The Story Turns

As any good story does

Dear Friends —

When I last checked in, I had a broadly encouraging update to report. I was deep in mouse-land, acclimating to a promising new trial drug, and reassured that my last scan of my lungs showed broadly stable outcomes. Too soon to celebrate as a unbridled win, but reassuring enough to stay the course.

Then, two weeks ago, puzzling new developments emerged. I experience random bouts of nausea, lousy headaches, and a mild sense of losing my balance. Could it be odd side effects from Minnie? Possibly. But like a good mouse, I reported the new oddities to my smart team at UCSF and they ordered a brain MRI to rule out anything more problematic.

In the midst of these confusing days, and is often the case with my story over these nearly five years, a swoop of joy arrived to co-exist in some of the chaos. Wonderful Connor — my spring break college junior — arrived home for a little recharge time. “What I need is time to sleep and reset,” he said.

“Guess what, so do I,” I replied. We decided God made the couch for just these kinds of weeks. We nestled in.

Spring break 2024

But Wednesday arrived, and with it, the important news from the brain MRI that was meant to tell us that worrisome weirdness was only just that: weirdness.

Instead, my trial director from UCSF, the brilliant Dr. K, called to share the news. “This isn’t easy to share,” she said. “We’ve discovered a small group of mets now in your brain, and this explains these odd new symptoms you’re experiencing.”

This, as you can imagine, was an awful phone call. Whenever you hear the words “brain” and “cancer” and “mets,” the only reasonable response is to cry out in terror, pump your fists in outrage, and declare it all madness. I did some of that, but something else happened too. I listened carefully to how well Dr K explained the situation — with equal parts clarity and compassion and hope — and I stayed present in what I knew what a holy moment.

“I have to imagine this is by far the hardest part of your calling,” I said. “These kinds of phone calls. I want you to know you’ve delivered this news so well. I’ve understood it all. You’re very good at this. It’s easy to do this part poorly — instead, you’ve done it beautifully.”

Dr K breathed deeply, and then let me know a few important next steps. First, I was now a top priority for the brain radiation team at UCSF, which as it turns out, is one of the world’s leading places for treating this kind of thing. And second, I would be hearing about the plan within a number of hours.

She was right. The plan is now in motion. A new medical star is now on stage — smart Dr B, who will supervise radiation to a small group of mets on my brain. “We’ve seen remarkable success with this kind of treatment,” she said. “Does it come with some risk? Yes. But not treating this is far riskier.”

I said let’s go for it. She smiled over our zoom and said this: “Good. I was hoping you’d say that. We already have you booked to begin radiation treatment this coming Wednesday.”

From what I can gather, I’ll have multiple radiation treatments this coming week and through April. It may be a slog, but apparently not too terrifying. I’m delighted that zero people have said the dreaded word, “admit,” which would mean time in the hospital. Instead, it sounds as if I’ll slow down the for the weeks ahead, heal in May, and turn back to keeping the activity in my lungs at bay once we clear this hard plot twist.

That’s best case. There’s a path ahead, and I’m living 35 miles away from the top place that’s actually created this trailhead.

But we’re nothing if not brave on this blog here, so I think it’s entirely good and right to preview some of the more delicate elements of this switchback. And the best way I can do that is to bring you closer to how Connor and I spent our couch time resetting and recharging in recent days.

Connor is double majoring in music performance and film composition, so this means he’s occasionally given an actual academic assignment to watch a movie and chart film score elements. “Mom, I know this is wild, but this week I should watch all three installments of Lord of the Rings as part of this class I’m auditing.”

“I can think of no better way to be couchy with you,” I replied.

So over two days, we popped popcorn, curled up in blankets, and transported ourselves to the land of hobbits and elves and the world of men, and journeys good people never asked for, and yet lived fully, and courageously.

There’s a scene from Return of the King that captures this space that I now hold. It’s worth the 1 minute and 18 seconds of your time to click into. If not, here is the context and dialogue for you.

Gandalf the White — who has has returned from what can only be described as spending a little time in heaven in order to help his heroic friends complete an impossible journey — is speaking with Pippen, a frightened hobbit, as they face an onslaught of invading gloom.

“PIPPIN: I didn't think it would end this way.

GANDALF: End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.

PIPPIN: What? Gandalf? See what?

GANDALF: White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.

PIPPIN: Well, that isn't so bad.

GANDALF: No. No, it isn't.”

If you watch the scene, pay attention to sweet Pippen’s face. How he looks up and ponders all this hope. All this promise of a far better story, just on the horizon. And then at the end the scene, see how Gandalf looks him squarely in the eye, imploring him to continue the task at hand, which is simply this: live, and an brave doing so.

I believe there’s a realm beyond ours — where the grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and where a far green country will be met with white shores. This is faith, and it’s something that I write about in The Brave In-Between. There’s nothing sentimental or simple about this faith, rather it’s a rugged reckoning. Hopefully those pages will be an invitation to anyone who’s also in, or might one day inhabit, a season of grappling.

And as a sidebar to my friends who don’t hold a faith — or have times of grappling — I’ll note that I’m in awe of you. Truly. Because you too have chosen to live by faith, one that embraces a canvass of biologic randomness. It’s a faith far more grand that I — or Gandalf or Pippen — could ever attempt to hold.

As for me, my days will be tethered ever most closely to a constant duality — the hope of a smart path toward continued healing and living, while also drawing ever closer to the ultimate culmination of my story, one far more joyful than I could ever imagine.

Dualities like these can sometimes create confusion. And there are moment I’m navigating where the chaos is simply too much. But sometimes — and more than you might expect — the dualities dance. A new harmony emerges.

This harmony is filled with a quiet confidence that all will be well, because the story I’m living is one that was set in motion from the beginning. It’s a story filled with miracles, which is to say each of you, a son who visits at just the right time, a world class medical team, laser beams, and the abiding truth that however this plot turns, my story will end with a new beginning.

For now, let’s each of us be brave for the immediate task at hand. If you’re the praying type, keep my close to yours for these fragile days ahead.

I’ll hold you all close as well. You’re the reason this story continues. This is love, and that’s the best miracle of all.

xoxo