June 26, 2024 - Blessed Beyond Measure

Well, we survived. The month of June swept through our lives like a storm, stirring up dread, testing our patience, knotting our stomachs with worry, and stealing more than a few nights of sleep. For those who’ve been following my journey, you’ve already met my son, Mason—a name that’s become synonymous with my heart’s greatest joys and deepest anxieties. Mason just wrapped up eighth grade, a rising ninth grader now, teetering on the edge of adolescence and manhood. Soon, he’ll earn his Eagle Scout ranking, a milestone that has his father and me bursting with pride. But this chapter isn’t about that—it’s about the ten days that stretched us both in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

Mason recently returned from a grand adventure: a scout camping trip at Philmont Scout Ranch. If you’re unfamiliar with Philmont, let me paint the picture. Their website describes it as “the Boy Scouts of America’s premier High Adventure™ base,” a sprawling 214-square-mile expanse of rugged northern New Mexico wilderness. It’s a place where Scouts and Venturers tackle backpacking treks, horseback rides, and service projects, immersing themselves in a landscape that’s as beautiful as it is unforgiving. To them, it’s legendary country. To me, his mother, it was a daunting unknown—a place that would swallow my boy whole for ten days and spit him back out, hopefully in one piece.

I knew it would be hard. Not just for him, but for me. The packing list alone was enough to make my head spin. This wasn’t some school field trip with a lunchbox and a water bottle. Mason had to strap on a full hiking backpack—not the kind he slings over one shoulder for class, but a serious, survival-grade pack. Inside went his sleeping bag, a tent, MRE meals (those military-style “meals ready to eat” that sound more like a dare than dinner), two sets of clothes, a first aid kit, a compass, his epi-pen, and a dozen other “etcetera’s” that blurred together in my anxious mind. This was a pack designed to keep him alive in the wilderness for days. DAYS. And here’s the kicker: he was going without Jamie, his father. Yes, he had a small group of boys from his troop and two dads tagging along as chaperones, but still… no Jamie, no me. Just Mason and the wild.

Those ten days at Philmont were a whirlwind of challenges and triumphs. He hiked mile after grueling mile, his boots pounding trails that climbed thousands of feet in elevation. He white-water rafted, feeling the rush of icy rapids. He zip-lined through the treetops, fly-fished in crisp mountain streams (even catching a rainbow trout he couldn’t stop talking about), and pitched in on service projects to give back to the camp. I’m sure I’m leaving out half of it—my recounting doesn’t do justice to the sheer scope of what he experienced. He lived a lifetime in those ten days, and I could only piece it together from the stories he brought home.

The truth is, I spent those days in a quiet panic. Every creak of the house at night became a signal that something was wrong. Every unanswered “what if” spiraled into a worst-case scenario. What if he got hurt? What if he needed me? What if his epi-pen wasn’t enough? But as the days ticked by, I clung to the thought that this was bigger than my fears. This was about Mason stepping into his own.

When he finally came home, he was different. He’d dropped six pounds—his face a little leaner, his frame a little wirier—but what he’d gained far outweighed the loss. Confidence radiated from him, a quiet strength I hadn’t seen before. At fourteen, he’s a new teen, no longer the little boy who’d cling to my hand, but not yet the man I know he’ll become. Philmont didn’t just test him; it shaped him. It taught him resilience, resourcefulness, and a kind of maturity that sneaks up on you when you’re too busy surviving to notice.

For Mason, those ten days were an unforgettable adventure, a treasure he’ll carry forever. For me, they were a lesson in letting go—just enough to let him grow. We survived June, yes, but more than that, we thrived. And as he stands on the cusp of high school and his Eagle Scout ceremony, I can’t help but think: the wilderness didn’t just give him a story to tell—it gave him a piece of the man he’s meant to be.

While Mason was away, Jamie and I seized the chance to catch our breath. We decided to treat ourselves to a mini-staycation—nothing extravagant, just a quiet escape from the everyday grind. It wasn’t until we sank into it that we realized how desperately we’d needed the break. The days stretched out lazily before us, a welcome reprieve from the usual chaos, and best of all, it kept my mind from wandering too often to Mason’s absence.

During that time, I also had a brain scan scheduled. We held our breath waiting for the results, but when they came back stable—no progression—we let out a collective sigh of relief. Once again, I found myself whispering thanks for the chemo cocktail that’s become my daily companion. Tukysa stands guard over my brain, holding the cancer at bay, while Xeloda and Herceptin wage their quiet war against the disease in my other organs. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s working for now, and that’s more than enough. My next big hurdle is a PET scan in early August. I’m clinging to hope that the positive trend holds steady. Sure, my cancer marker numbers have ticked up a bit lately, but not enough to send us into a panic. For now, we’re just staying the course—keeping on, doing what we’ve been doing.

In the midst of all this, we’ve got something exciting on the horizon: an epic family vacation. I’m determined to soak up every second I can with Jamie and Mason, to stitch together as many memories as possible while I’m still able. We’ve planned it down to the last detail, slotting it perfectly between my Mayo Clinic visits. Our trips aren’t what they used to be—there’s a slower pace now, a rhythm dictated by deliberate medication management and a checklist of must-haves. It takes a lot of coordination, but it’s worth it. Jamie and Mason have become pros at keeping an eye on me, making sure I’m okay without making it feel like a chore. And, of course, we’ve got the nearest bathroom locations mapped out like seasoned explorers. It’s our little family ritual at this point.

Can you believe how fast this summer is slipping through our fingers? The days sometimes drag, heavy with appointments and the weight of what-ifs, but the months? They’re a blur. I catch myself staring at the calendar, marveling at how time bends and stretches in ways I never expected. Through it all, I’m humbled—grateful beyond words for the life I’ve been given. Yes, there’s an asterisk by my name now—cancer patient—but it doesn’t define the whole story. I’m blessed beyond measure, surrounded by love and buoyed by faith. And that, more than anything, keeps me going.

Love to you all.