The last three weeks have been a ride.

I wish every post could be full of uplifting news—encouraging, inspiring, and wrapped in a neat little bow. But to be honest, I’m not even sure what I’m going to say here yet. Physically, this stretch was easier... but emotionally, it was a lot harder.

Before starting Round 6 on Monday, June 5th, we met with the doctor to talk through how the previous round had gone.

In short, I told him it wasn’t terrible, but some of my quirky side effects hadn’t fully resolved by the end of the last round—like we always hope they will. Nothing dramatic or debilitating, just odd things: feeling shaky or weak, like a train is rumbling nearby but I’m the only one who can feel it, or my tongue getting tangled in the middle of a sentence. Not classic neuropathy, but likely some version of it.

He asked if I was dropping things, and I said, “No, but my fine motor skills definitely aren’t what they used to be.” Precision and strength are down.

That seemed to concern him, so this time he gave me my next round without the strongest drug—the one he’s been tapering each time. This round, he cut it out completely to give me a bigger break.

What’s interesting is that with lower doses, I can function... but not at full capacity. When I couldn’t function at all, I didn’t even try. But now that I can do things (just slowly), it’s almost more frustrating—like living in slow motion when your brain wants to sprint.

Anyway, here we are—mid-infusion—helping people with school login issues. It's been like a game of whack-a-mole trying to solve them all these past few weeks.

(Our site had been running too slowly, so we brought in a developer to help speed things up—which he did! Unfortunately, the changes also triggered an issue where many students couldn’t see their lessons unless they cleared their cache and logged out/in again. Simple fix, but definitely an annoying hiccup for those affected. So sorry for the trouble, everyone!)

Round 6 is in the books!

Since the doctor removed one of the drugs, my infusion only took 2 hours instead of 4, so we went to see a movie on the way home:

I pretty much sailed through Round 6. I only took the anti-nausea medication on the first day as a precaution, but quickly realized I didn’t really need it. (I did take one more dose a few days later when I started to feel like I was on the verge—but that was it.)

Not needing the anti-nausea meds also made it easier to avoid constipation, which was a nice bonus. So overall, it was a great round, and we spent most of it counting down to my next PET scan the following week.

Week 2 of Round 6

On Tuesday, June 13, I got to spend time with some dear friends from our last ATI group. It was such a happy reunion—some even flew in from around the country to be there.

That might have been the most social I’ve been (outside of my own family) since my diagnosis—and it was so good for my soul. I haven’t laughed that much in a long time.

The very next day, we got to welcome our daughter home after three months of teaching English in Thailand:

Happy times.

Anticipating my PET scan

With all the good things happening that week, I stayed focused on getting good news from my upcoming scan. I didn’t think too much about the increasing aches and shooting pains in my abdomen and pelvic floor. (I had felt them before my first diagnosis last fall, but they disappeared after surgery.)

I chalked them up to digestive issues from not eating more carefully, or maybe ligaments tugging from unresolved prolapse—both already on my radar for when cancer is finally behind me. The PET scan would help us know how soon we could shift focus. We were eager to see what kind of progress the chemo had made.

Up until scan day, I had really pumped myself up for great news. I pictured us celebrating a clean scan. But when the actual day arrived, the reality of all the unknowns hit me.

Maybe I was feeling weaker because of the sore throat I woke up with the day before—still lingering that morning. But I couldn’t help wondering, What if I’ve been wrong? What if it isn’t gone, like the CT scan suggested last month? What if it’s spread everywhere?

(Weirdly enough, I also had a sore throat the day before my February scan. Go figure.)

As I sat in the waiting room, the spiral of “what-ifs” crept in. I closed my eyes, took some deep breaths, and prayed for calm. I reminded myself to return to the vision—to my peace. No matter the outcome, finding calm again was still my responsibility, and it was still possible.

I didn’t want fear to disqualify me from receiving a miracle if God had one in mind for me (see D&C 67:3). So I repented, re-centered, and consciously chose to believe that the best possible outcome was still unfolding.

To keep myself grounded, I opened my phone and created a note. I didn’t have much time—they could call me in at any moment—so it was a quick brain dump. Later, I came back and filled in the details. Here’s what I meant to say:

I need to come to peace with the potential of needing long term treatment. Lord, help me get there before my scan.

When fears linger even after I’ve set my intention, I have a few go-to strategies:

• I focus on gratitude with feeling

• I answer the “what ifs” logically, without emotion

• I let go and trust

Gratitude

Rather than continue to spin, I choose to shift my thoughts to gratitude to my doctor for dedicating his life to saving others' lives. While nobody is perfect, I acknowledge that he has invested years of his life and has sacrificed more than I know to be where he is, doing what he's doing for me now.

I know what it's like to give my life to a cause I believe in, and I am grateful that he has given his life to this cause that saves lives. His dedication has already benefitted me and many others. People are still alive today who otherwise might not have been, because of his diligence and dedication to know as much as he knows. I am grateful.

Now I was ready to face my fears:

Come to Peace with Worst Case Scenario

To qualify for the best possible outcome, I believe I must first come to peace with every possible unwanted outcome. So here goes... If I must battle this the rest of my life, I will live with it and make the most of it. I’ll stop wishing it away and try to be like my friend who has lived with stage 4 pancreatic cancer for the last 25 years, continuing to contribute and losing himself in serving others. I'll keep working to make the Rare Faith info easy for people to find and digest. I'll continue to create opportunities for others that work and make sense long term. I'll love and serve my husband and family, and work to develop in myself more of the attributes of Christ.

In short, IF the cancer is not gone, then I'll just have to shift gears to let the battle run in the background of my life instead of always being in the foreground. There's too much I need to be doing. I'll find a pace that allows me to stay in forward motion.

Lastly, I gave it to God.

His will, not mine

This is God’s story not mine. He can do whatever He wills for my life. If He wants to include a medical miracle in my story, I 100% welcome it. But if not, I ask for the strength and comfort to match or exceed whatever He needs me to experience.

All this or something better.

After jotting that down (in very shorthand form), I felt more peace. My prayers shifted from “Please let it be a clean scan” to “Please let there be good news.” I had already solidified my intention for a clean scan before—trying to force it again felt like vain repetition. So I moved forward, trusting that the intention was already in place.

PET scan prep

They called me back to the prep room, where I received the radioactive dye and had to sit still for 45 minutes. I dozed off to Kenny G playing on their wall CD. Then into the scanner for 30 minutes—and yep, another nap. I guess I really had found some calm after all.

Afterward, I reflected on what I truly wanted. Obviously, to be well. But also, to have bite-sized, encouraging milestones along the way. Something to remind me that God is still mindful of me.

I had the thought: Wouldn’t it be amazing if one of my healthcare providers described my healing as “remarkable”?

Trevan immediately reminded me: “Well… in the medical world, ‘remarkable’ usually means not good...” 😂 Touché.

(Years ago, one of our family members had a brain scan, and the report said her brain was “unremarkable.” She joked that it hurt her self-esteem, but in med-speak, it meant there was nothing wrong worth noting.)

So instead, I held onto the broader intention: Let it be good news. That felt better.

Let the scan be clear—or let me move forward anyway. Help us find a path that lets me live a full, meaningful life no matter what.

I also felt it was okay—more than okay—to ask for blessings that could overshadow the challenges. If the hard parts aren’t going to be taken away, could they at least be worth it? Could the comfort, love, and growth that come from it all be so rich and abundant that I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything?

Our wedding anniversary

That evening, we headed out of town to celebrate our 32nd anniversary a little early (the cabin wasn’t available on the actual day). The goal was simple: get our minds off cancer and just enjoy time together in the mountains.

So nice to be in cool weather!

The PET scan results

They usually send me the scan report a few days before my next appointment, though I’m not convinced it’s always best to read it without a doctor there to explain it.

This time, it arrived on Friday—while we were at the cabin.

I opened it and read the summary:

"Significant improvement in the left retroperitoneal mass. New moderate uptake along the Hartman's pouch suture line."

Sigh… Tumor NOT gone.

Yes, it had shrunk—down to about 1.2 cm from 2.7 cm—but it was still there. And now there was something new showing up that hadn’t been there before.

My heart sank.

(February 2023 scan) BEFORE:

(June 2023 scan) AFTER:

Another slice showing the new spots, with the old one not even visible:

When I saw the new spots, all my “think right” plans flew out the window.
I wanted to be grateful that the 3cm mass had shrunk so much, and I knew that’s where my focus should’ve gone… but all I could think about were the “new spots.” 😭

I guess God’s answer to my prayer for a clean scan was, “Not yet.”

And just like that, I spun out.
The battle isn’t over.
My thoughts raced:

What about the people following my story? What if there will be no miracle to share? Who was I to think I could expose my journey, and not set myself up for a very public failure? What’s the point of being here? How long would it take me to go Home if I stopped trying to fight this? (Yes, I was feeling overly dramatic and sorry for myself.)

(Yes, I was feeling overly dramatic and sorry for myself.)

I do believe miracles come more readily when we align with God’s laws and face our challenges with faith instead of fear. I’ve hoped to show what it looks like to walk that road. But in that moment, I kept spinning:

What if this whole experiment flops? What if I ate too many of the wrong things during treatment and that's why it's not clean? (More about that later.)

Feeling embarrassed

Even with all my disclaimers—that no matter the outcome, at least I’ll know I did my best, and that even without a miracle I can trust the best possible outcome is still unfolding—this not-clean scan left me feeling raw. Exposed. Embarrassed.
And I wasn’t sure how I’d share the update.

That night I went to bed discouraged and depleted. I was so tired of chemo. So devastated that something new had shown up anyway. I started Googling the medical terms from the report.

I learned the new FDG uptake at the staple line (where they reconnected my colon after surgery) is a known phenomenon. It shows up in about 1% of patients—so, hey, I guess I’m just extra special 🙄. But it can be a false positive.

Another report said it could be stray cancer cells that got trapped in the staples during the original surgery when they removed my softball-sized mass in January.

Either way, the silver lining?
When they go in to put my colon back together, it should be easy to just snip off that suspicious bit of tissue before closing me up. That helped calm my fears a little, and eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

The hidden benefit

The next day (Saturday), I was finally ready to look for the hidden benefit in what had felt like bad news. Because if there’s one thing the Law of Polarity guarantees, it’s that every experience that seems bad has something equally good contained within it.

And thankfully, it didn’t take long to spot the silver lining.

Maybe the new uptake at the staple line—unfortunate, but not alarming—is just the thing that gives doctors a justifiable reason to go back in. And maybe while they’re in there, they can remove the rest of the existing tumor, too.
It had been inoperable before…
But now? Maybe this "setback" is actually the fastest road to a clean scan.

And with that thought, I actually started to feel excited about the new spots.

Plus—no new lymph nodes or organs affected. That’s HUGE. That alone was enough to pivot me back to gratitude.

The rest of Saturday?
Filled with fun and adventure. We had breakfast at the ski resort restaurant:

Helped some more people with their login issues while we waited for our food:

Reflected on a historical marker:

Took a ride up the ski lift at Mt. Lemmon:

Had a bear sighting:

More to learn?

As I held onto hope that those new spots might actually lead to surgery—and a clean scan—sooner rather than later, I found myself wondering again: Have I truly learned all I’m supposed to from this experience?

I get that there’s still a gestation period—that natural time every seed needs to sprout and bear fruit. This isn’t just a cancer story; it’s a story of transformation, of changing me. But sometimes, I have my doubts, because honestly, I haven’t felt all that changed yet.

What I’m about to share wasn’t planned—this part of the story caught me off guard. But it’s real, so here goes…

The day before, feeling defeated and down, I gave in to a lot of junk food, snacks, and comfort treats. I know better, but our anniversary felt like an excuse, and I was craving comfort with all the worry swirling around that scan.

To be honest, since my diagnosis, I’ve turned to comfort food way too often. One nurse even told me, “Eat whatever sounds good whenever you can, because some days you won’t feel well enough to eat at all.” That made sense at the time. I knew I should be eating perfectly, sticking to clean, cancer-fighting foods, but chemo changes everything—food tastes different, and I was just grateful when something didn’t make me want to gag.

Feeling sick and overwhelmed, I couldn’t handle a major diet overhaul then. I figured I’d focus on fixing my eating habits once chemo was behind me and the cancer was gone.

My diet

Yes, I know sugar feeds cancer. But living in physical and emotional survival mode, I had to pick my battles. I even thought, If this brutal chemo isn’t enough to kill the cancer despite an occasional PB & J sandwich or cookie, then maybe I’m just meant to die.

(Trevan hates when I say stuff like that—so forgive me for putting it here. I’ve retracted those words and try not to speak like that anymore, but I’m including it because it’s part of my honest story.)

I worry about judgment—from people who’ve already conquered their health and diet struggles. That’s why this feels scary to admit. But I’m sharing it anyway because, spoiler alert, there’s a happy ending.

  😉

The Headaches

One thing I’ve dealt with for years—long before my cancer diagnosis—is headaches. I’m pretty sure they’re tied to food sensitivities, because I’ve identified several consistent triggers. Safflower oil is one. Ritz crackers. Hard-boiled eggs (but oddly, not scrambled or fried). Some brands of bread—especially the "healthy" ones, which sometimes hit me harder than the standard stuff. Even broccoli triggered one once, which completely threw me. And of course, too much sugar is a surefire culprit.

When I eat clean—meaning unprocessed, low-sugar foods—I generally don’t get headaches. But if you’ve ever tried to eat clean, you know how challenging it can be. Junk is everywhere and always convenient. The good stuff often takes longer to find, longer to prep, and isn’t always what sounds appetizing—especially when you’re juggling a lot or constantly on the move.

After a particularly tough chemo round (where the headaches were somehow worse than the chemo itself), I saw my oncologist. Pain relievers weren’t touching the pain, so he prescribed a narcotic. But because I’ve struggled with sugar and food addiction, I knew using something potentially addictive to escape another form of pain might not be the best move for me. I had the prescription filled… but never took it.

Side effects of chemo—or sugar addiction?

If I’m being honest, a lot of the symptoms I’ve dealt with over the last six months can’t all be blamed on chemo. Sure, chemo has amplified them—but the buzzing, headaches, fatigue, brain fog… those were all things I was already battling before treatment began.

I’d get headaches if I had too much sugar—and also if I stopped having sugar. Withdrawal symptoms can hit just as hard as overdoing it.

For the record, I don’t sit around bingeing candy bars all day. Yes, I’ll indulge in a treat for a special occasion, something sweet after a meal, or while watching a show. But I’m also talking about hidden sugars—in things like ketchup, peanut butter, spaghetti sauce, salad dressing, drinks, even chewable vitamins. Sugar is everywhere. It’s discouraging when everyone else seems fine eating “normal” food, while I have to constantly read labels or hunt for replacements.

I drink mostly water, but when it comes to food, I usually just eat what everyone else is eating. And that’s part of the problem.

So here’s the point…

That Friday—when the scan results had me feeling crushed—I turned to comfort food. Pizza. Chocolate. Kettle corn. Licorice from the Summerhaven marketplace (photo below). And yes, even Ritz crackers.

I tried the “baked” version, thinking maybe they wouldn’t knock me out like the originals do… but they did.

For a while, I thought I was getting away with my indulgences. But Saturday morning, a slight headache started to creep in. We drove down the mountain to attend a wedding, and I had a small slice of cake. I was still feeling excited—grateful for what the new spots on the scan might mean, hopeful that they’d fast-track me to surgery—but the headache kept building.

The facts hadn’t changed

Somewhere along the drive, a thought hit me: I had been absolutely miserable just 24 hours earlier, discouraged and spinning about my scan. And yet now? I was optimistic and even excited... about the same scan.

Nothing about the facts had changed. The only thing that changed was the way I was thinking about them.

Reality had stayed still, while my mind ran wild with possibilities. Life wasn’t messing with me—my thoughts about life were messing with me.

And that’s when I remembered: I get to choose what I think. I get to shape how I interpret my experiences. Life is truly lived in the mind. The meaning we give events—the stories we tell ourselves about what’s happening—are constructs of our own imagination. Honestly, this post? It’s just me assigning meaning and creating a story around a few basic facts.

In any moment, what is, just is. Facts, by themselves, are neutral—until we give them meaning.

And in this moment? I am alive. I am well. I am okay. I have everything I need. The only time I spiraled into depression was when I wandered into the land of "what-ifs"—a future that doesn’t even exist yet.

But in the now, God has given me exactly what I need.

So that’s my takeaway: Live in the moment. Come back to gratitude.

Here’s a picture of Trevan and me, leaving the wedding:

On the way back to the cabin, we were followed by the Mandalorian:

He passed us and later pulled over so I was able to snap a better shot as we drove by:

By the time we got back to the cabin Saturday evening, my headache was out of control. I honestly don’t remember them ever being that bad. I was frustrated—mad at myself for pushing the limits and effectively ruining the rest of our weekend. These headaches can take anywhere from two to four days to fully resolve, and I knew I was in for a rough stretch.

Trevan was so compassionate, doing everything he could to ease the pain. Pain relievers don’t work for these, but cold packs usually take the edge off. Since we didn’t have one at the cabin, we used a cold, wet washcloth instead.

Prayer for comfort

As the pounding in my head intensified, the optimism I had about the scan began to fade. I found myself spiraling again—worrying that at my Monday appointment, the doctor would say we should just let chemo finish the job instead of trying to cut the tumor out. I didn’t want that. I wanted it cut out.

Desperate for relief, I maneuvered to my knees and tearfully prayed, asking God to send the Comforter. “You promised You would not leave us comfortless,” I said. Almost immediately, a sense of calm washed over me. The urge to cry faded. I still had the headache, and I was still curled up in bed feeling sorry for myself that food—something so basic—could do this to me. It just didn’t seem fair.

Fresh courage take

But in that dark place, something shifted. I felt a surge of courage. A moment of clarity. I knew it was time to finally TAKE ON my diet—not after the cancer was gone, but now. The pain was so intense that suddenly, nothing tempting felt worth it. I realized there would be no easier moment to make a high-quality commitment than this one.

Some people are strong enough to change their diets the moment they get diagnosed. I wasn't one of them. But here, in my pain, was my turning point.

Eventually, I fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, I wasn’t even tempted by the spread of fun foods still in the cabin. The desire was gone. It just wasn’t worth it anymore.

I had prayed for years to want to change. And finally, between a scan that hinted this might be a longer road than I’d hoped, and a debilitating headache from the junk I’d eaten, I was ready.

No more waiting

I decided right then: I can’t wait for things to be different before I start being different.

I looked back on the challenges I’ve faced in life and remembered the grit and determination it took to overcome them. No, I don’t have a perfect track record of being healthy and strong, but I do have a solid track record of overcoming hard things. It’s time to bring that same fire to this.

A long-overdue answer to prayer

This isn’t a new struggle. I’ve just resisted admitting how serious it’s been. If I’m honest, it probably even played a role in me getting cancer. (And yes, I still wrestle with the question: Why can other people eat junk and not get cancer? Pity party... sorry, moving on.)

While searching for a copy of my patriarchal blessing on my computer, I stumbled across an old note from March 22, 2022:

Studying Come Follow Me with Jared Halverson's podcast. Lesson about Pharaoh not letting the Israelites go is like saying we will let go of our sins but really wanting to keep them close.

I have a sugar addiction, and part of me remembers what it was like to be a youth and making permanent choices that I never compromised. I used to be good at that because I was very black and white. Now that I am more understanding and patient with myself and others (understanding better the role of mercy and the power of the atonement), I also find myself being easier on myself, and feel like I've lost that black and white ability to cut things off forever.

Prayed for help, knowing I need a perspective shift. I know I would feel better if I found what I should do -- something that is actually possible for ME in a culture that really values treats....

Last night I dreamt that my house was hosting a bunch of people, and a little girl (someone I see often in stock photography) was sick in bed with a cold or covid. I walked past and she wanted to talk to me. ... I backed up because I didn't want to be breathed on, and she was a little bothered by that. But then she told me she noticed I was still using a deodorant that had three toxins in it. I told her that I bought the one that promised not to have them, and she disagreed, saying that it still has the 3 it shouldn't have.

Then she started to point out how she has been making right choices, and look how thin she is, and then she pointed at my middle and gently said, "You can do better". I was of course bothered by her telling me what to do so I thanked her and left, annoyed.

Then we were in a larger building like a church but it was more like a campus with sidewalks between everything and I was sort of setting up for a banquet with food and drinks near every building. I lent my favorite serving trays but they got lost so I spent most of the dream looking for them. Meanwhile, all the food everywhere looked good but I didn't dare eat it because it had been left out and some of the fruit had bugs in them.

The girl showed up again and was pointing out how unhealthy I was, reminding me I could do better, and saying, "That's why I nominated you." For what? Not sure. But some other woman walked up to me as the girl left and said, "That girl is famous."

I don't know what all that means but I didn't wake up with much of an appetite...

I just pray to find the decision I need to make and have the strength to make it despite our culture. Sugar is in nearly everything nowadays, so to avoid it perfectly may not be possible.

I have a friend who gave up chocolate 21 years ago and hasn't missed it. I aspire to be more like that.

Wow. I wrote that nearly a year and a half ago.

A blessing in disguise

Finding that note was such a gentle reminder: I’ve been praying for help for a long time. Most of the time, it’s been something like, “Please help me want to want to.” And now—finally—the answer arrived… in the form of a headache.

But let’s be honest: headaches alone had never been enough to wake me up. Even a cancer diagnosis wasn’t enough. I guess I’m just so stubborn that it took both hitting at the same time to finally shake me into readiness. That combo gave me the push I needed to make a real, lasting, quality decision.

Sunday morning

The headache didn’t resolve immediately, but at least now I was headed in the right direction. I know the difference between wishing for change and deciding to change. And this time, it was a real decision.

(As of today—one week later—I’m already feeling stronger. I'm also down 4 pounds.)

Trevan took this photo after we got home Sunday night:

Peace on the Path

Every so often, I still receive messages from kind people suggesting alternatives to chemo. Sometimes their comments stir up fear—making me wonder if we’re supposed to do something entirely different—and other times they simply prompt more reflection and research. But in every case, Trevan and I take the time to consider the information thoughtfully, and we always circle back to what we feel is the wisest next step for us.

Everyone’s journey is different. People respond differently to different treatments. So all we can do is follow the path that both Trevan and I feel prayerfully aligned with. It brings me so much peace and confidence when we arrive at the same conclusion—together.

As we were packing up to leave the cabin, Trevan offered a prayer that really stuck with me. He asked that the doctors would be inspired to do no more and no less than what I need. His words hit my heart. That’s exactly what we want. And I felt a strong confirmation that his request aligned with the Lord’s will, too.

At this point, we’ve added a few more naturopathic elements to our plan—but not as a replacement. Just supportive additions. If surgery ends up being the route that removes the remainder of the tumor, we’ll revisit our options again at that time and prayerfully decide what’s next.

Still, I felt some anxiety about the possibility of my doctor suggesting more chemo instead of surgery—especially after reading his message:

"Hi Leslie, tumor appears to be shrinking nicely with treatment. Look forward to discussing details at your next appointment."
His words “with treatment” definitely stood out.

But even if more chemo is needed, at least this time I’ll be going into it with new dietary habits that should significantly improve how I feel through it.

Trevan and I also made a firm commitment: we wouldn’t move forward with any plan unless both of us felt good about it. If we didn’t have that unity and peace, we were prepared to pause, get a second opinion, or do more research until we did.

Monday, June 19 – Meeting with the Doctor

Before heading to my oncologist’s appointment, I called my GI surgeon’s office to see if I could speak with her about surgery—to potentially help move things along. I explained the situation to the scheduler, and she said she’d get back to me.

Meanwhile, I was scheduled to meet with my oncologist to review my scan results, and then—according to the plan—have another chemo infusion.

But I didn’t want another infusion. I wanted surgery.

Still, with my renewed commitment to healthier eating now firmly in place, I walked into that appointment ready to face whatever outcome the conversation would bring.

The Doctor’s Visit

When the doctor came in and asked how I was doing, I shared that Round 6 had definitely been easier than the others, but some of the quirky issues were still hanging on. I admit, I was ready to give him every reason I could think of to justify skipping chemo this week and sending me to the OR instead—lol. Since the surgeon needs me off chemo for four weeks before operating, I was really hoping we could at least get that countdown started.

So, I reported everything I could:

• Shooting pains

• Heart racing

• Headaches

• Hot flashes

• Night sweats

• Clumsy tongue

• Difficulty swallowing

• Shaky hands

• Fine motor issues

• Blurry vision

He listened and took notes.

For the heart racing, he suggested trying a body scan meditation, knowing I wasn’t interested in medication for anxiety. Then we moved on to talk about the PET scan. He said it was great news, and he felt confident the new spots were most likely just inflammation—not malignancy. He explained that it’s an unusual location for my type of cancer to spread, but he’d defer to my GI surgeon for her opinion.

And here’s the twisted part: I actually felt a little disappointed that he didn’t think it was cancer. I know—that sounds crazy. But I thought if it was cancer, it might make surgery feel more urgent.

So I told him, “If I had my vote, I’d love to have surgery as soon as possible—to trim off the staple line, reverse my ostomy, and maybe even remove the rest of the tumor. I’d really like to do it before chemo diminishes me so much that it’s harder to bounce back.” (They’re also planning to repair my prolapsed organs during that same surgery.)

Support for Surgery

He responded positively. He said he was supportive of surgery and would speak with my surgeon to see if she thought she could go after the remaining tumor. He also mentioned presenting my case to the tumor board to get a group consensus on the best course of action. Until we get a surgery date, though, he still wanted me to continue with chemo.

That said, because of the lingering side effects, he decided (on his own) to remove another drug from the mix and keep me on a low-maintenance version of the treatment until surgery. I couldn’t help but remember Trevan’s prayer—that the doctors would be inspired to do no more and no less than what I need—and it felt like that prayer was already being answered.

He also ordered a special pathology test on my blood to check for any signs of undetected spread. We left the appointment feeling good about the plan. I was especially encouraged that he believed surgery to reverse the ostomy could still happen even without a fully clean scan.

At least now I had something tangible to look forward to.

And with that, we left the exam room… and headed straight to the infusion chair.

Less than 2 hours later...

Round 7 was in the books.

Back to Myself

As I write this, it’s been a week since my 7th infusion—and I’ve felt great. Truly. Being off sugar and on a lower dose of chemo has made a huge difference. Nearly all of the lingering side effects have finally faded. And while I didn’t get to have surgery right away, the ball is officially rolling.

Then on Thursday, June 22nd, I got a call from my GI surgeon. She told me she had reviewed my scan, spoken with my oncologist, and they had both discussed my case with the tumor board that Tuesday. She said she wants to move forward with scheduling my ostomy reversal as soon as she can coordinate it with the UroGyn, who will do the prolapse repair during the same surgery.

But then she added something I didn’t expect.

She said—even the tumor board agreed—there wasn’t anything on the scan they’d confidently label a malignancy. Not at the staple line. Not even where the remaining tumor had been.

She said she’d still take a closer look during surgery but suspected the spot is now so small she probably won’t even be able to see it—let alone remove it. She’s happy to try if the radiologist can pinpoint it, but apparently, he said it was “too small and insignificant” to target.

Her words:

“If I find something, I’ll certainly remove it if I can, but I’m not going to go digging. I think what we’re seeing on the scan is fake.”

Wait—what??

I had to clarify: “Did you say the spot looked vague, or fake?”

She repeated:

“Fake. I really don’t think there’s anything there.”

And suddenly… a quiet, cautious hope.

Is it possible that—despite my very human, imperfect, and fumbling efforts to align with the best possible outcome—this whole “experiment” actually worked?

Could the tumor... really be gone?

I don’t know 🤷. It’s still unclear. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.
But for what’s next, that part doesn’t even matter right now.

Because I’m finally re-entering normal life.
I’m actively pursuing things I’d put on hold. I’m no longer waiting for cancer to be behind me—I’m choosing to live forward again. I'm getting my house in order, recommitting to my health and diet, and making preparations for the surgery (likely in August) to reverse my ostomy.

It’s another huge step toward normalcy—and I’m so ready for it.

What a ride.

PS – Has This Brought Me Closer to God?

When I first got my diagnosis, someone asked, “So has this challenge brought you closer to God?”

And I answered, honestly:

“Well… I’ve felt closer.”

Meaning: I could remember times in my life where I had felt really close to Him, but at that moment—still early in the trial—I didn’t feel like I’d gained any deeper connection yet. And honestly, that question has haunted me a little ever since.

I’ve wondered: Am I letting this experience bring me closer to Him?
Or do I too often slip into feeling forgotten—focusing on what I lack, envying others who enjoy the blessings I wish I had?

The truth? It depends on the day.

I just try to make sure that more often than not, my days are filled with hope, gratitude, and optimism. I don’t escape all the downer days—and I don’t think we’re expected to.

So I remind myself of the barges the Brother of Jared built, and the Lord’s promise to him:

"For behold, ye shall be as a whale in the midst of the sea; for the mountain waves shall dash upon you. Nevertheless, I will bring you up again out of the depths of the sea; for the winds have gone forth out of my mouth, and also the drains and the floods have I sent forth."

(—Ether 2:24, emphasis added)

I try to believe the same is true for me.

That the hard days aren’t for nothing.
That the waves I face are the very things pushing me toward the promised blessings.
And that each time I feel I’ve been dashed down, the Lord is there—bringing me up again.

After the storms of the past few weeks, I feel Him doing that now.

And I’m grateful.

_______

Thank you everyone for your continued love and support.

Next Update

_________________

•   To discover how to start choosing more effectively now, read The Jackrabbit Factor (FREE!)  
•   If you want more step-by-step guidance on creating the life you really want, join me in the Mindset Mastery program.
•   If you want my help overcoming that giant obstacle right in front of you, learn more and sign up for Genius Bootcamp.