When the Quiet Isn’t Peaceful
Some nights, the quiet feels like a blanket. Other nights, it feels like a weight. The night before writing this, I lay in bed while the world slept around me, and all I could hear was the heavy thud of my own heart. The kind of night when your body is still, but your mind refuses to rest.
I tried to calm myself by remembering September—that miraculous day when my CT scan showed the tumors had started to shrink. It was a moment of unexpected grace, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds that had lingered far too long. It gave me hope. Real hope. The kind that makes you believe healing is possible.
But cancer doesn’t clock out at bedtime. It sneaks in when you’re tired, when your guard is down, when you’re alone with your thoughts.
The Battle in the Dark
That night, a dream shook me awake. In it, everything I feared came true.
That’s the side of cancer most people don’t talk about—not just the doctor visits and the treatments, but the mental war zone that opens up at 3 a.m. The doubts. The “what ifs.” The way fear tries to rewrite the story you’ve been telling yourself.
This disease is a full-time opponent. You fight it with medicine, yes—but you also fight it with every ounce of mental resilience you can scrape together when the lights go out and the future feels uncertain.
December 2: The Next Big Test
The next CT scan is scheduled for December 2. It’s the first since that life-changing result in September. I’ve had three months to sit with that good news—and three months to wonder what’s happening inside my body now.
Every infusion, every prayer, every quiet conversation with God, every moment of fatigue—I’ve carried them all with one goal: healing. This scan will tell us whether that healing has continued.
Is the train still moving in the right direction?
Have the tumors shrunk more?
Have any disappeared?
I want to believe the miracle didn’t stop in September. I want to walk out of that scan room with more good news. I want to know the story isn’t finished.
What I’m Holding On To
As the scan gets closer, I find myself clinging to the same hope that has held me up when my legs felt unsteady and my spirit felt thin. Hope has become the quiet engine inside me, the thing that keeps me moving forward even on days when my body wants to tap out. I’m praying to feel that same deep peace I felt in September, the moment when the results whispered to me that my time here isn’t finished. It felt like God reached down and steadied me. It felt like the universe aligned in a way only the Law of Attraction can explain, sending back the energy I had been pouring out in faith, gratitude, and belief that healing was possible.
I am thankful for every sign, every moment of reassurance, every small blessing that shows up in unexpected ways. I talk to God daily, but I also speak to the universe, asking it to match the vibration of the life I want to keep living. More sunrises with Sarah. More quiet mornings writing. More moments where my sons make me laugh. More breath, more joy, more chances to say thank you for another day.
Because that is what I’m fighting for. Not just survival, but time. Not just time, but meaningful moments. The memories I still want to make. The conversations I still want to have. The hugs I still want to give. The life I still feel inside me, stubborn and determined, waiting for me to keep showing up.
I Can’t Do This Without You
This road is far too heavy to walk alone, and I am grateful every single day that I have not had to take a single step by myself. You have been beside me more than you probably realize. Your prayers, your messages, your donations, your belief in my healing, your simple words of encouragement on days when I felt defeated—they have all created a net that has caught me when I was falling.
There have been mornings when getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain. Days when my body hurt, when the fatigue pressed down like a weight, when the emotional battle felt even harder than the physical one. On those days, it was your kindness that kept me going. You lifted me when I could not lift myself. You reminded me that even in the darkest stretch of this journey, I am not walking blind and I am not walking alone.
Your support has kept the lights on in our home, literally and figuratively. It has helped pay for treatments that give me a fighting chance. It has given my wife and sons hope on days when fear tried to take over. It has given me the strength to keep believing that healing is not only possible, but happening. Your support is not just appreciated, it is life sustaining. It is part of my medicine.
I wish I could adequately express how much your love and compassion have meant to me. How much lighter the load feels because you’re helping me carry it. How deeply I feel every prayer spoken on my behalf, every message sent my way, every dollar donated to keep me going. You have been a blessing in ways I cannot measure.
So now I ask again, from a humble and grateful place in my heart, will you walk with me into December 2? Will you pray with me as I face this next scan? Will you send your strength, your faith, your good thoughts, your positive energy, whatever feels true to you?
Will you help carry the weight one more time?
Because I believe this next chapter could be another miracle. And I want you with me when it arrives.
If You Feel Moved to Help
If you’re able, your continued support—emotionally, spiritually, or financially—means everything. This journey is expensive. Not just in dollars, but in energy, time, and faith.
And yet, with your help, we’ve already seen miracles.
Let’s keep going.
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With All My Heart, Thank You
Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring. Thank you for believing in healing—even when it’s hard.
I’ll keep showing up, scan after scan, because I have something worth fighting for. And I’m blessed to have you in my corner.