward, too heavy to rest.

Mike has good weeks, the kind that almost convince me we’ve turned a corner. I start to exhale, let my guard down, maybe even laugh without checking for shadows. And then the bad weeks come. The ones that remind me that healing isn’t linear and that hope, as stubborn as it is, can hurt.

The thoughts swirl.

Are we doing the right thing?

Is the juice worth the squeeze?

What if the tumor comes right back, and all this fighting just leaves him miserable half the time?

No one prepares you for this part — the not-knowing. The quiet dread between appointments. The way every new pain, every off day, makes your stomach drop. It’s like living between two worlds: one where things might get better, and one where they don’t. You can’t unpack your bags either.

So you just… float.

Hold your breath.

Do the next thing.

Feed the dogs. Make the coffee. Pretend you’re not bracing for impact. 

But somewhere in the stillness, I’ve started noticing the tiny sparks that make this limbo bearable. The silly flamingo skeletons in the yard that make me smile every time I pull into the driveway. The little experiments in my kitchen, using my family as willing guinea pigs for whatever recipe idea crawled into my brain that day. The belly laughs with friends who show up even when I don’t have it in me to be “fine.” The frozen raspberries I drop into my sparkling water — small pink confetti in a champagne flute — to remind myself that even an ordinary Tuesday deserves a tiny celebration.

Maybe limbo isn’t meant to break me — maybe it’s where I learn to find peace in the pauses, joy in the in-between, and strength in the waiting.

This weekend, I took a much-needed break to my happy place — the mountains of western NC. The timing couldn’t have been worse — Mike was laid out from maintenance chemo, my tailgate gave up the ghost, everything at work broke, and construction on I-26 had traffic backed up from Spartanburg all the way to the state line.

But there weren’t any other weekends I could sneak in a mountain trip before leaf-peeper season drove prices through the roof. So I put on my big-girl pants and went anyway.

The house sat on top of a mountain with views for miles. My only company was my book, a bottle of sparkling brut, and maybe a turkey or two. Which is why, when I went into the bathroom to get ready for bed my first night there, I was…let’s just say startled…to look up at the light/vent fan combo and see three dead lizards staring back at me.

Now, I don’t have anything against lizards or skinks (IYKYK). But decaying lizard carcasses in a vent fan? That’s a hard pass. I couldn’t stop imagining the fan turning on and showering me with a cloud of lizard particulates. So I did what any reasonable human would do: I texted the owner.

“Oh yikes! This is a weird one…there are 3 dead lizards in the vent/light in the master bathroom…”

I knew I wouldn’t hear back until morning, so I went to bed trying very hard not to picture lizards dropping onto my face in the middle of the night.

The next morning her reply pinged in with a casual, “Oh dear, I’m sorry. We have pest control, but the lizards do get in. At least they eat the bugs.”

Um…excuse me? I fail to see how dead lizards are handling the bug problem. Also…EW.

And here’s where my stress spiral kicks in. I was letting the responsible party know about an issue, expecting them to handle it. Instead, she brushed it off. My first instinct was, Oh well, I’ll just deal with it. I don’t want to be a bother.

But then came the second thought: Hell no. I’m paying good money for this place, and I deserve a lizard-free bathroom.

After five drafts, I finally sent back: “Would it be possible to send someone out to remove them today?”

Not exactly poetry, but polite, clear, and direct. I just said the thing.

And it got me thinking — how often do we go through life accepting the unacceptable because we don’t want to be a bother or ruffle feathers?

I could have settled for a lackluster oncologist who literally pointed at a piece of paper and said, “This is just what we do.” But I said the thing, and we moved to a doctor who actually listens.

I could have folded when that same doctor resisted giving Mike a referral to Duke. He said, “I just don’t think they’ll tell you anything different.” But I said the thing: I’ll get 48 second opinions if that’s what it takes to give my person the best chance at survival.

Recently, someone told me about a devastating diagnosis in his family. He admitted he hadn’t shared sooner because he didn’t want to make me uncomfortable given what Mike and I have been facing. I get it — I’ve been on the receiving end of people trying to “out-pain” me, and it’s awful. But grief isn’t a competition. Our grief is our grief. We all deserve love and support, and when we stay silent out of fear, we cut ourselves off from connection. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is say the thing.

We’re all human — messy, complicated, emotional. And yes, it feels like we live in a world where people tiptoe around their words for fear of upsetting someone. But that’s the beauty of our First Amendment. Our founding fathers thought it important enough to make free speech the very first right.

Of course, freedom to say the thing doesn’t shield us from the consequences of saying it.

When Mike got sick, his sister didn’t reach out. Not once. During the scariest time of my life, her silence cut deep. In a moment of vulnerability, I finally texted her — I said the thing. Her response? “Today is not the day, and I am not the one.”

Painful. But clarifying. Saying the thing removed any doubt about where I stood with her. And with clarity comes freedom.

So say the thing anyway.
Advocate for yourself. Advocate for your people.
Reach out to your loved ones, even if it’s just to say, “I don’t know what to say, but I’m thinking of you.”

Life will always hand us lizards in the vent.
Don’t swallow your discomfort.
Don’t silence your needs.

Just say the thing.

This morning in the waiting room, my brain went rogue. Not “what’s for dinner” rogue. Not “should I reorganize the pantry” rogue. Straight to:

“If we were all cavemen right now, who survives the saber tooth tiger?”

Excuse me, brain?

But once it started, the casting was obvious:

• Tiger food: The guy blasting his video loud enough for the whole waiting room to hear. The woman pacing the corridor, yelling into her phone. In caveman days? Gone. First round. Thanks for playing.
• Tribal elders: They wouldn’t outrun the tiger, but they’d carry the stories, the wisdom, and the knowledge of which mushrooms feed you — and which ones kill you (or make you high AF).
• The warriors: Maybe one or two folks in here could trap the tiger if luck was on their side.
• Me: Screaming “stick together!” and bossing people into formation, probably while holding a torch. Because even in prehistoric times, I’m organizing the chaos.

It’s dark, I know. But that’s what my brain does in heavy places — rewrites the scene as some bizarre survival game. Gallows humor. Maybe survival in its own way.

And maybe my brain wasn’t entirely wrong. Because lately, it really has felt like survival mode.

Last week was brutal — one of the hardest since treatment ended. Spirits were low. Tempers were short. Everything felt heavier.

This week, though, feels different. Mike is still foggy most of the time, but caffeine and activity help. His stamina is creeping back. He can make it through a couple of hours at an event before crashing. Days packed with calls wear him out, but they’re also nudging him toward his old rhythm. It’s progress. Slow, imperfect, but real.

So maybe my caveman brain wasn’t that far off. Some days, it feels like we’re still dodging tigers. Other days, we’re just grateful to still be in the tribe.

One down, eleven to go.

Mike finished his first week of maintenance chemo, and while it wasn’t easy, we’re counting it as a win.

This phase looks a little different than the daily grind of chemo + radiation: one week of oral chemo each month, plus MRIs every two months to keep tabs on things. Likely 12 months of this marathon — but at least there are rest weeks built in.

Here’s how week one went:

• Energy: He was wiped. After work, he didn’t have much left in the tank — and this weekend, the grocery store was about all he could manage. But the fact that he did go? We’ll take that as a victory.
• Appetite: This is actually stabilizing now that he’s tapering off the steroid from radiation. Food tastes normal again, and he’s eating well. Huge relief.
• Side effects: The biggest curveball was a rash, especially on his hand, which made him feel like he was sliding backwards. The good news: it’s already starting to calm, and we expect he’ll be back on track in a few days.

So yes — maintenance week is tough. It takes him down for a bit. But then it lifts, and we get pieces of “normal” back. And through it all, Mike keeps doing what he always does: facing it head-on, cracking jokes, and counting down the rounds like the badass he is.

We’re choosing to celebrate the wins, even the small ones — because they add up. Thank you all, as always, for the love, the prayers, and the constant support. You’re holding us up more than you know. 💙

It’s been a busy few weeks, and I’ve been dying to share this — for the first time since all of this started, we finally have some truly good news.

We went to both Duke and MUSC for fresh opinions on Mike’s case and his latest MRI. Both told us what we were hoping (but almost afraid) to hear: it’s not glioblastoma.

Instead, it’s something called HPAP — High-grade glioma with pleomorphic and pseudopapillary features. It’s a type of glioma that is rare and only recently recognized, but the key difference is this: it tends to have clearer edges instead of spreading aggressively like glioblastoma. Still serious, yes — but likely less aggressive, and with a better prognosis than we were first told.

The MRI results backed that up. Both teams agreed that things look better since treatment. They can’t completely rule out lingering tumor cells, but they believe there’s no new growth — and that the bright spots on the scan are likely scar tissue and inflammation from radiation, not active tumor.

For the first time, the weight on our chests feels a little lighter. HPAP is rare and still being studied, but we’ll take the win.

Next steps: 5 days of oral chemo every 28 days, plus an MRI every 2 months, for at least 6–12 months (likely the full 12 for Mike).

We still have quite a road ahead of us, but now it feels less like staring off a cliff and more like walking a trail we can actually see.

To everyone who’s prayed, called, texted, cooked, or quietly cheered us on — thank you. We feel it all, and it means more than you know.

Here’s to more good scans, more good days, and more good news. Today, Mike and I get to breathe a little easier — and that feels like a gift.

Our Sunday morning started as our old Sunday mornings used to start. Coffee, reading, and brunch and beer at Steel Hands. Brunch was bliss—tangerine sours, fried mac n’ cheese bites, great music and the quiet camaraderie that we used to take for granted. For a hot second, I thought life was back to normal.

So when we decided to swing by the grocery store on the way home, I thought, What a lovely, simple Sunday.

Spoiler alert: It was not.

Nothing says “reality check” like a grocery store on Sunday morning. We thought we were clever, slipping in before the post-church stampede. Cute, right?

Wrong.

The second we walked through those sliding glass doors, a toddler let out a banshee wail that could shatter glass and maybe Mariah Carey’s confidence. Fine. Kids exist. I knew the risk. But by the time we cleared the produce section, I realized this wasn’t going to be a let’s-browse-the-salad-dressing-aisle-and-feel-chill kind of trip.

No, friends. This was a divide-and-conquer mission.

So I sent Mike to grab salmon. Simple enough, right? WRONG.

Mike gets to the seafood counter, and who’s there? Karen. Of course her name isn’t actually Karen, but if the orthopedic sandal fits…

And Karen isn’t just ordering fish. No. She’s hosting a Seafood Symposium. She needs 50 pounds of salmon—but first, she wants to deep-dive with the seafood guy about the metaphysical virtues of farm-raised versus wild-caught.

Ma’am. You are at Publix in South Carolina, not on the deck of a fishing boat in Alaska. Grab your fish and GO.

Meanwhile, I’ve cleared pickles, sauces, and salad toppings, and I swing back to check on Mike. Guess who’s still there? Karen. Guess who’s still talking? Karen. And now there’s a line forming, and we are all silently dying inside.

She’s asking questions like:

“So…is the wild-caught more spiritually aligned with sustainable energy?”

Ma’am. It’s a fish. It does not have a LinkedIn profile.

At this point, I’m giving her my fiercest death stare—the kind that says, If you don’t move, I will fillet YOU and sauté you with lemon and dill. She doesn’t even flinch. She just keeps yammering about omega-3s like she’s hosting a TED Talk.

I used to laugh at stuff like this. Roll my eyes, text a friend, and move on. But now? Here’s what no one tells you about PTSD: it doesn’t always look like flashbacks or panic attacks.

Sometimes it looks like this.

You can be having a glorious day, soaking up your people, loving life—and then BAM—something small, something completely harmless, detonates your peace.

Suddenly the fluorescent lights are buzzing in your skull. The freezer fans hum like static in your chest. The sound of Karen’s voice feels like nails on glass, and the air is too loud, too bright, too much.

That’s what they don’t tell you—how an ordinary Sunday can turn into a war zone inside your own head.

Here’s the truth, though: nothing is “wrong” here. My nervous system has just been on constant high alert for so long, and my patience is razor thin. My brain goblin has been activated, and I am one Publix seafood TED Talk away from snapping.

Salmon is just not that deep, Karen. Grab your fish and GTFO.

Next week? I’m Instacarting. For everyone’s safety. Because salmon might not be deep—but peace of mind? That’s priceless.

This weekend, we escaped to Milwaukee to meet up with dear friends—a trip that had been on the calendar long before life turned upside down. Back then, it was just a fun getaway to look forward to. Now, it felt like something more: a lifeline. A chance to breathe.

I’m beyond grateful Mike felt well enough to go. The trip was lower key than we originally imagined, but that ended up being a blessing. Slower walks. Long conversations. No rush to be anywhere except right where we were. Watching him out and about—smiling, soaking up something normal—was everything.

And let me tell you, his appetite came back swinging. We ate our way through the city like true Midwestern tourists: brats, beer, schnitzel, and every cheese curd within a 10-mile radius. The Milwaukee Public Market in the Third Ward tempted us with every sweet imaginable, and we even discovered an incredible little Italian spot—so good we went back the next night.

We managed a visit to the Harley-Davidson Museum (because, of course), wandered through the Milwaukee Mitchell Domes, and cruised the river for a history tour—complete with an impromptu airshow over Lake Michigan courtesy of some A-10s (I don’t know what that really means, but Mike and Fraser enthusiastically and in great detail tried their best to educate me). Each afternoon, while Mike rested (deservedly so), Kathy and I snuck off to the French festival that happened to be in town for sparkling brut and much-needed girl talk.

Oh, and the Blue Angels were also in town, so we got a front-row seat to the airshow all weekend. Cool at first… by day four, I was over the neck craning and sonic booms, but hey—bucket list item checked.

Eventually, all good trips end. As we walked through the Milwaukee airport, I noticed a sign that made me smile: “Recombobulation Area.” A designated spot past security to get your belongings—and yourself—back in order after the chaos of TSA.

And honestly? That’s what this weekend was for us. A recombobulation of sorts. A pause between the nightmare of the last few months and whatever “new normal” is waiting for us. A chance to gather ourselves, breathe, and remember that life can still feel good—brats, Blue Angels, and all.

Here’s to more recombobulation moments. Lord knows, we all need them.

I was in the Delta Sky Club bathroom when I heard a woman say,

“I’m having a shitty time…”

That’s all I caught before the bathroom door closed behind her. Shitty time with what? The wine selection? The lack of cucumber water? The Sky Club bathroom?

A few months ago, I would’ve rolled my eyes. I mean, you’re in a Sky Club. There’s free food, bottomless wine, and seats that don’t require jostling elbows with strangers at Gate C27. Life can’t be that bad, right?

But now? Now I think differently.

Maybe she just lost someone. Maybe she just lost her job. Maybe her husband is sick—really sick. Or maybe she’s just bone-deep tired in a way that no amount of Prosecco can fix. The point is, it doesn’t matter where she is. She’s having a shitty time with something.

And honestly, that hit me even harder because we’re traveling too—and trust me, this isn’t the carefree, celebratory trip it would have been a year ago. Mike finished treatment last week. A whole week out from chemo and radiation, and he’s exhausted. Like, bone-deep, can-feel-it-in-your-teeth exhausted. But here’s the thing: he’s incrementally better than he was last week. And today? He WALKED the ATL airport. No wheelchair. No shortcuts. Just sheer determination and a will to reclaim a little piece of normal.

We’re on our way to Milwaukee because he needs something normal. Something that doesn’t revolve around cancer. Something to celebrate with the dearest of friends. Something to remind us that life isn’t just hospital hallways and medication timers.

That’s one of the biggest things this experience with Mike has taught me. Before his diagnosis, I lived in a world where the setting dictated the story. Sky Club = Good Life. Airport bathroom meltdown? That’s for people flying basic economy.

But life has a way of ripping up your rulebook. These last few months, I’ve learned that pain doesn’t care about zip codes, Sky Club access, or whether you got upgraded to Comfort+. You can be sitting in a leather chair with a glass of champagne and still feel like the walls are closing in.

So now, instead of judging, I send up a little silent wish: I hope she finds some ease soon. Because sometimes life is just shitty, and admitting it out loud is the bravest thing you can do—even if you’re doing it in a Sky Club bathroom.

March 17, 2025 – the day our lives changed forever. The day that my husband and soulmate found out he had something terrible in his brain that turned out to be cancer. 

And yet…

…sixteen and a half weeks later, after undergoing a craniotomy, eight days in the hospital, eight days in rehab, and six weeks of concurrent radiation and chemotherapy treatments, he is thankfully still here. 

He may be exhausted, lost some hair, and dropped some weight…

And yet…

…he’s here. He’s whole. And he is still his kind, loving, witty self. 

We may still have a long journey ahead of us…

And yet…

…we are together. Stronger than ever. Ready and determined to see this thing through, come what may. 

Our world was shattered, our hearts were broken, our spirits were dampened…

And yet…

…we have seen true love, support, and caring. Our village has been our Rock of Gibraltar, guiding us through this storm and helping us stay afloat. 

Mike was dealt a cruel hand and a devastating diagnosis. 

And yet…

…this ordeal has shown us the meaning of friendship. I gathered the notes so many of you sent for his last day of treatment, wrote them out by hand, and placed them in a jar for him to read today. To say he was emotional is an understatement. He is grateful beyond measure for everyone that has stepped up. For all the meals. For all the visits. For all the texts and calls, and for all the beautiful messages in the jar. 

Most people go through life never fully understanding just how much they mean to their loved ones.

And yet…

…Mike has been given a tremendous gift. This journey has made him realize that he is a rich man indeed. He is rich with love and friendship from so many people. 

Cancer sucks. 

And yet…

…there are so many blessings to be found if we just look through the right lens. And Mike was ecstatic to RING THAT BELL!!!!!!!!  

If you’re reading this and walking through your own storm, please know you’re not alone. There is still beauty, even when life gets hard. 

FINALLY ringing the bell…happy that radiation is OVER.

The beautiful notes from so many of you.

(A cautionary tale of caffeine, chaos, and the illusion of maturity)

All I wanted this morning was a cup of coffee. Just one. A simple, steaming cup of sanity to start the day.

Instead, I got a front-row seat to a domestic disaster — the kind that only caffeine deprivation can properly magnify.

Cole, bless his helpful little heart, tried to set the coffee pot to brew automatically. He succeeded in hitting the buttons but failed in the crucial detail of where to pour the water. So, when I shuffled into the kitchen this morning — hopeful, eyes half-open — I was met with a bone-dry filter of untouched coffee grounds and a very hot, very empty glass carafe just sitting there roasting on the hot plate like it was sunbathing in the Sahara.

Still half-asleep, I did what any totally mature adult would do: I muttered a few colorful words, filled the machine with water, and set the hot carafe on the cold granite counter. You can guess what happened next.

Shatter.

Coffee. Pot. Dead.

Cue the screaming.

The F-word flew like confetti.

The dogs scattered like I’d set off fireworks inside the house.

The household was awake, like it or not.

And I, the pinnacle of grace under pressure, stormed off to grab my purse out of the grain bin (don’t ask), yanked the lid up in frustration, and promptly broke that, too.

At this point, crying seemed like the most logical next step, so I did that. In the car. On the way to Starbucks. Because that’s where you go when everything is on fire and all you wanted was coffee.

Back home, latte in hand, hands still shaking with righteous rage and sleep-deprived sadness, I tried to Amazon Prime a replacement. But of course, nothing good was available same-day. And of course, it was 7:30 AM on a holiday and everything was still closed.

So I ordered the coffee maker I actually wanted from Amazon and decided I’d get a cheapo Mr. Coffee from Target just to survive the next couple days. Rage-driving on fumes, spite, and a healthy mix of rage metal and old school gangster rap (at top volume, naturally), I rolled into Target the second it opened.

And wouldn’t you know it — the exact coffee pot I wanted was sitting on the shelf.

Thank you, Universe, for finally throwing me a bone.

I canceled the Amazon order right there in the aisle, tossed my shiny new machine in the cart like a caffeinated champion, checked out (after maybe rage shopping a little while longer), and drove straight to Krispy Kreme. Because if I was going to walk back into my house after that tornado of emotion, I was at least going to do it with a dozen fresh “Hot Fresh Now” donuts as a peace offering.

For my family.

For my dogs.

For the shattered coffee pot and the broken grain bin lid.

And maybe, just maybe, for the emotional support version of myself that lives in the drive-thru line at Starbucks.

Lessons Learned:

• Don’t set hot glass on cold granite. Apparently, that’s science.
• Rage is not an effective repair strategy. (But it is oddly satisfying.)
• Starbucks may charge $6 for a latte, but today it saved lives.
• Dogs don’t handle mom meltdowns well.
• Always have a backup coffee plan. Or a backup house. One or the other.
• And sometimes, just sometimes, the Universe meets your meltdown with mercy.

Happy birthday, America—I’m celebrating with coffee, chaos, and glazed apologies.

Stainless steel thermal carafe for the win.

Up until now, side effects of radiation and chemo have been blessedly mild, but things are definitely starting to ramp up. Over the last few days, Mike has been absolutely WIPED. He’s more tired than ever, everything tastes metallic, and he barely has an appetite. The silver lining – he has an amazing nurse at SCOA (South Carolina Oncology Associates) that actually picks up the phone when I call (which is a MIRACLE), and she jumped into action right away to get him some meds to help pep him up a bit.

His spirits are still high, as always. He’s been such a freaking ROCKSTAR throughout this entire ordeal. Always positive, always optimistic. I’m not going to lie – I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t handle this with the grace and resilience that Mike shows up with every single day. Even as his side effects are starting to really kick his ass, he still takes it all in stride, remains patient, and keeps his eye on the ball. “Only 4 more treatments,” he said this morning. Who’s counting, right? Officially his last day of treatment is July 10. He gets the holiday weekend off!

He is looking forward to some respite from all of this, but I’m starting to feel a sense of apprehension. We have a three week wait until we know what the MRI says – has the treatment worked? Is there anything else concerning popping up? Then we’ll head to Duke to get another second opinion on maintenance treatment. They may change nothing – but the win there is that if this awful tumor dares to pop back up, he will be an established patient with a neuro-oncologist, and we’ll be able to bypass all the red tape that I have no doubt would otherwise stand in the way of his being considered for clinical trials.

The waiting game is excruciating. We’ve been here before, and while it’s still tough, we know the drill. We’ll get through it again – TOGETHER. In the meantime, we hold on to the small wins, the moments of laughter, and the unwavering strength Mike continues to show. One day at a time. Moment by moment. Every single day. Just like Mike does: with strength, humor, and heart.

Thanks for being with us on this journey. We’ll keep you updated!

It’s been a week since I’ve posted. The writing bug just hasn’t visited me.

Last week was a rollercoaster — some good moments, some hard ones.

Mike has completed three full weeks of treatment. He’s starting to lose a little hair, but it’s not very noticeable as long as he keeps it cut close. His bloodwork is still normal. He’s tolerating treatment surprisingly well — his biggest complaints are fatigue and the ban on beer.

Our daily walks help lift the fog a bit, even if just for a while. But by late afternoon, he’s usually running on empty.

Still, we look for little rays of sunshine throughout the day — tiny moments of joy and peace to remind us: we’re still here. We’re still fighting. And even in the thick of this, we deserve to laugh, to rest, and to feel alive.

We’re also realists. This diagnosis is big and hairy and complicated. I’ve been fighting to get answers, to push past vague responses and generic care plans. I’ve had to bully doctors just to get referrals. I’m not settling for “this is guaranteed to recur, and standard of care is all we’ve got.”

No.

If I can find their email address, I’ve probably contacted them. Neuro-oncologists at Duke, MUSC, researchers connected to studies, and the National Brain Tumor Society — all of them. Because someone, somewhere, knows more. And we’re not going down without a damn fight.

This week was especially rough. I’ve been begging our local care team for help — just to care, honestly. After constant back-and-forth, I finally got the complete pathology report with the biomarker and chromosomal microarray data. Not because it was offered, but because I called the pathologist myself.

This is the kind of shit you deal with when you have a rare disease.

There are tons of resources for breast, colon, and lung cancers — as there should be. But for rare cancers? For brain tumors like Mike’s? There’s almost nothing. So I’ve had to become an overnight expert on astrocytoma, glioblastoma, TERT promoter mutations, chromosome deletions, EGFR gains — a full crash course in medical chaos — just because no one else wants to spend ten minutes on a Google search.

But… there is hope.

In the middle of all the calls, all the reading, all the rage-fueled digging, I’ve found that yes — Mike has an extremely rare and aggressive brain cancer. But it also potentially appears to be a rare subtype with better long-term survival outcomes than traditional GBM. And that matters. A lot.

So I’m going to keep fighting. I’m going to keep pushing for the absolute best care, the best options, the best shot at long-term survival. Even if the doctors we’ve encountered so far are okay with mediocrity or giving up.

I’m not.

And I know you aren’t either.

We didn’t do anything big for Father’s Day this year. Mike got a few gifts. Cole came home. I made one of their favorite meals — lemon salmon with roasted vegetables.

It was a quiet day, with a little TV and a nap or two. Unremarkable. But it mattered. We got another Father’s Day.

This time last year, we were in Milwaukee celebrating Mike’s 50th birthday. We were looking at motorcycles at the Harley-Davidson Museum. We drank beer, ate German food, and had a blast just doing the things we love to do.

We had no idea what was coming.

And after this spring, I wasn’t sure what this summer would look like.

Our “normal” has shifted so much. We used to celebrate every birthday or holiday with something big — a trip, a motorcycle, brunch at Steel Hands.

Now? I’m just glad we have another day together.

He laughed at something — either on TV or at a meme or gif someone sent him — and honestly, that was the best sound I heard all day. That chuckle, or his wink (the one he reserves just for me) — I live for those moments now. I cherish every single one.

Sometimes love looks like just showing up. And sometimes just showing up means lounging in your jammies, watching competition cooking shows, munching on ginger snaps.

No radiation. No appointments. Just… normal. Even if it’s only for a day.

Mike is the other half of my soul. So yes, I’m grateful for this Father’s Day. I’m thankful for today, and every day I get with him.

But I won’t lie — I still carry fear about tomorrow. This isn’t how I thought 2025 would go for us. But here we are. Facing this mess. Together.

Don’t wait for perfect days. There is such beauty in the mundane. Those mundane moments are the moments to cherish. We didn’t get big, fancy gifts this year.

But we got him.

And that’s more than enough.

“How are you doing?”

A seemingly innocuous question. At a minimum, it’s a conversation starter. It usually follows the obligatory “hello,” “hi,” or “hey.”

But lately, it feels like a landmine.

Do people want me to just say, “I’m okay,” so they can move along with their day, unbothered, with no emotional investment? Or are they truly prepared to hear all of it—the good, the bad, and the really dirty, ugly truth?

Because honestly, some days, even I don’t know how I’m doing.

Some days, like yesterday, I can go all day without crying. I might even laugh. I might get in a brisk walk or even an online yoga class. I might eat three actual meals and respond to a text with a GIF or a laughing emoji.

Other days? I’m doubled over by a grief so sharp it takes the wind out of me. I sob like something wild and raw. It feels like drowning—like gasping for air in a storm that just won’t let up.

And sometimes, I do both. Laugh and sob. Function and fall apart. Maybe all in the same hour.

I look around and see people living their normal lives—going to work, running errands, walking the dog, planning trips. I’m glad for them. No one deserves to carry this kind of pain.

But if I’m being honest: I’m a little jealous.

It’s hard to feel like you’ve been yanked off course—your entire life rerouted by something you didn’t choose. It’s harder still to pretend like you’re fine just to make other people more comfortable.

When I say I’m taking it “day by day,” I mean I literally can’t think beyond this moment. Any hopes or plans we had for the future feel like they’re on pause—or they’ve vanished completely. We’re doing what we can to stay afloat, but some days it feels like we’re sinking beneath the weight of uncertainty and unfairness.

So how am I doing?

I’m okay… until I’m not.

And I’m learning to live in that strange in-between space—where the grief comes in waves, but so does grace.

I don’t always have the words. I don’t always have the strength.

Some days, just standing upright feels like the best I can muster.

But I show up. I breathe. I speak the truth, even when my voice shakes.

If you ask how I’m doing, I’ll try to answer honestly.

And if you’re not okay either, you don’t have to hide it. Not here. Not with me. We weren’t meant to weather these storms alone. Some days we drift. Some days we fight the current. But once in a while, we find someone else treading water beside us—and suddenly, we’re not drowning. We’re just… floating. Together.

One full week of treatment down — five more to go. So far, Mike is tolerating it incredibly well, with only mild symptoms. We know it’s still early, but we’re calling that a win.

The weather is warming up, but not so much that I can’t enjoy a gentle stroll around the hospital while he’s getting radiation. Many of you know about my daily gratitude practice, and one day this week, while walking through the hospital’s serenity garden, I came across this stone:

It reminded me to slow down. To notice the quiet beauty all around us. Even in the hardest season of our lives, there’s still so much to be grateful for — if we just stop and look.

Like our hummingbirds. They’ve been putting on a show lately, and I love it. I’m thankful for the time off work, the chance to just be here, fully present with Mike in this chapter.

No, we can’t do much right now — but we’re soaking up every little thing we can do:

• Pedicures at the salon
• Cooking competition shows on the Food Network
• Reading our books
• Sipping non-alcoholic beers in the garage
  (You better believe I found a way for my man to still enjoy his beer on chemo!)
• Tossing the ball for PITA — from the shade, of course
• Walks by the pond when Mike’s up for it
• Yoga, tai chi, herbal tea, and all the self-care we can fit in

These small, gentle routines? They’re keeping us grounded. And they’re something to be deeply thankful for.

The most precious thing we’ve had to celebrate this week? Mike’s birthday. No big trips or fancy dinners this year — just a cozy meal and quality time with our parents and Cole. But this birthday felt extra special. It’s one more beautiful reminder of how fragile and sacred this one life really is.

No more complaining about getting older — we’re celebrating every single year we get. Every. Damn. One.

So yeah — this season is hard. Cancer sucks. But we’re getting through it the best way we know how: together. And we truly couldn’t do it without the massive support system we have in all of you — our incredible friends, family, and coworkers.

We count our blessings for you every single day. 😘

This morning I went in for my annual mammogram. You know, the appointment where you’re already feeling vulnerable because you’re topless, squished, and making awkward small talk with a stranger. The tech was nice – a little chatty, but nice. We got to talking about walking, and when she mentioned a local pond she likes to walk around, I said, “Oh, we love that trail! My husband is going through radiation and chemo for brain cancer right now, and that trail is fully shaded.”

She launched into a story about someone she knew who had glioblastoma and lived for “three whole years” after her diagnosis. I didn’t let her finish. I stopped her, politely but firmly, and said, “I’m going to ask you to please not finish that story.”

Because here’s the thing. When someone you love is going through something as serious and traumatic as this has been for us, the LAST thing you need to hear is a horror story disguised as encouragement. I know people mean well (most of the time), but even the most well-meant words can miss the mark and land like a lead balloon wrapped in a Hallmark card. So in the spirit of helping others not fumble the ball in these moments, here are 6 things you probably should not say to someone who’s been diagnosed – or their spouse, or their kid, parent, best friend, or the neighbor 4 doors down.

⸻

1. “My cousin had the same thing and didn’t make it.”

Oh. My. God. Thank you for this completely tone-deaf preview of my absolute worst nightmare. This is about as comforting as a fart in an elevator. Y’all. Please do not tell stories that end in death unless explicitly asked.

Say this instead:

“I’m so sorry you’re going through this. I hope your doctors are excellent and that you’re feeling really supported.”

⸻

2. “Everything happens for a reason.”

If you know the reason brain cancer exists, please, by all means, enlighten us. Otherwise, please don’t try to wrap suffering in a motivational poster quote. This one is especially damaging because it implies that maybe we needed this to happen for some cosmic lesson. I’m already angry enough at the universe, thank you very much. 

Say this instead:

“This is so unfair. I’m here for you in any way I can be.”

⸻

3. “At least it’s not [something worse].”

Yes, we’re all in the boat of human suffering, but minimizing someone’s pain to make it more digestible is not compassion, it’s projection with a side of guilt trip.

Say this instead:

“You don’t deserve this. I hate that this is happening.”

⸻

4. “You’ve got to stay positive!”

Yeah, but do I, though? Sometimes the most positive thing I can do is cry in the car, scream into my pillow, and eat a Sonic Blast for dinner. And telling someone that their attitude will affect their outcome can actually make them feel worse when things get hard.

Say this instead:

“It’s okay to not be okay. Whatever you’re feeling is completely valid.”

⸻

5. “Have you tried [miracle supplement, obscure herb, or magic mushrooms]?”

Look, I appreciate that turmeric and bee pollen helped your aunt’s arthritis, but unless you’re part of the medical team or asked directly, this is not the time to play armchair oncologist. Trust me – we’ve Googled it. All of it. 

Say this instead:

“If you ever want help looking into options or second opinions, I’m happy to help – but only if you want.”

⸻

6. “Mike is so strong – I just know he’ll get through this.”

(Bonus version: “You’re so strong—I don’t know how you do it!”)

Strength is one of those things people love to assign from the outside. And while I 100% know it is meant to be encouraging, it can also feel like pressure. What if he’s not feeling strong today? What if I’m not either? Does that mean we’re failing somehow?

Here’s the truth: We don’t feel strong. We feel tired. We feel scared. We’re doing what we have to do, not because we’re heroes, but because we don’t have a choice. And while I know people mean it kindly, “strength” shouldn’t be the bar we have to meet every single day just to make others feel hopeful.

Sometimes, the most loving thing you can do is to just sit in the mess with someone—not to fix it, not to cheer them up, but simply to let them know they’re not alone in it.

Say this instead:

“You don’t have to be strong all the time. It’s okay to be tired, scared, messy, whatever. I’m with you no matter what.”

And if you really want to help, don’t look for the magic words. Just show up. Bring coffee and/or mac n cheese. Text “I’m thinking of you.” Send us funny dog videos and crazy memes. Take the garbage cans out. Your quiet presence matters more than the perfect phrase ever could.

⸻

Final Thought:

If you’re not sure what to say, that’s okay. Sometimes “I don’t know what to say, but I love you and I’m here” is the most beautiful, human thing you can offer.

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up with empathy, not fear. It’s about being the kind of person who doesn’t just fill the silence, but respects it.

PS: If you’ve said some of these things before, don’t beat yourself up. I know there are one or two on this list that I may have said before, not knowing the emotional impact. I just know to do better next time, and that’s really all any of us can do. 

Love to each and every one of you. 

So far, we’re relieved to say that Mike’s symptoms have been relatively mild. He’s mostly just very tired—understandably so—and has had some mild nausea, but the anti-nausea meds are helping quite a bit. We know there may be tougher days ahead, but for now, we’re grateful for a gentle start.

We’ve been doing our best to stay active in small ways—short walks, grocery store runs, and spending as much time outside as we can when the weather allows. One of the simple joys has been watching the hummingbirds dart around while we sit outside. They’ve been a lovely little reminder to pause and notice beauty even in the midst of hard things.

Last week was a busy one, and we actually got a lot done. We sold the truck, we’re in the process of transferring to a new oncologist, and we have a second opinion appointment scheduled for Tuesday. Taking care of these things has helped us feel a little more in control of a situation that often feels anything but.

Thank you all for the love, encouragement, and steady support—we feel it every day, and it means more than we can say.

Mike began radiation treatment yesterday morning. He didn’t feel the actual x-rays themselves, and the treatment only took about 15 minutes. He remained fairly alert and didn’t experience TOO much fatigue yesterday afternoon. We even stopped at the Lexington Mill Pond for a brief walk, just to get out and get some nature therapy. We don’t expect the major side effects from radiation to start for another 2-3 weeks, so he wants to maintain as much normalcy as possible. 

He also started the chemo pill last night. This is the one we’ve been the most worried about. It’s basically poison. Side effects could include nausea, constipation, loss of appetite, severe fatigue, low WBC, the list goes on and on. Fortunately he had only mild nausea overnight, and he was able to combat that quickly with a prescription nausea medication. This is encouraging that so far he’s tolerating the treatment ok, but it has only been a day. 

Physicians have also advised to wash hands frequently and not be around anyone who is sick or has been around other sick people. This is because he will be at an increased risk of infection. 

I think this is it so far…prayers that he continues to tolerate treatment so we can kick this brain cancer to the dang curb. Cancer sucks.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve begun our final descent to our destination. Please ensure your seatbacks are upright and your seatbelts are fastened. Thank you.”

As my flight began its final approach to Columbia on Friday, it struck me how much that message is exactly how I feel heading into Mike’s treatment. The takeoff was really rough when we began this journey on March 17 when Mike had an “episode” that turned out to be a seizure at a conference. We had no idea what was in store for us. This journey has been turbulent, with a lot of bumps along the way: surgery, an extended hospital stay, recovery in a rehab facility, and Mike is STILL working on regaining his fine motor skills on the left side of his body. We’ve had to use our oxygen masks – a LOT – by ensuring we get plenty of sleep, stay hydrated, we’ve had to slow it WAY down, and every single one of you has been a lifeline. You’ve made sure we are fed and caffeinated. You’ve reached out time and again to check on us with texts, phone calls, and visits. You’ve cut our hair, mowed our yard, taken care of our dogs, taken out our trash, and performed a myriad of other acts of love and generosity. 

And now finally we’ll begin our final approach when Mike begins his concurrent radiation and chemotherapy on Thursday. We know it will be a bumpy landing. We hope we’re prepared, but if not we will figure it out. I know we will because we have flotation devices under our seats and we have plenty of oxygen masks. Mike is an excellent pilot, and I have to say, I don’t make a half bad co-pilot for him. We’re ready. We’re ready to get this over with. We’re ready to begin healing. We’re ready for our lives to get back to normal. We’re ready to pay forward all the kindness and generosity you’ve given us. We’re ready TO GET BACK ON THE BIKE!!!! We are ready to land this plane!

This week I am blessed to be on a wellness retreat in the desert. I had set this up several months before our world was knocked off kilter with Mike’s diagnosis, and I almost cancelled it several times before ultimately deciding that since we’re still in a holding pattern waiting for treatment to start that this is the perfect time for some healing and wellness for myself. Mike insisted I go, and Cole is home with him this week – perfect father/son bonding time. Win-win.

But I digress. Yesterday we went to Joshua Tree for a “moderate” 5 mile hike. Joshua Tree National Park is a beautiful place to visit. It’s a vast, desolate place speckled with all kinds of cacti and other desert plants. It’s sandy, rocky and rugged, and in some places I can’t tell whether it wants to be desert or mountain. We hiked through some of those “in between” places. We started off on a flat trail that was clear. It may not have been marked, but you could tell that people had definitely been this way before. As we went along, the terrain became a little more rocky, and I had to keep my head down somewhat so I could pay attention to where I was stepping. Before I knew what was even happening we were halfway up a rocky hill.

The view from the top of the hill. We parked alllllll the way across that patch of desert inside the smaller rock formation in the background.

The path up to the top was rocky in places. In some places it was so steep I had to pause to catch my breath for a moment. In other places it was smooth enough to not even notice we were still ascending.

Then our guide took us off path for our descent to get us “a little bit out of our comfort zone”. Y’all. This wasn’t “a little bit” out of my comfort zone. This wasn’t even in the same dimension as my comfort zone. This part of the hike took my comfort zone, chewed it up, and spit it out. There were parts of the climb back down where I seriously wondered if being emergency-helicoptered out of this damn desert would be an option.

We didn’t just walk back down. We climbed over rocks. We slid down rocks on our backsides. Some places I had to try a few different ideas before finally figuring out the best way for me to get down to the next part.

I climbed down from the top. Well, climb may be too graceful a term for what I did. I more like kind of scootched down on my backside in most places. Do you see a path?

We found a shady spot to have lunch and rest for a few minutes after coming most of the way down that rock. Adrenaline was pretty high. I was fairly impressed with myself. We had MADE it. It would be smooth sailing from there.

Then the guide asked if anyone wanted to do “a little exploring” while a few ladies tended to some minor first aid – cuts and scratches, nothing major, thank God. I thought he meant walking around, learning more about the desert, so I joined the smaller group. Little did I know that we were going to actually climb more rocks. And what goes up, must come down. I was ok going up, but then I turned around and all I could see was a bunch of rocks with no handrail to help me get back down. Looking down made me a little dizzy even. Smart move, Rach, you’re terrified of heights, what were you thinking?!?!?!?! For this part I’m not ashamed to admit that the guide had to hold my hand all the way back down. I was so scared I was shaking. But we finally made it back down and back to the group, and I actually looked back to where we had climbed and felt like such a badass. My actual thought was, “If I could climb that, I can do anything.”

What was I thinking?!?!?!? We made it almost to the top.

It may sound cliche, but I really found so many parallels on this hike to my life, especially what Mike and I are going through right now. We were going along on our little path, it may not have had directions, but our path was pretty clearly laid out and we were happily marching along and then BAM! All of a sudden our lives were turned upside down by brain cancer. There’s no instruction manual to help us navigate this rocky terrain. We have just had to put our heads down and get through one day at a time. Some days are smoother than others. Some days we have to ask someone to hold our hands and help us down. But you know what? Mike is a badass. WE are badasses. We are doing the damn thing, and we WILL make it back to our path eventually. It may not always be clear cut, and it may not always be pretty, but we will make it back.

We went Monday so that Mike could be fitted for his radiation mask. They also did an MRI so they’ll be able to determine exactly where to target the radiation. 

We will meet the oncologist Thursday to learn more about the chemo treatment plan. We do know that chemo will be in pill form, and they want Mike to begin both treatments concurrently. So we will should know by the end of the week exactly when treatment will start. 

In the meantime, Mike continues to do his OT and PT homework, and he continues to improve daily!

We continue to be grateful for everyone’s thoughts and prayers. Love to all. 

“If you see someone without a smile, give ‘em yours.” – Dolly Parton

The other day I just needed to get out of the house. I hadn’t been shopping in a while, so I thought it might be nice to just go out and calm my racing thoughts with some new clothes. New clothes always make a girl feel better. 

As I walked in the store, the lady buzzing around the shop re-stocking and re-folding things greeted me with a smile. I returned her smile and greeted her back. I started picking up a few things, and before I knew it I had a pile of clothes in my arms. The clerk noticed I had my hands full and offered to start a fitting room for me. I smiled again and told her that would be helpful. 

I grabbed a few more things and went back to review my haul and start trying things on. As I was sorting through and trying everything, the attendant came by a couple of times to check if I needed any different sizes or colors. The first two times she came in, I told her no thank you, I’m doing fine. The third time she came in I poked my head out and asked her if she could get me something in another color. I smiled and told her thank you. 

She was a talkative sort, and I guess I can be too, so she asked if I had a special occasion or trip I was taking. I told her that yes, I have a wellness retreat coming up but that I may cancel. I told her about our situation. Her eyes got really wide, and she said, “wow, all of that going on and you still came in here with a smile on your face for everyone.”

It kind of surprised me to think of being any other way towards people. Once I thought about it, I guess there are people that probably would let all of this bring them down. Yes, I have my moments. You better believe I’m pissed at God. I’m sad. I grieve deeply to have to watch my soulmate go through all of this. It’s excruciating at times. It’s exhausting. I feel like I’ve been in fight or flight mode since March 17. But it has never once occurred to me to take it out on someone else by being unkind.

Everyone’s going through something. Life can be tough, and it downright sucks sometimes. Everyone feels down now and then. But smiling takes zero effort. Smiling can be contagious. A smile can brighten someone’s day. And if you want to get scientific about it, smiling releases endorphins and reduces the stress hormone, cortisol. The very least I can do is be kind, even if all I can do is offer my smile.  

I guess we’ll need a new countdown now, because we got a call from Dr. Engh last night. He has enough information from pathology from Duke to fully diagnose Mike’s tumor as a grade 3 astrocytoma with wIDH. Not the news we were hoping for, as it is a more aggressive tumor, classified as having invasive malignancy. The recommended treatment is a combination of radiation, which he wants to begin in 2 weeks, and chemo, which we’ll find out about next week when we can get on the oncology schedule.

Radiation will be a total of 30 treatments, which means a treatment every day for 6 weeks. Side effects include hair loss at the targeted radiation site, scalp burn, and fatigue. Chemo will be given in 2-3 month cycles in pill form, which has fewer side effects than IV conducted forms of chemo. Fatigue seems to be a side effect of both treatments. Imaging every 2-3 months will help determine how he is responding to treatment, so I take comfort in the fact that his brain will continue to be closely monitored!

Dr. Engh shared that the average 5 year survivability for this type of tumor is 2-3 years. However, he stressed that these averages include a wide variety of patients with a wide variety of ages and other factors, and he’s seen patients with worse diagnoses live many long years, and he’s seen patients with more benign diagnoses not. He “expects long term survival” for Mike in particular for several reasons. Mike is relatively young, has no co-morbidities and is otherwise generally healthy, the tumor was able to be surgically removed with no residuals, and most of all Mike is motivated to do the work and LIVE. So we have several reasons to be optimistic despite this not being the diagnosis we had hoped to hear.

We’re doing as well as can be expected trying to digest this new information. We may need a few days to come to terms with it all, but one thing remains constant: Mike is determined and resolved to BEAT THIS and enjoy every single minute of life that he is given.

Still no updates on pathology or when Mike will begin radiation therapy, so I thought I’d change things up a bit today on this here little blog (I suppose I’m a blogger now, how weird is that?).

When someone we love suddenly has their world shattered by an event like this, whether it’s a loss or a diagnosis, or whatever – we have absolutely ZERO clue how to support them. I know I’ve been there before, too! We may feel like our sentiments fall flat (they don’t – let me reassure you), but we just love them so much that we want to do SOMETHING. So today I thought I’d list several of the things that YOU ALL have been doing for us that have helped the MOST. Hopefully this list can help you in the future when you feel lost and unsure how to support your loved one.

Food: Meals, Snacks, and ALL THE COFFEE

• Meals.
  • 8 days in the hospital is a LOT. And 8 days of hospital cafeteria food…🤢. So I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to have every meal covered. Even when Mike started getting his appetite back, nothing from the hospital menu appealed to him. So having our favorite foods from some of our favorite restaurants was such a blessing.
  • What meals were delivered once we were out of the hospital and rehab and readjusting to life were particularly helpful. Once we got Mike home, I was so exhausted and drained that I couldn’t even begin to think of creating a meal plan, much less cooking. We got a lot of freezable dishes like pasta bakes and soups (the Spoonful of Comfort boxes were absolutely genius), so I divvied those up into individual meals and put them in the freezer, and we’ve been pulling those out every night and enjoying those with a salad.
  • We have also been enjoying the visits we’ve been getting from those of you who have stopped by with take out!!
• Snacks. I think at one point we had 4 large piles of candy, sweets, chips, and gum. Which was extremely helpful for not only us, but also our visitors! And what we were unable to finish we “donated” to the kids.
• Baked goods – is there anything better than bread pudding (that I had trouble sharing) or Mrs. Fields cookies when you’re emotionally vulnerable? I can’t think of anything!
• Coffee. There is a special place in Heaven for every single one of you that either brought me coffee or sent me those extremely generous Starbucks gift cards. THANK YOU doesn’t begin to express my gratitude.

Visits, Phone Calls, Texts

This right here has meant the most to us. So many of you have stopped by, called, and all the texts from everyone have been God sends. I joke that I have a second full time job as Mike’s press secretary, but we are so blessed to have all the thoughts and prayers.

Odds and ends

There are so many things you can’t even think of that you end up needing while in the hospital. Things like:

• A backpack – this got me and all of our “stuff” through all the back and forth trips to the hospital and the rehab center
• Gum
• Chapstick
• Manicure set (this came in super handy – fingernails don’t stop growing just because you’re in the hospital)
• Journal and pens (I forget how often the rest of the world still uses pens and paper)
• Light blanket
• Fluffy blanket
• Fuzzy socks
• Small ice packs for the little lunch cooler I brought every day to keep Mike’s protein drinks and yogurt cool
• Protein drinks / protein bars – protein promotes faster healing
• Something to read – comic books, trashy romance novels, The Citadel alumni magazine
• Games – the building block games have been FANTASTIC for Mike’s fine motor skills
• Coloring books and colors
• Legos
• Flowers!!! Several BEAUTIFUL bouquets were delivered that absolutely brightened our days. I love love LOVE fresh flowers!

Errands, Dogs, Etc

• Errand runners – my mom was amazing about running errands here and there, she took care of little Maya and would bring Maya up to the hospital for visits.
• Dog feeders/walkers/letter-outters – my in-laws were incredibly generous to constantly go to the house to make sure my dogs were fed, watered, and let out to potty.
• Trash Day – another thing i completely didn’t even think of, but my father-in-law made sure my hurbie curbies were at the curb every trash/recycling day
• Mail – Mike’s folks to the rescue again! Another one of those things that never occurred to me – to get the mail every day.
• Lawn care – we had people come by to mow the lawn and the pasture

This is by no means a comprehensive list of all of the blessings we’ve received over the last few weeks, and I’m sure I’m forgetting something. I know many of you don’t think you’ve done much, but trust me, your time, thoughtfulness, your generosity of spirit have given us strength and abundance to get through THE hardest time in our entire lives.

This weekend Mike and I celebrated our 22nd anniversary. 22 years that seem to have breezed by! We’ve been through a lot these past 22 years, but Mike’s brain tumor has definitely been the hardest challenge we’ve had to face together.

What did we do to celebrate? Well…Mike went with me to Publix and he drove the shopping cart (good practice for his hand grip!).

And we did Sunday brunch at home again. This weekend I tried to replicate one of our favorites – the Hangover Hashbrowns from Cafe Strudel. Somehow it’s just better when someone else fixes it (and has to clean up the kitchen), but we made do!

And finally – COLE CAME HOME!!!!! Exhausted from finals, but at least he did his laundry prior to leaving (sweet sweet kiddo!). Mike and I are glad to see him and looking forward to him spending at least the week with us before heading back to Clemson.

23 days and every day still brings improvements. His stride continues to improve when he walks. His face is less droopy, and he’s starting to get some feeling back on the left side. His left arm and hand also continue to improve – he was able to put together a shower chair Thursday without any assistance from me (aside from picking it up, he still can’t lift more than 5 pounds for now)!

Still no word on the pathology, but Home Health has finally been set up, and they came today to do their admissions process. So he should begin PT and OT again Tuesday or Wednesday, so that will be incredibly helpful for him to continue that work.

Got a delivery of some delicious cookies yesterday – I think every flavor Mrs. Fields makes must be included in this basket.

Oh and today we celebrate 22 years of marriage! I am especially thankful this year for Mike – he is my person, my love, my best friend, and I cannot imagine who I would even be without him.

I genuinely wish I had more of an update for everyone 3 weeks to the day after Mike’s brain surgery! We are still waiting on pathology results, and we’re still waiting for home health to be approved so Mike can continue his occupational and physical therapy.

In the meantime, I’ve had to go back to work (thank goodness I work from home full time), and Mike continues to practice all of the exercises he has already learned. He continues to improve daily.

Last night was his first night out – some friends from the MC took him out for tacos. He’s been talking about tacos since the hospital, and I’m glad he was finally able to get some! The outing wore him out, but it was so good for him to get out of the house for a bit!

That smile!!!! For the last few weeks that left side just wasn’t cooperating with Mike’s smile game, and I was starting to get used to the lopsided grin, but his entire smile is back!!! We’re still seeing small changes every day, and he continues to improve.

Still no news on pathology, but home health is apparently in the works to continue OT and PT here at home for now.

Yesterday Mike woke up with a pretty bad tension headache. Apparently 35 is NOT his Sleep Number. He is feeling MUCH better today, thank goodness – if he didn’t, you better believe I’d have had him at the ER first thing this morning. But he got these on occasion before being diagnosed, so he wanted to give it a day before we panicked.

Today he is ready to dive into some of the delicious meal and snack deliveries we got yesterday, thanks to our LPD family and Ed and Lisa! Sunday we enjoyed a delicious Lizard’s Thicket supper thanks to Jimmy and Michelle. 🥰

What a weekend! Saturday was the big coming home – so after the discharge process we took it easy the rest of the day. Mike spent all day with the dogs, we sat out on the porch for a good chunk of the afternoon, and we called it an early night.

We, of course, had to have welcome home beers!

As many of you know, Sundays are usually brunch days for us! We didn’t feel like going out, so I made brunch at home. After that we just took it easy the rest of the day. I think the past 2 and a half weeks have caught up with us. We’re both exhausted and Mike has never been more glad to be back in our own bed.

He continues to improve every day – Saturday we had boiled peanuts with our beers (as one does), and it was a great exercise for him to practice those fine motor skills with his left hand. When one is properly motivated, he can accomplish great feats.

He is up and down the stairs with some minor modifications coming down since the banister is on the left, but he doesn’t need a walker or a cane at all. And yesterday I caught him in the garage sitting on his bike practicing changing gears. Don’t worry guys – he’ll be back on the road with you in no time! As I said, when one is properly motivated… 😍

Today is the DAY y’all! Today is the day we’ve been training for the last 2+ weeks. Mike came home today!

They sent him off to Ride the Wind by Poison:

And the girls were absolutely DELIGHTED to have him home!!!!

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind – I feel like we’ve been living in topsy turvy world. Now that he’s home, I KNOW that he will progress even more rapidly. Now we begin the real work to get him back to normal and back on the bike as quickly (and safely) as possible.

We continue to pray for great results from pathology, and we are beyond grateful for the miracles that have already happened since the initial onset of symptoms on March 17. Thankful that he was with quick-thinking folks at that conference in Nashville who were on top of calling 911. Thankful for the EMTs who evaluated him and said, “yeah, we still recommend we take him to the ER.” Thankful that Cole and I also happened to be in Nashville that week. Thankful for those seizures that tipped off the medical professionals that there was something deeper to look for. Thankful that the best dang neurosurgeon in the country lives here in Lexington. Thankful that 3 weeks after discovering this awful tumor that it was removed. Thankful for all the support and love from our friends and family. Thankful for how quickly he’s bouncing back – in 16 days he’s already off the walker, completely ambulatory, regaining more and more feeling in his left hand, and he’s HOME. So thankful he’s home!

Next item on today’s agenda – BEERS ON THE BACK PORCH! 🍻

I just got home from packing up most of Mike’s belongings because at 10:00 AM tomorrow morning the discharge process will begin! I don’t know that either one of us will sleep a wink tonight because we’re so ecstatic.

Now that he’s off the walker, there really isn’t much we need to do to prep the house. They will send him home with a shower chair and a walker just in case, but unless he gets really tired, I truly don’t think he will need the walker.

Not much else to report for today, but I’ll definitely post some pictures tomorrow.

Y’all notice anything missing??? That’s right…NO WALKER! We just took a couple of laps around the building! I couldn’t be more excited to see him walking on his own.

In other news…guess who’s busting out and coming HOME Saturday?!?!? The big guy is officially coming home the day after tomorrow. I know 3 little fluffer puppers that are going to be ecstatic to see their dad after more than 2 weeks. After loving on the dogs, he is REALLY looking forward to enjoying a nice cold beer on the back porch. And I can’t wait to have one with him!!!

Today Mike had OT and PT all day until 5:00. So I took the opportunity to take a much needed rest day and just zoned out for a while. I had some books and some Netflix that I desperately needed to get caught up on (I wasn’t crying…or screaming…much).

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Yesterday was a mixed bag. Mike had his therapy done by 2:00 so that we could make his follow up appointment with Dr. Engh. Unfortunately, no results yet (dammit), but he did get his stitches out, and we met the radiologist. We knew radiation treatment was going to be “a thing”, but I guess we weren’t expecting to get the lowdown until we got the full pathology. The lowdown is that radiation will be 20 minutes a day, 5 days a week for 6 weeks. Once the pathology results come back from Duke and once Mike’s wounds are fully healed and he’s home from rehab, the neuro-oncology team will schedule imaging so that they can create a mask for Mike’s head. The mask will allow them to target the protons from the x-ray exactly where they need to go for maximum impact. I’m sure I’m woefully butchering Dr. Lawrence’s explanation, but hopefully you get the gist. Side effects from radiation include hair loss and scalp sunburn – I told him we’d get him a few doo-rags to protect his ol’ noggin from the sun.

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Tomorrow is therapy until 3:00, and rumor has it that he’s busting out by Saturday! Of course I’ll be sure to confirm that once we hear officially from the case manager.

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Mike continues to be in good spirits. He is beyond ready to get home and love on the pups, but he does acknowledge that his time in rehab is necessary and is well spent. Continued prayers for good pathology results are greatly appreciated!

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Monday was a full day of therapy. Everyone, absolutely everyone, that sees how well Mike is moving tells us that they doubt he will be in rehab much longer. In fact, the facility therapists, nurses, doctors and case manager will all consider him in their meeting today – HOPEFULLY that means he’ll be busting out sooner rather than later.

He had speech therapy in the morning and was released from that (again). After lunch was OT and PT back to back. He practiced stairs in PT – this is one of our main goals is for him to be able to safely go up and back down the stairs once he gets home.
In OT he continues to work on strengthening his left hand and improving his bilateral coordination. He’s leaps and bounds ahead of where he was this time last week! He wasn’t able to pinpoint where to put the kanoodle pieces last week, and now he can put them exactly where he wants them to go.

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Mike’s parents, Robbie and Wayne joined us for supper. They haven’t missed a day being with us, and honestly I don’t know that we could have made it this far without their support. Not only have they been there for us at the hospital and in rehab; they’ve made countless food runs, let the dogs out several times a day, took our trash to the curb, delivered our mail and packages, and have been there in so many other ways. I know how much this all has shook me to my core – I cannot imagine what it has been like for them seeing their son go through this, and yet they have been our rock.

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Today is a full morning of therapy, and this afternoon we have his follow up appointment with Dr. Engh to get his stitches out and HOPEFULLY have some news on the pathology results. Praying for those results to be in, and more than anything praying for the results to be GOOD NEWS. I’m not sure what time we will get back to the facility from that, so I don’t know if today will be a good day for visitors – I would just hate for someone to show up and miss him. But I will definitely keep everyone updated the first opportunity I have.

Yesterday was Easter! It was a gorgeous day. Our friend Mandy dropped of a delicious roast and a giant pan of scrumptious mac n cheese (she knows me so well!), so we had a wonderful Easter dinner, complete with rolls and strawberry shortcake, courtesy of my mom.

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We brought little Maya, who barked at anyone that dared move, but she also lifted Mike’s spirits and got to sneak in some snugs with Dad.

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Mike also got a surprise visit from one of his friends from SLED, which was so much fun. Waz has an incredible knack for humor, and before we knew it, we were caught in fits of laughter. His stories kept us entertained for the better part of an hour. By the end of his visit, my stomach ached from all the laughing, but laughter truly is the best medicine.

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Today Mike is booked with therapy from 9:30 until 3:00, with a little bit of a break for lunch. He’s hoping to meet with his case manager today as well to work on his plan for discharge and transition to outpatient therapy at home. He is SOOOOO ready to come home and see his pups, and I KNOW that once he’s here he will improve leaps and bounds.

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Still no word from Dr. Engh about pathology results. He has an appointment tomorrow to get his stitches removed; hoping and praying to have some answers by then. Praying that the pathology results show no residuals and that it’s not one that is likely to recur or spread.

Today was Mike’s first full day of rehab, and he had both occupational therapy and physical therapy. He was done by noon! One of their goals this week is to start walking without the walker. The facility doctor stopped by and said he was doing so well that he didn’t think Mike would be there for long, which is great news!

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A few of the guys from the club came over for a while in the afternoon. It was exactly what Mike needed. It was so great to catch up with such amazing friends who have become family.

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Our sweet girls, Kasia and Aimee, who we met when they were studying abroad at USC from Poland and Britain, sent him some gorgeous flowers. He was so touched that he got a little teary-eyed.

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We hope everyone has a Happy Easter!

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…well, from LMC, anyway. 

Today is moving day! Still waiting for official discharge, but we’re busting out today by noon and will be checking in to Mike’s 5 star resort rehab center in Cayce. Not sure what that process will look like or how long it will take, so please give me until tomorrow to get back to everyone with room number, schedule, and any other visiting info they may have for us. 

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Thank you for all the thoughts, prayers, well wishes, texts, calls, visits – we love and appreciate everything that has been done and continues to be done for us. We are abundantly blessed!!!