Cancer. Again

It hit me when we walked through the main entreance. This is where my Dad came the day before he died. He had a wonderful day here at Roswell Cancer Center. A day filled with smooth running timely appointments. Meeting with doctors that gave hom hope. Thoughts about the donation he wanted to make. The first time he asked anyone how much time he had left.

Less than 24 hours later, he would be pronounced dead in a trauma bay, in another hospital accross town. Eight days after his birthday. By someone else's mistake (that's been handled).

26 years earlier than today I walked through these doors, but they were different as this was a new building. I was a volunteer curious if I wanted to go to nursing school. What I experienced here changed my life forever and solidified that decision.

Today I was here with my husband, as we navigate yet another chapter of his cancer journey. What are the chances we live in a city with a major cancer center? What are the chances we live within 60 miles of a second one, the one I volunteered at?

As unlucky as all of this has been, it's incredible luck that we live where we live.

As cancer knocks on the door yet again, I have run out of fingers and toes that track the times I have dealt with this monster in one way or another.

In 2013 I raced Lance Armstrong and raised $100,000 (yes, one hundred thousand dollars) for what was then known as Teens Living with Cancer (now Thirteen31 Cancer Connect). Throughout the past 25 years I have taken care of countelss children with Cancer. Said goodbye to too many little ones who would never make it to even half my age. Don't I get a cancer pass? Doesn't my husband? He's one of the good guys, why him?

The emotions are difficult and fast changing, and I am not even the patent. The cancer is dangerous, the prognosis looks favorable, the treatments are NEW, not even around just ten years ago.

What a time to be diagnosed, what a place to live to have the access. But come on Cancer, can't you just go away for a little while?

Then I breathe. We have two incredible teams, a plan, and one hell of an athlete taking this on. Cancer messed with the wrong guy yet again. These situations are ones of science, faith and hope. Dad always said that no matter what, we have to always have hope. There have even been studies on just how powerful hope is. The results: it's extraordinarily powerful.

As I said before I don't think we get to pray for cures. I think we can pray for courage. That's what I pray for. I need my dad right now. I need to call him and bounce all of these options off of him. He'd have the research done before I hung up the phone and he would be able to look at all of it objectively and walk me through it logically.

When I feel that loss so deeply, I feel his presence at the same time. I have studies saved to my phone. Printed ouut. I have researched everything about the miracle thet immunotherapy is for cancers like my husband's. They are game changers. Life savers. 20 years ago he wouldn't stand a chance. Today? Cancer doesn't stand the chance.

As I walked out of Roswell today, I looked back at the man playing guitar in the lobby. I wondered what music they were playing the day my Dad was here. He loved music. He was listening to Mozart when he died. As that hole in my heart comprised of grief began to swell up, it was simultaneously replaced by this immense feeling of hope. I realized that he was there, guiding us through all of this. We just need to slow down, listen, and lean into hope.