What an interesting chain of events has unfolded since my last post.
I’ve been sitting with it for a few days now, wondering how I could possibly capture it in a way that does it justice.

Before I update you on the rest of Round 4, I think it’s time to share a little more about what’s been going on internally—my thoughts, intentions, and mental processes. I’ve been keeping a private record so I can look back later and trace how my thoughts may have influenced the outcome.

There’s power in sharing too, but sharing certain things too soon can make those thoughts vulnerable to outside challenge. And if I’m not feeling especially grounded when that happens, it can actually weaken them. So, I’m holding some things close for now. But what I am ready to share today, I believe, has already had a significant impact on how Round 4 has gone so far.

A Mental Shift
During Rounds 1 through 3, whenever I couldn’t sleep or the side effects hit hard, I’d fill my mind with a simple but steady prayer:

"Thank you for this pain. Thank you this experience. Thank you for my hair. Thank you for my scalp. Thank you for my cranium. Thank you for my eyes. Thank you for my nose. Thank you for my brain. Thank you for my ears. Thank you for my sinuses. Thank you for my pituitary gland. Thank you for my endocrine system. Thank you for my teeth... thank you for my healing..."

I’d work my way from the top of my head all the way down, naming and thanking each part of my body—every system and organ I could think of or visualize. The goal was to train my focus toward gratitude for my body, rather than wishing I could escape it while it suffered.

Did I always feel grateful in those moments? Not really.
But I treated it as an exercise in discipline—a mental workout in choosing gratitude.

At the very least, it gave my mind something to do besides panic.

Early Rounds: Submit and Endure
During those early rounds, I felt like my role was simply to submit—to surrender and endure whatever was ahead. Before my January surgery, I received a priesthood blessing from one of my church leaders. In it, I was told that my faith would make me whole, “predicated on your faith and God’s will.” Then, more boldly:

“You have the faith. And it IS His will to make you whole again.”

I understand that “wholeness” might be realized in this life or the next. So I accepted that promise with gratitude, but also with a healthy detachment from the outcome.
My faith in God won’t be shaken by how this plays out.

The blessing continued with promises that the surgeons would see the Lord’s hand, that they’d be precise and divinely guided—and I’ve already shared how surprised (and pleased) they were with how the surgery turned out.

Another part of that blessing said my perspective would widen, that I’d see what the Lord wanted me to see through this experience, and that I would “endure it successfully.”

That part stuck with me.
What does it actually mean to endure something successfully?

“It means you’ll learn the lesson it was meant to teach you.”
That’s what a dear friend told me—a friend who’s been living with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer for nearly 20 years. No hesitation in his answer. Just certainty.

And that perspective flipped a switch in me.

What an Opportunity
While I was recovering from surgery, it hit me like a download:

I GET to experience cancer.

Life is short.
I believe I lived with God before coming to earth. If I signed up for this cancer experience before I came, then I must have known it would bring something valuable—something I wanted deeply enough to face this willingly.

As someone once put it so perfectly...

Looking for the Gift

I’ve been determined to uncover the gift tucked inside this adversity. And if walking through cancer this year somehow opens doors to other blessings my family has been longing for—even ones that seem unrelated—then YES… this will have been worth it.

I had no idea if experiencing cancer could impact other areas of my life in a positive way. But I chose to believe it might, and even that small spark of belief helped me face it all with a little more lightness, a little more enthusiasm. After that, it was que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.

Time to Create

It wasn’t until somewhere around Round 3 that I started to feel like it was finally okay to create a vision for how I’d love this journey to unfold. Before then, the clear message I’d felt from the Spirit was: submit. And I didn’t want to get ahead of myself or try to bypass something important. I waited patiently until I felt a green light—permission to imagine something even better than what was expected after 12 rounds of chemo.

That shift began near the end of week two of Round 2, when “what if” questions started bubbling up in my mind:

• What if I could be done in 6 rounds instead of 12?

• What if the cancer’s already gone?

• What if I’ve already learned what I was meant to learn from this?

I’d already experienced deep, transformative shifts—especially in my heart toward my husband, who had stepped up in ways I never could’ve predicted. My priorities had changed. My capacity to love, to feel, to see people had expanded in ways that surprised me. And my empathy for others had grown by leaps and bounds.

So I asked myself, had I already received what this experience came to give me?
Maybe not everything. But I also don’t believe we’re meant to suffer just for the sake of suffering—especially once the experience has already done its job.

So what if… it has? What if my cancer story gets to be a short story?

Spirit-Led Intentions

That line of thinking led to new clarity. I found courage to write a blog post on 4/8/2023—one I plan to send out the day I’m declared in complete remission. I wrote it as if it had already happened: what the doctors said, how we celebrated, what it felt like to receive the news.

I haven’t read it since. I don’t remember everything I wrote. But I wrote it with intention—to create it spiritually, so it could eventually be realized physically. That’s a practice I’ve come to believe in deeply:

1. Create the vision.

2. Set the intention.

3. Feel it as done.

4. Let go and live your life.
   No obsessing. No wondering “if it worked.”

From there, I remind myself to just “keep calm and watch what happens.”

“Fear not” is a key part of that formula. But since it’s often easier to follow a positive command than avoid a negative one, I’ve learned to flip “fear not” into something more actionable:
Keep calm, and watch what happens.

"Ye endeavored to believe that ye should receive the blessing which was offered unto you; but behold, verily I say unto you there were fears in your hearts, and verily this is the reason that ye did not receive." —D&C 67:3

Already Gone

Just 11 days later—on 4/19/2023—I came across a video of a cancer patient who reportedly experienced healing in three minutes through sheer intention. That idea wasn’t new or foreign to me. By then, I’d already been mentally creating a desired outcome for nearly two weeks. I took a few ideas from the video, added my own approach, and directed intentional thought and energy toward my healing.

I imagined myself whole. I recalled how wellness feels, and brought that feeling into my body. Over and over, I repeated the words:

“Already gone.”
“I am well and strong.”
“Already gone.”

Then I let it go. I didn’t dwell on it. I didn’t check or test to see if “it worked.” My job from that moment was simply to keep calm and watch what happens.
If it worked, amazing.
If it didn’t, I was still committed to trusting that the Lord’s will would lead me toward my highest good.

To Not Be the Limiting Factor

That’s how I choose to exercise faith:
I see it done.
I feel it done.
I even feel the gratitude in advance—as if it’s already happened.

Why?
So that I’m not the limiting factor in what God can do for me.

“...by faith all things are fulfilled.”
“...ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.”
“...neither at any time hath any wrought miracles until after their faith.”
“...if there be no faith among the children of men God can do no miracle among them.”
—Ether 12

To Think is to Create

Years ago, Bob Proctor told me, “Your mind is busy, but you’re not thinking.”

It took me over a year to understand what he meant.
To think is to create.
And you’re not creating if you’re only thinking about things as they are, or spiraling through worst-case scenarios.

That’s not thinking. That’s just mental noise.

Real thinking is imagining something new.
It’s mentally sketching an outcome different than the default future.
It’s picturing a life-giving alternative and feeling what it would be like if it came true.

As Henry Ford said:

“Thinking is the hardest work there is, which is probably the reason so few engage in it.”

And Bertrand Russell didn’t sugarcoat it:

“Most people would sooner die than think—and many of them do.”

This kind of thinking is hard work because it draws on divine creative power. It calls on us to access our spiritual faculties and speak in the language of faith—the language God Himself uses.

He speaks truth in advance:

"And it came to pass the same night, that the LORD said unto him, Arise, get thee down unto the host; for I have delivered it into thine hand." Judges 7:9, emphasis added. This was before the battle had even begun. Watch the full video of my Hidden Treasures class - now available with slides - which includes the full Gideon story breakdown here.

God doesn't complicate things. It's usually simpler than we make it.

Jesus did the same:

"Jesus saith unto him, Rise, take up thy bed, and walk. And immediately the man was made whole, and took up his bed, and walked" (John 5:8-9)

He didn’t say, “I’ve healed you—see how you feel?”
He said, “Get up. Be it. Own it.”
The responsibility was placed squarely on the man to act as if it were already true.

Why I Kept It Quiet (Until Now)

I haven’t shared all this “thought-work” before because I didn’t want thousands of eyes watching to see if my spiritual practice worked or failed. When I’m nurturing a big goal, I prefer to keep it sacred—just between me and the Lord—so I’m not also juggling outside expectations or opinions.

But you’ll see in a moment why I finally felt ready to open up.

Fast Forward to Round 4

Last time I posted, it was Day 3 of Round 4—Wednesday, 5/3/2023. We were watching to see if the reduced chemo dosage would still trigger burning in my hands and feet.

It didn’t.

That night, I slept soundly and woke up feeling surprisingly well. My appetite was solid, and the neuropathy around my eyes was mild—nothing like earlier rounds.

(Side note: Chemo crying has been a strange experience—sometimes the muscles around my eyes spasm and burn when I cry. Not ideal. Also, I’ve had some hot flashes, but I don’t know if that’s chemo-related menopause or just my own timeline kicking in.)

5/4/2023 - Day 4 (Thursday)
No notes—so it must’ve been pretty uneventful. That’s a win. Usually, this is when the fatigue and queasiness ramps up, but nothing unbearable this time. The anti-nausea meds really help, and my secret weapon? Mini Mentos mints. On harder days, even falling asleep with one in my mouth brings major relief.

5/5/2023 - Day 5 (Friday)
Appetite: still strong.
Digestion: not keeping up.

Despite daily stool softeners and even trying a suppository—nothing. I started getting that familiar, worrisome pressure. During a past round, constipation had me rocking in pain and eventually vomiting—the only time I’ve thrown up from chemo.

I called the doctor. Their guess? I needed fluids.

Turns out, stool softeners and laxatives can’t do their job if you’re dehydrated—and I’d eaten a lot that week without drinking enough water. When I’m feeling good, I forget to stay on top of hydration. Lesson learned.

Most Valuable Pair

That night, we attended my daughter’s beach volleyball banquet—even though I was battling abdominal pain and she was recovering from a dance injury. But we made it through. We celebrated Cinco de Mayo with loaded nachos (if I’m already in pain, what’s one more thing?) and cheered her on as she received the award for “Most Valuable Pair”—only one loss all season!

…then we went our separate ways. She headed home to rest her neck and wait for her scheduled adjustment, and Trevan and I made our way to the ER—my doctor’s office was closed, and that was their recommendation.

To the Emergency Room

We arrived around 7pm, and the waiting room was packed—probably the most crowded I’d ever seen it. So many visibly sick people. Even though masks weren’t required anymore, I asked Trevan to please find me one.

We waited four hours to be seen.

Thankfully, it didn’t take too long to find an open bench where I could lie down with my head in his lap and get some sleep for most of the wait.

Also… look how thin my hair is getting!

The pain and cramping was growing increasingly worse the longer we waited. By the time they assessed me, I was at a 9 on the pain scale with occasional breaks down to level 6. They started the IV and gave me morphine. I love morphine. Ohhhh, how I love morphine. For the record, later when I was offered more (but when I wasn't still in severe pain) I said no.

Even though I wanted it.

They sent me for a CT scan to see if there was a blockage (due to my history of colon cancer, they took this all very seriously.) The scan came back showing significant constipation and a partial blockage (hard stool?), so the IV fluids continued. They didn't give me anything more in the way of a laxative or anything because they knew my system already had so much of that in there... my body just needed the fluids to help them work right.

I slept a lot, and eventually my bowels started moving again. The cramps felt like labor pains. At one point Trevan said, "I'm going to start timing these," and he was actually serious. Five minutes apart. I reminded him that this wasn't actually labor, and we laughed. (Correction - I thought he was timing how long between the cramps, but I learned later he was actually timing how long they lasted, so he could help me know when the next one would probably be over.)

At 1am Trevan decided to go home and get some rest, since all they had for him was a wiry stacking chair. The hospital wanted to keep me overnight.

5/6/2023 – Day 6 – Saturday
I spent most of the day just lying there—reading, watching TV, and listening to the poor woman next to me who had dementia. She kept crying out, “Get me down from this bed! I need to get out of here! You don’t know what I’ve been through today!”

She pleaded with her daughter over the phone to come get her right then, but her daughter lived in Ohio. One of the nurses later told me she believed someone was trying to kill her. Major shout-out to the nurses who get cussed at or physically attacked while just trying to help people. They were incredibly patient with her.

Can You Check the CT Scan?
After my scan, one of the doctors came in to talk to me. I said, “I know this isn’t what you were looking for, but I’m just curious—can you check the CT scan for the state of the tumor we’ve been targeting?”

(At that point, it had been four weeks since I wrote my victory post and about two and a half weeks since I intentionally focused on visualizing it gone.)

She said the report didn’t mention it, but she’d go take a look at the image itself. When she returned, she admitted she’d been dreading it—because we were such nice people, she really didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news.

But then she smiled and said, “Well, if anything is there, it’s too small to see. I didn’t see anything.”

We weren’t surprised, but we were definitely happy. At least there was no visible sign of growth or new concerns. Of course, it’s not conclusive—CT scans typically can’t detect anything smaller than 2–3 mm. So we won’t be able to officially call it gone until the next, more sensitive PET scan (scheduled for next month).

(For context, when chemo started, the remaining cancerous lymph cluster after surgery measured 3 cm. Not enormous, but active and multiplying—clearly lit up on that first PET scan.)

Moved to My Own Room
Sometime that evening—my second night in the hospital—they told me they had a bed ready upstairs and were moving me. They were still waiting on final word from the doctor about whether I’d be discharged that day, but said it wouldn’t affect anything. If I was cleared to go home, I could still be released from the new room.

So, they wheeled me up, settled me in, and we waited for the discharge orders.

Finally, around 5 or 6 pm, the hospitalist came in and said they were ready to send me home. I asked if I could please finish the IV fluids that were already mid-infusion. I had been watching the drip bottle for two hours and it looked like it hadn’t moved at all.

He said, “Of course!” They checked the IV line, adjusted the flow to move faster, and added, “We’ll plan to discharge you in about four hours.”

Meanwhile… the Great Poop Exodus
My bowels finally decided to wake up. Eight ostomy bags full. Eight. No wonder I’d been in so much pain—there was nearly a week’s worth of food backed up in there, making me look seven months pregnant. I’m pretty sure I lost at least six pounds of poop. I felt like a proud mama. Honestly, we should have thrown a baby poop shower.

Thankfully, for at least the second half of the day, things started moving without pain, and I was so grateful for that small mercy.

Trevan had spent most of the day taking care of things at home, but he came back around 10pm so we could watch a show together. He stayed the night with me on the short hospital sofa—bless him.

Um... Change of Plans
Just as the infusion was wrapping up, the abdominal cramps came back—and this time, they brought diarrhea. They explained it’s often tricky to strike the right balance between constipation and diarrhea during chemo.

Since they weren’t about to send me home with a new problem only to have me boomerang right back, they decided to keep me a second night.

Meanwhile, I was texting my Sunday School substitute, trying to keep up with the uncertainty of whether I’d be back in time to teach Gospel Doctrine the next morning:

“I might need you…”
“Actually, looks like I’ll be home after all—you’re off the hook!”
“Just kidding, they’re keeping me another night—you’re back on deck.”

It wasn’t clear whether I’d make it until about 9am Sunday morning.
Brother Greer—thank you for your flexibility and willingness to jump in at a moment’s notice!

Finally, I was released Sunday morning, fully hydrated and so ready to be home.

5/7/2023 – Day 7 – Sunday
I stayed home from church, wiped out from my two-day hospital stay. I keep thinking I’ll be back to teaching Gospel Doctrine soon and keep preparing for it, but since my surgery, I think I’ve only actually taught once.

After a long nap, I felt noticeably better than I have on previous rounds. But then I found myself just… standing there, wondering: What do I do with myself now that I’m feeling good?

That’s when it hit me—while I’ve been so focused on visualizing myself well, I hadn’t really planned what I’d do once I got there.

If I don’t know how to spend my time on a good day, am I really ready to be well?

Sure, I’d already made a list of things I’d dive into after the cancer chapter closes—like hiking mountains and losing myself in family history rabbit holes—but I was suddenly feeling stuck in this weird limbo. I wasn’t sick-sick anymore… but I wasn’t all-clear yet, either. So what do I do in the “middle place”?

Definitely not climbing mountains just yet. And I wasn’t quite ready to get lost in genealogy research for days on end.

Trevan reminded me to take it easy. “Don’t overthink it,” he said. “Just take it a day at a time. You don’t need to be doing more right now.” He’s right—I do feel better, but I’m not back at full strength. So I do what I can: write, work on my business, do dishes when I have the energy, study my Sunday lesson materials, listen to music, and enjoy a good show (we’ve been loving The Reluctant Traveler lately!).

But more than anything, I just try to love my people. One of the biggest gifts of this experience has been a strong, renewed desire to slow down and soak up the joy in my most important relationships.

Week 2, Round 4 – The Doctor Nailed It!

5/8/2023 – Day 8 – Monday
Week two of Round 4 began, and for the first time, I felt like the round went exactly the way my doctor always intended. Week one came with some minor side effects, but week two? Pretty much normal. A little fatigue, but nothing like before.

I honestly think he’s finally nailed it. I’ve even found myself saying, “If this is how chemo always felt, I could totally do all 12 rounds.” The hope is still to stop at six, pending next month’s PET scan—but I’m feeling more at peace than ever about how long this journey takes. Because now? It’s really not that bad.

(Also: that ER trip? Totally avoidable if I’d just stayed hydrated. My doctor even told me I can go in for IV hydration any day I need it. Constipation was my only real complaint this round, and even that’s something I can manage.)

GI Follow-Up
That same Monday, I had my 3-month follow-up with the GI surgeon who did my colectomy in January. I shared the good news that my CEA levels were back in the normal range by 4/6/2023—after just two rounds of chemo. She was thrilled!

Then I asked if she had received the CT scan from my hospital visit over the weekend. She had only seen the report, so I asked if she’d be willing to pull up the image. “I’m just curious what you see of my tumor,” I said.

This is the doctor who found it originally—so she knew exactly what she was looking for. She left the room, and when she came back, she said with a big smile and shrug, “I couldn’t see anything. It’s not conclusive without a PET scan, but... this scan did have contrast, so…”

And that’s when I felt like I could finally start talking about all the thought-work and intention I’ve been doing behind the scenes, to prepare for a miracle.

I asked, “Is this unusually fast for a tumor to shrink?”
She replied, “Yes—this is really fast.” Then she added, “Let me know when your oncologist says you can be done with chemo and we’ll schedule to put you back together.” (Meaning the ostomy reversal.)

She emphasized the importance of following his recommendation so we only have to do this once. “Let’s be sure it’s really gone so you don’t have to go through this again.”

I asked how long after chemo I’d need to recover before the reversal surgery. She said the chemo just needs to be out of my system for four weeks. She also shared that she’s already been coordinating with my UroGyn so they can combine surgeries and get everything taken care of at once.

Things are starting to feel close.

Looking Ahead
Remember when we thought my pain was due to leaky gut, menopause, or prolapsed organs? Turns out, it was cancer. But I do still have prolapsed organs to fix when this chapter is done.

Originally, I thought I’d have to wait six months to a year after chemo to have surgery. But now it sounds like we’ll be able to take care of everything much sooner. My GI surgeon just needs four weeks’ notice, and the UroGyn schedules out about eight weeks—so it’s all lining up much better than I hoped.

If all continues as it has, it’s very possible I’ll be done after just two more rounds. But as I wrote in my (still unsent) victory post: “all this OR something better.” In other words, let it unfold as I imagined… or let it be even better than I dared dream.

I believe we’ll look back on this experience in awe—grateful for what the Lord taught us, how He helped us, and how our story may have helped others along the way.

5/9/2023 – Tuesday
I’m feeling normal-ish! No nausea meds needed. I’ve been resting, writing, eating, tasting, and drinking a ton of water. It’s only Tuesday of week two, and I’m amazed (and so, so grateful) that Round 4 turned out to be the sweet spot for dosage and outcome.

To close this out, I just want to say:

The prayers, the fasting, the names on temple rolls, the messages and encouragement… I’ve felt it all. It’s been powerful and real and sustaining.

Here’s how I see it:
Prayers and fasting invite the blessings—
but mindset is how we receive them.

I thank God for His Son, Jesus Christ. For how He overcame the world, for how He experienced every pain and heartbreak so He would know how to comfort us. I have felt that comfort. I have hope because of Him. I do not fear because of Him. His yoke is easy, and His burden is light. Truly, beauty from ashes. Life is so, so good.

Feeling Useful Again
Yesterday morning, a friend called and asked if I felt up to helping with an emergency—running some food over to her daughter’s school nearby.

YES. Yes I can, and yes I will.

I made the food, delivered it, and it felt like nothing. This little errand reminded me how good it feels to be useful again. To do the everyday things I once took for granted.

It’s good to be alive.