The Only Way Out is Through

This week has been a rollercoaster.

While I’ve been measuring how much fluid is coming out of my body and tracking every pill I take, Keith has been closing out his friend’s accounts, moving boxes, and retrieving the last of his things from the Sheriff’s office. In the midst of it all, we tried to catch as many of Alexa’s dance routines on the livestream from Nationals as we could.

One day, Keith suggested we get out of the house for a change of scenery. We found a nearby park with a flat walking path and stumbled on a new art installation titled “Broken but Together.” The description quoted Shakespeare: “Art is a mirror held up to nature.” The piece showed fractured human figures standing united—symbolizing how resilience and connection can coexist with pain. It hit home. We’ve felt fractured these last few months—by hard news, by fear, by exhaustion—but we are still standing. Still together.

Farther down the trail, we passed a tunnel painted with the words: “The Only Way Out Is Through.” That’s where we are. No shortcuts, no skipping ahead. Just one foot in front of the other.

That day, I walked five miles. The next, I was so exhausted I slept almost the entire day. Just another turn in the ride we’re on.

Yesterday brought another emotional whiplash: One doctor told us everything is healing well and we’re right on track. A few hours later, another called with pathology results that suggested not all the cancer may be gone.

The good news: I have DCIS—ductal carcinoma in situ—the best kind of breast cancer to get, if you have to get it. It’s stage 0, non-invasive, and hadn’t spread, even though it was large. But I had “positive margins,” which means cancer cells might still be present at the edges of what was removed. That changes the equation. Now we wait for meetings with the oncologist and radiologist to see what comes next.

Whatever it is, we’ll face it.

We may be broken.
But we are together.
And the only way out… is through.

Grateful to Be on the Other Side

I made it through surgery! But it almost didn’t happen.

At 7:30 pm the night before, we got a call from the doctor telling us that the insurance company had not approved the second portion of the surgery. The medical team had been calling all day—only to reach silence, since no one was answering because of the Juneteenth holiday.

We panicked. We called everyone we knew who might be able to help. We even offered to personally guarantee the cost. Thankfully, we have friends with connections who went above and beyond to help. But this is not the case for most people. Insurance companies play terrible games with people’s lives. Now I understand why Luigi Mangione became a hero to so many—because all it takes is one person in an office, tapping a key, to decide your fate. And if you don’t have insurance, affording care becomes nearly impossible.

Our dear friend Brett hadn’t been to the doctor because he didn’t have insurance. Maybe an annual physical could have saved his life? It’s a broken system, and sadly there’s no clear fix in sight.

Thankfully, by 6:30 am the morning of surgery, we got the approval. The doctors described the 4+ hour procedure as “boring”—meaning no surprises, which I am so grateful for. We were discharged by 3 pm and back home, watching TV, eating soup, and napping.

Each day since, I’ve felt a little stronger—taking slightly longer walks and even watching Callum play tennis today. I do have one odd side effect: double vision, which hasn’t subsided yet. So if you received a text or email from me that didn’t make much sense—that’s why! My phone and computer fonts are now super-sized, and I’m hoping this will pass soon.

For now, I’m taking it one small win at a time—showering, opening the refrigerator door on my own, feeling a little more like myself each day. The grapefruit-sized tumor is gone. I’m still waiting on the final pathology report, but right now, I’m simply grateful to have made it to the other side.

Thank you for all your support. Every message, every meal, every treat, every check-in has meant so much.

Learning to Accept the Help

It’s been a tough couple of weeks for our family.

We’ve been trying to process Brett’s sudden passing while sorting through everything he left behind. In between that, we’ve been working to plan a celebration of life worthy of a friend we loved so deeply — all while juggling an endless string of pre-op medical appointments.

Normally, we’re the kind of people who do everything ourselves. But this has been… overwhelming. And for the first time I can remember, when people asked if they could help — we said yes.

Friends and neighbors brought us dinner. They took us out to give us a break. They handled all the drinks for the celebration of life. They showed up to clean out Brett’s apartment. They set up and broke down after the party. We couldn’t have done it all without them.

We are so blessed to have so many amazing people in our lives — people willing to jump in when we needed it most. They even organized a care calendar to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks, brought thoughtful gifts, flowers, post-op garments — and a lot of love.

It’s been a long few weeks. But now it’s time: surgery is tomorrow. And I’ve made two vows to myself:

1. Embrace the help.
2. Unplug.

The world feels like it’s on fire right now. We’re on the brink of war at home and abroad. In just the past two weeks, protesters have taken to the streets over immigration raids, while Israel and Iran have begun trading strikes — and pulling the U.S. closer into the fray. The pace of the news has been dizzying: we’ve been on standby for late-night coverage and have produced multiple extra hours of breaking news.

So for now — I’m turning off my alerts. I’m logging off Slack. I’ve deleted social media apps from my phone. At this point, I really don’t need to see everyone’s fun summer vacations. If I don’t respond, now you know why.

I’m hopeful this time will be a chance to rest, accept help, and heal.

If you’d like to help, please keep us in your thoughts and prayers. And here is that amazing care calendar — in case you’d like to be part of it:

 https://www.carecalendar.org/logon/319315
Calendar ID: 319315
Security Code: 5655

Thank you to everyone who helped plan, set-up and pull off the lovely celebration of Brett’s life.  It was a great chance for Brett’s mom and friends and the kids to share their memories of a special person in our lives.