My first-and last-roller coaster ride was the original Texas Giant at Six Flags. It was painful and bone-jarring. The train whipped back and forth so violently it felt like I was being slammed against concrete walls. My neck and back stayed sore for weeks. Decades later, I still get emotional whiplash just thinking about it.
That’s how the last month has felt.
Four weeks ago, at a routine follow up , my oncologist walked into the room and asked if I had any pain or symptoms. I instantly knew something was off—this wasn’t how our conversations usually began. Then he continued “Let’s talk about your scans.”
In that instant, my optimism evaporated. “So my cancer is back?” He nodded. After that, everything became a blur. It’s strange how the brain suddenly shuts down, unable to process what’s being said.
The treatment plan was uncertain. A biopsy might not be possible because of the tumor’s location. Surgery might not be possible either. And with mesothelioma, surgery is always the goal.
Over the next month-and several trips to Houston for MRIs, scans, appointments, and tests—the doctors determines a biopsy could be done. A week later the pathology results arrived: Negative for mesothelioma or metastatic cancer. The area in question could possibly be inflammation.
What?! Again, my mind couldn’t process it. Confusion wash over me all over again.
Life Disrupted
During this month, life was upended. I kept asking myself: How do you wind down a life?
Time felt compressed, and I rushed to prepare – planning goodbye videos for loved ones, pausing Unbreakable Journeys retreats, revisiting end-of-life plans, and bracing for the disruption of everything from big milestones to small routines.
Now, instead of downshifting, we’re suddenly trying to shift back into a normal-ish rhythm.
Emotional Whiplash
On July 28th I wrote two versions of “The Parking Garage” (https://unbreakablejourneys.org/the-parking-garage) .
A month later, I can now share the ending I wanted to post:
“I slowly find my footing.
Like learning how to walk.
One step at a time.
One day at a time.
And now—two years later—
I’ve just walked out of the doctor’s office with clear scans.
Each time it’s different.
Sometimes I breathe a sigh of relief.
Sometimes I yell “Yeah!”, pounding my fist on the steering wheel.
Sometimes I just sit there – taking it all in. Overwhelmed.
Simple celebrations in a parking garage.
Grateful.
Grateful for the past two years.
Grateful for life.
Grateful for the next step.”