Father’s Day Reflections
Today is Father’s Day. I did a post about how this past Mother’s Day landed with me, and now here we are at Father’s Day.
I didn’t have any expectations of what I should or shouldn’t be feeling today, so I allowed any and all emotions to surface as they needed to. And honestly, I think the types of emotions I felt would have been much different if things had turned out differently at Kev’s most recent oncology appointment this past Friday.
The Reality of Cancer
It’s still wild to me at times that Kevin has cancer. That he sees an oncologist. That he gets chemo every other week, which lasts for 46 hours. That he comes home with a chemo pump so he continually receives medication for almost two full days. It still feels unreal.
On Friday, he had his first PET scan. We didn’t know what to expect. If the cancer is still alive, it will light up…but if there is no lighting up, then there is no cancer.
When his oncologist came into the room, there was a lightness about him. He told us the radiologist hadn’t completed the official report yet, but he had reviewed the images himself and was really happy with what he saw. He turned off the lights and spun the computer screen toward us. He walked us through the anatomy and explained that he couldn’t see any cancer. He showed us the comparison to the recent CT scan and pointed out how much the “caking” in his peritoneum had gone down. In fact, there was no caking. The entire abdomen appeared to be cancer-free. His confidence was unmistakable, and he didn’t hold back. We could hear the optimism—and almost shock—in his voice, too.
Understanding the Diagnosis
Kevin’s tumor is a poorly differentiated tumor. I had no idea what that meant when we first began learning about his cancer. The main tumor is located at the cecum and appendix, and when they identified the original site, they also “grade” the tumor. His is a grade 3 tumor—the most aggressive kind. These tumors appear very abnormal and grow and spread more quickly than lower-grade cancers. Being stage four, we knew this journey would be challenging and we’d need everything to carry him through.
So when his doctor said he couldn’t see any evidence of cancer, we were beyond surprised and relieved. We were shocked. As quickly and traumatically as the cancer came into our lives, it now seems to have left just as abruptly.
Taking It All In
Many people have reached out with love after hearing this amazing news, which has been incredible. Everyone keeps asking if we celebrated Friday night, a totally normal question. But we didn’t. We’re still absorbing the results. We had a cup of tea and watched Netflix, pausing it every now and then to remember and make sense of the good news we had received just a few hours earlier.
When you’ve experienced trauma, you go into protection mode—whether you realize it or not. A cancer diagnosis is trauma. Trauma for the person diagnosed, and trauma for their loved ones. And the way each of us protects ourselves is incredibly different and nuanced. For me, protection meant reading everything I could about his cancer. Learning so I could ask questions. Preparing myself so I could imagine all the possible outcomes.
If you’ve ever been where I am—cancer or not—you know how researching can bring both comfort and fear. You learn all the facts, all the possibilities. And for Kevin’s cancer, the statistics were not comforting. But here’s the thing: the statistics don’t know him. They don’t know us. Cancer came into our lives—as it does for many people—but cancer didn’t know how this man would care for himself.
Hope and Hesitation
So I say all this with hope, love, and confidence—but yes, there’s still hesitancy, fear, and armor. The armor is slowly coming down, though. But we still have a ways to go—surgery is next, and possibly HIPEC (hot chemo) to eliminate any remaining microscopic cancer.
Do I feel safe? Are we safe? Is he safe?
Yes. Yes, I think so.
I’m softening. I’m trying.
Because I believe the energy we put out is the energy we receive. I’m not saying this to jinx…or not jinx…anything. I’m not a superstitious person. It’s just that there are so many complex emotions woven into all of this.
A Written Miracle
I wrote all of the above on Sunday. Today is Tuesday.
This morning, I reread the doctor’s notes from Friday. He literally wrote: “A PET/CT performed today shows an incredible complete metabolic and anatomic remission due to chemo-biologic therapy.” And later: “He has had a nothing-short-of-miraculous response to prolonged chemo-biologic therapy, with no residual visible peritoneal or mesenteric carcinomatosis at all.”
It is a miracle. He is a miracle. And it’s still sinking in.
We talked last night and again this morning—still absorbing, still learning to trust this news. Still letting ourselves be vulnerable and open to what this might mean.
We both believe the chemo absolutely worked—but we also believe that Kevin’s care for himself before and during treatment played a massive role. His nutrition, sleep, resting, running, therapy, inspiring podcasts while building Legos, ice baths and sauna contrast therapy, his positive mindset. The literal manifestation he stated so clearly in January: Beat cancer.
(I tried uploading a picture of the actual note but my computer is being annoying…I’ll share the pic when I can…because it is literal magic. 💫)
And then there’s the mystical, unseen part of healing. The energy that was surrounding us and holding us up through all of this. The prayers. The love. The positive energy that carried him…and all of us…from the very beginning. The amazing strength of the unseen world, and of God, and of love.
And, of course, the earthly kind of care we received too—the GoFundMe, the food, the texts, the calls, the hugs. The outpouring of love, time, and generosity from so many. It all helped heal him. It all contributed to his ability to beat this.
A Softer Approach to Healing
My dear friend Gillie shared something she had learned during this journey too: instead of going to war with cancer, speak to it lovingly. Don’t see it as a battle. Imagine the cancer cells not as enemies, but as confused, unhealthy cells that have lost their way and need care and redirection…not punishment.
I shared this idea with Kev: talk to your cancer. Say, It’s okay. I’m not mad at you. But you don’t need to be here anymore. You’ve lost your way. You can leave now.
I don’t know if Kev ever spoke to his cancer that way…but I did. When I pray, I don’t shame his cancer with anger and fear. I say: I see you, cancer. But we don’t need you. Go be healed. Please leave Kevin’s body.
After Memorial Day, Kev and I went to a sound bath. The facilitator was a stage 3 colorectal cancer survivor who credited his healing to a holistic approach. He was a firm believer in chemotherapy and radiation, but he also attributed his healing to the power of sound and a positive mindset.
He spoke about sound waves and music as healing tools, helping the body shift into a state where it can actually recover. He shared another gentle metaphor: what if cancer is like a crying baby?
You wouldn’t go to war with a crying baby. You’d soothe it. You’d hold it.
So again—talk kindly to your cancer. Rock it back to sleep.
I cried when he shared that. And I adopted that mindset too. When I pray, I visualize the cancer as a baby. The chemo isn’t poison, it’s the bottle. It soothes. It heals.
Dreaming Again
This morning, we started to dream of the future again. We talked about a business we want to begin. We talked about summer vacation. Again…we dreamed.
We dreamed of renting an Airbnb in Italy when the boys are older and don’t need us in the same way. Maybe Europe. Maybe Palm Springs. To live. To love. To see the world together. To travel and continue growing and expanding ourselves with each other.
We dreamed of the life we still get to live together. The time and space that we’ve been gifted.
It felt good. It felt right.
A New Chapter
This whole journey has been one giant excavation. Of wounds, of fear, of control, of surrender. Of learning to prioritize our needs. Of gratitude. Of love.
It is not over. But Friday was a huge win.
And we are finally leaning into the joy and excitement that this news…these test results…have brought us.
We are living in the present as peacefully as we can… without thinking too much about what has already happened or what could happen in the future. But we are allowing ourselves to dream again—and that is huge.
Until next time,
Lauren
P.S.
As I was finishing this piece, Prophecy by Taylor Swift came on. It always stops me in my tracks. It’s been a quiet companion during this cancer journey—probably because it taps into the unseen, mystical world that I love so much and continue to learn from and lean into.
So, I decided to pull a tarot card.
I’m new to tarot…still learning. So I asked ChatGPT to help me understand what my card meant. I pulled the Justice card.
Here's what it said:
Justice is a card of truth, clarity, and karmic balance. It suggests that things are coming back into alignment, and that what you’ve put into the world—your effort, your love, your intentions—is being recognized. It’s a reminder that healing can be real, that outcomes can be fair, and that sometimes, the universe restores balance in ways that feel nothing short of miraculous.
That felt right. That felt like now.
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