We Celebrated Our Tenth Anniversary

The trip Mike planned for our tenth anniversary was beyond anything I could’ve imagined. The cozy little cabin and the scent of pine and damp earth felt perfect. We spent our first day there at a nearby hot spring, just talking, filling the world with laughter. And it was so much fun that for a while, I forgot about cancer. But my body has a cruel way of reminding me. 

After returning to the cabin, a crushing wave of fatigue and a deep ache settled into my bones. I fought it, trying to keep my eyes open and smile bright, but I’d begun failing.

“I’m so sorry, Mike,” I finally whispered, the words catching in my throat. “Don’t let me ruin this for you because I’m sick.”

As Mike’s brow furrowed with tenderness, and he appeared somehow even more handsome. He reached out to gently brush a stray hair from my face. “Just worry about feeling better so we can have a blast when you’re recooped.”

I wanted to say more—to tell him how much this trip meant—but my eyelids felt heavy as stones. I could only manage a slow nod before falling asleep.

When I woke up a little while later, Mike was gone. I knew he probably went out walking, maybe grabbing a beer from a quaint restaurant nearby. Apparently, Mike’s version of "experiencing life" is hearing stories from elderly men at the bar, and I love hearing my husband talk about it.

An idea sparked in my mind. It was our anniversary. We couldn't hike or dance together, but we could still do something fun. So, I grabbed my phone and propped my head back on the pillow. I clicked the talk-to-text feature and closed my eyes while telling a story into my phone, talking about the day Mike and I met.

When the cabin’s door opened again, Mike walked in, his cheeks flushed from the cool air. He looked at me with that signature warmth that somehow washed away my stress and made me feel worthwhile despite all the ways my health has changed our lives.

“You’re still pretty sick?” he asked, his voice soft.

I nodded sadly.

“Well, I went out and had fun, but what I really want is to be here,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, “with you.”

“I thought of something fun,” I replied, my spirits lifting. “If you’re up for it?”

His eyes lit up. “Always.”

“Can you write a chapter about how we met?” I asked. “I wrote one too. Maybe we can read them to each other and compare notes on who has a better memory!”

“Sure!” he grinned.

So, instead of letting my illness derail the entire trip, we turned a bad situation into a "writers' convention" right there in the cabin. 

We had so much fun that we wrote on the way home, ending with seven chapters each! 

Reading his side of the story is hilarious; he describes our first date as the time he’d "never felt so romanced" in all of his life. I’ve laughed and even cried a couple of times, mostly because it’s so dang heartwarming.

A line from my grandma’s happiness file came to mind: “We all matter.” It’s so true. And that’s really what Mike does for me. Despite the treatments, the exhaustion, and the way my abilities have been altered, he never treats me like a burden. He always shows his love in every quiet look and kind word, which helps me know that I matter.

Not long after our vacation in the cabin, I went to see my oncologist. They did scans, and something shocking happened. I no longer have any cancer in my brain, which is miraculous news. I still have some cancer at the base of my skull and at the bottom of my spine, but all the other spots are gone! I had tumors in my pelvis, my hip, growths in my lungs, and at one point, every single vertebra in my spine. But now I only have cancer in two places. This feels like a miracle after all of this time!

“This is absolutely incredible.” I hugged Mike so tightly after the appointment. Maybe we have more chapters to write in life after all? I sure hope so! I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

The Good Stuff

The world shrank to the size of the sterile tube around me. The machine’s clamoring thump-thump-thump resounded, a loud drumbeat against my skull. Its cold, impersonal surface became my only companion as it scanned my body, searching for more melanoma. Every three months, I “get” to spend a few hours in that tube, being reduced to a simple gown and my soul. It’s probably bizarre, but MRIs always remind me of how we’ll leave this world. As I take off my jewelry, magnetic eyelashes, and hair clips, I soberly remember that we will all—at some point—leave EVERYTHING behind. 

You'd think I’d be used to scans by now, but sometimes I still get so afraid, thinking about how the same device that's supposed to keep me above ground is ironically similar to a coffin. In these moments of terror, the only thing that saves me is my imagination. And I've come to appreciate the power of good memories. It’s a game I play, a mental escape. One moment I’m trapped in the MRI machine; the next, I’m back on a pier in Jamaica during my honeymoon. The salty air brings my senses to life, and the gentle lap of waves against the wooden planks tames my soul. I sit with Mike, planning our perfect future filled with happiness...and health... How precious that word sounds now that so much has changed.

The machine continues its tha-whumping, but my mind can’t bear to focus on that. Instead, I’m lost in a highlight reel of my life, a dance through the past that I’ve been ridiculously lucky to live. I see myself in a hospital room, holding my newborn babies for the first time, staring at them with a wonder that felt bigger than the universe. I remember the magical moments of getting old-fashioned photos in Jackson Hole and playing card games in a cramped cabin with our kids. I think of traipsing across Italy while Mike pushed me in my wheelchair, and the kids pointed out beauty in everything as they ate gelato. I recall our family playing tag in Goblin Valley, as the kids ran here and there, living to the fullest. Each memory is a unique stone in a mosaic of my life, and as I piece them together in that awful machine, a surreal picture forms.

The fear and anxiety have left. Regrets and mistakes fade, nowhere to be found, replaced by a gratitude so fierce my chest aches. I’m not defined by this disease or the hardships I’ve endured. I'm a wife, a mother, a daughter, and a friend. I’ve lived a full, beautiful life, and all I have to do is close my eyes to remember. It really is in the darkness that the best moments of life truly shine.

Extra Mile

 With the resolve of a man twice his age, my son prepared for his senior year. As a junior, Trey survived a brutal breakup after dating a girl (on and off) for two years, and I know that weighs heavy on his mind.

“I’m done,” he said before his first day of school in August. “No dating until I get my degree.”

That vow lasted about as long as my phone's battery, and in the afternoon, when I asked about Trey’s first day back, he didn't mention classes, friends, or even lunch. Instead, he talked about "the new girl," and I couldn’t help but smile. Around here, a new student is basically front-page news.

"She could probably use some friends," I said, trying to subtly nudge him in the right direction.

"Yeah," he nodded, “I think she's had a hard life. I heard she's in foster care."

So, Trey considered approaching the girl for the next two days but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Then, in a moment straight out of a movie, she actually approached HIM and struck up a conversation.

“She’s so hilarious and fun, Mom. I think I’m gonna ask her to homecoming,” Trey said as he paced in our kitchen the following weekend. 

After hearing his words, my mind went to my grandma’s infamous "happiness file.” It’s a collection of life advice so wholesome it’s brilliant. She scrawled on one faded index card, “It’s worthwhile to go the extra mile to make people feel valued.” And that sentiment seemed perfectly apt for Trey’s current dilemma. 

"It sounds like this girl has been through so much," I finally said. “You should do something romantic to ask her to the dance."

Trey just stood there, gaping. “But what if she says no?”

“So?” I said, shrugging. “What do you really have to lose?”

“That’s just...embarrassing.”

Within seconds, I donned my serious-mom face. "Is the objective to get a ‘yes’ or to make her feel special?”

Trey paused for a while, thinking hard. “I just want her to be happy.”

Although Trey never met my grandma, he took her advice that day. For the next few hours, he meticulously wrote out ideas, got candy, and arranged it into cryptic messages on a posterboard. (A couple of the lines were pure gold: “Going to the dance with you would feel like ‘100 Grand.’ I'm falling to ‘Reese’s Pieces.’”)

Trey left for school the next morning, looking more nervous than I’d seen him in years. The day dragged for me because this was super exciting!  I could just picture my tall, strong son, holding up the romantic posterboard that he’d crafted for the new girl. I hoped it would make her day.

When Trey finally got home, I bombarded him. “So, how’d it go?”

“Mom! She said it's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for her. She said…’yes’!”

I gave him the biggest hug, and a rush of pure joy flooded through me.

“Mom,” Trey said after a second, “even if she’d said ‘no,’ it would’ve been worth it just to see how happy she was. Grandma was right.” 

And there it was—perfectly understood, the core of Grandma's wisdom, passed down through two generations. 

Making people feel special, valued, and loved is always worth the extra effort. Like Grandma used to say, it really does pay to be kind. 

Little by Little, We're Making Progress

My fight with stage four melanoma is exhausting, but this journey has really sorted out what truly matters. It might not look like it, but I am making progress.

My greatest wish now isn't for a miracle cure—though let's be honest, if one were sitting on my nightstand, I'd take it without a second thought. But instead, my greatest wish is to see the people I love find happiness. I want to watch my kids chase their dreams until they're breathless and fulfilled. I want to see the spark in Mike's eyes when he talks about his job and our life together. I just want my family to truly live and enjoy life.

My second-oldest daughter, Sky, has a voice that can twist any melody into something beautiful yet heart-wrenching at the same time. As a little girl, she dreamed of being a singer, of packing up her whole life and heading to Los Angeles to start her career. But when I was diagnosed with cancer, I watched her set that dream on a shelf, and the sight of it broke my heart. I told her not to put her life on hold for me, but she didn't want to leave.

"Life is short," I finally told her again, trying to sound wise and not completely terrified of losing her. "Trust me. If you really want to do this, you should go for it. California isn't that far away, and we can do video calls as much as you want."

So she moved, and our video calls are the highlight of my days—a chaotic, beautiful window into her new world. I see sunlight and ocean breeze on her face as she talks about living by the beach, writing new songs, and meeting people who actually understand her musical inclinations. Plus, her growth is incredible to witness. In fact, she recently shared a story that resonated with me more than anything I've heard in a while.

So basically, when Sky gets lonely, she'll sit in her car and watch the monks at a Buddhist temple across the street from her apartment. During the springtime, the temple had a single, featureless statue. The monks worked on it for about an hour every single day. They'd never speak, but instead, they worked tirelessly, their slow, rhythmic chipping a meditative sound even from across the street. 

Anyway, time passed, and Sky didn't realize how much progress the monks had made until a second, faceless statue arrived last week. They set it next to the old one, and when they unveiled it, Sky stared in shock. Seeing the two statues side by side stunned her. The first piece was no longer a rough block of stone, but a masterpiece of intricate detail, a patiently carved visage of serene contemplation, standing in stark contrast to the bland, rough form that had yet to be refined.

"I just knew you'd understand," Sky told me, excited to share about the epiphany she'd had. "I know sometimes you don't feel like you're making progress, Mom, but you are. We all are." Sky went on to say that she told me this, knowing how much I dreaded my next round of cancer treatments. And it was the perfect reminder that we get through life one step at a time.

When we're in the middle of a struggle, it's easy to become discouraged because progress can seem invisible, but just as the monks slowly sculpted a masterpiece from rough stone, we are also making headway. Each small act of courage—waking up, facing another day, just trying to do your best—is a chisel stroke, chipping away at the stone of who you were to reveal the masterpiece of who you're meant to be.