The 7th Inning Stretch

How to Live Like You Are (Sort Of) Dying 2.0

“I'm not afraid
To show You my weakness
My failures and flaws
Lord, You've seen 'em all
And You still call me friend…

You turn graves into gardens
You turn bones into armies
You turn seas into highways
You're the only one who can
You're the only one who can”

“Graves Into Gardens”-Elevation Worship

So apparently I am the Christian Taliban of New Jersey school board candidates.

I got involved in local politics over the last few years, you probably noticed. It’s always been part of my life. But before surviving the first round of cancer from 2019, I did a lot of self-censoring to avoid being ostracized for my fiscal conservative leanings.

I experienced the pandemic in a very unique way-I was both an immune-compromised cancer patient, and an outspoken activist against forced masking and other mandates. I felt required to speak out for the rights of children and others. I had an intense desire to help, to make good on all my wrongs.

You know, I never didn’t expect to experience a recurrence. Did you know breast cancer carries an approximately 30% risk of recurrence, even if you do everything prescribed to you? So I wasn’t caught off guard. I mean, I hoped to get to the 5 year mark. I didn’t. Instead, I got 3.5 years from diagnosis to Stage 4.

This time, this fight, it’s very different. The reality is I am likely looking at another 5-10 years of decent quality of life, absent a miracle. I am taking the longest road home I can.

I believe in miracles.

In fact, I just experienced one.

A tumor that grew on my chest over about 8 weeks to the size of a small orange, that visibly and grotesquely protruded from its crush on my left lung, has disappeared from CT contrast imaging. After 10 weeks and just 3 sessions of Enhertu.

What does that mean?

I get 3 more months.

Treatment doesn’t end. That’s forever. I stay on the infusions, indefinitely, even after the clear scans. Once metastatic, you will forever play whack-a-mole with recurrences. It becomes a way of life. You have to accept the reality of your circumstances before you can overcome any limitations.

But I get 3 months to be hopeful. And joyful, and grateful and BRAVE.

So why the morbid caption, if I’m telling you good news? I know that my scan results and progress are absolutely miraculous and I am humbled by all of your prayers, meals, and so many other gestures of kindness.

Just trust me, it’s still hard. I am looking through a lens of someone rounding 3rd base and headed for home. I want this stretch to last forever.

I have time for a slow walk. While I do, I want to leave something behind, a trail for my boys to find me.

I promise to speak for you, when you need me. If that makes me a domestic terrorist, then I accept the label with pride.