emme2844

5/13/18

This blog post has been a long time in the making. It may be the most important one I’ve written. No matter what you personally believe, if you’ve been following our story, I’m glad you’ve made it to this point.

I woke up, but I couldn’t speak. Everything felt unreal, like I was watching my life from a distance. When I saw my Aunt Marci, I started crying because she felt familiar—something solid in a world that didn’t make sense.

I was exhausted. I felt like I was fading in and out, fighting to stay present while also drifting away. At first, I thought it was a dream. Later, I was told it really happened.

I believed I had been asleep for 17 years. I thought my grandparents and my dog were gone, and that Ian had been fighting to keep me alive on life support. My memory was fractured for a long time afterward. In some ways, it feels like my mind protected me from reliving what I couldn’t carry yet.

I was in the hospital from July 7th to July 23rd. But the harder part came after that—recovery. Recovery doesn’t follow a timeline. This year alone has been months of physical therapy, and we are still moving through it one day at a time.

Things aren’t perfect. I don’t want to pretend they are. God has truly worked miracles in my life and in ours as a couple, but I don’t have a perfect report to give you. Healing hasn’t followed my expectations.

God’s timing is not ours. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve prayed—answers don’t always come when or how you expect. Still, I’ve learned to trust that His plan is better than mine, even when I don’t understand it.

You keep going. You fight for your mind, your body, and your spirit. Depression is common after cancer—even when you are “cancer-free.” I have to remind myself not to be so hard on myself. People around me remind me too: no one has everything together. We need to lift each other up, not tear each other down. A small kindness can matter more than we realize.

In February, my best friend David passed away unexpectedly at 33. His death affected so many lives. We had just bought our first house and planned for him to be part of that next chapter. He loved life deeply, even after everything he had been through. His faith was real and steady in a way that left an impression on everyone who knew him. We miss him greatly, but we hold onto the hope that we will see him again (John 14:1–3).

After he died, I threw myself into work and exercise. I wasn’t ready to feel it. I was angry, grieving, and also beginning to realize how much I had already buried from the past year.

My body couldn’t keep up with what my mind was pushing it into. I had episodes of chest pain during workouts and nearly passed out while driving. I ignored it. Twice.

Eventually, I ended up hospitalized for four days while doctors tried to figure out what was happening. That led to a new diagnosis—one I won’t go into detail about here.

Since then, I’ve had multiple MRIs, CT scans, ultrasounds, EKGs, an echo, and spinal taps. My bloodwork has been unstable. My colonoscopy—planned for months—was dependent on my body stabilizing. That procedure would confirm whether the cancer was gone.

I hadn’t driven in months. Physical therapy continued twice a week. And then another possibility emerged: idiopathic intracranial hypertension. It wasn’t something I feared. It was more like silence—like when I first heard the word “cancer.” Just stillness.

God’s presence has been unmistakable through all of it. Even in uncertainty, I’ve felt held. My aunt and I planned a full neurological workup at Duke.

Later updates brought relief: the colonoscopy confirmed I was cancer-free.

Mayo Clinic also reached out regarding a rare DPD deficiency mutation—one they had never seen before. There is no clear treatment path yet, but my oncologist and geneticist are working together to improve my quality of life and contribute what they’ve learned for future patients.

So many people have stepped in to help us carry what we couldn’t carry alone. Community has been one of the greatest gifts in all of this.

I’ve changed through this. Deeply. Trauma changes you. Cancer changes you. You don’t come out the same person.

I don’t waste time the way I used to. I don’t have energy for hatred or judgment. I want to live fully, and I want to be surrounded by people who do the same—people who choose love, growth, and grace.

If you’re unhappy in your life, don’t stay stuck in it. If something needs to change, change it. If your relationships are broken, work on them. If you feel far from God, return to His word. You matter.

And no, I don’t blame God for what has happened. I don’t see Him as absent in suffering. I see Him present in it. I see Him sustaining us through it.

Jesus paid the price. The war is already won. My job is not to control everything, but to surrender what I can’t carry.

I had to set down my pride and ask for help. I had to fall to my knees more than once. I had to learn—slowly—that I am not the one holding everything together.

I had to realize that He is all I need.

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