Monday, May 20, 2024. I had my second-to-last immunotherapy infusion scheduled in the morning at UCLA in Santa Barbara, followed by my reconstruction surgery post-op appointment at UCLA Main Campus in Los Angeles that afternoon.

Bob asked if I wanted him to come, but I whisked him off. We were each drowning in busy to-do lists; no sense in both of us being behind. Plus, the immunotherapy infusions were a piece of cake, and I rather enjoyed my quiet time in the car anyway. It would be a big day but satisfying to check two things off a year-long list that was finally nearing its end.

I met with Dr. Kass’s PA Amanda Sweet prior to the infusion and made a mental note to ask her about some rash-like inflammatory skin issues happening on my face… annoyingly timed right before a beach vacation in the sun.

“I can’t imagine it has anything to do with my treatment,” I said quickly, “but I wanted to bring it up just in case.” 

She just smiled.

“I’m sure it is the Keytruda,” she replied.

I was incredulous. “Why would I have issues now when I’ve had no issues for a year?” I asked.

“You’re right on time,” she said matter-of-factly. “Skin issues start to present themselves between six and eighteen months into treatment.”

Fantastic.

“I’m leaving in three weeks for a long vacation to the Caribbean. What should I do?” I asked.

She thought about it for a moment, before replying,

“You know what, let’s make this your last infusion. You only have one more scheduled, and it takes place right before your trip. So, with these skin issues, I think it would be best to skip the final infusion if Dr. Kass approves. Statistically, it makes no difference to skip the last one.”

A quick reply from Kass confirmed it: Today was my final infusion. As I entered the infusion suite, all the nurses cheered. Each came around to give me a heartfelt hug and congratulations, and my heart swelled with love and appreciation for each of these walking angels. I felt a pang at the thought of not seeing them regularly anymore.

But there was no time for doddling. From there, I drove a fast two hours to L.A. for a quick in-and-out post op with Dr. Crisera, and before I knew it, I was driving home in what was a terribly anti-climactic end to a brut-iful one-year ride.

There was a loudness to the silence in my car.

I was done. I felt a little shell-shocked.

And at the same time, was I? Really and truly finished?

In some practical ways, the answer was no. I will remain under watchful, ongoing care to check for any signs of recurrence for quite some time.

And then there is that topic… how to live with the possibility of recurrence hanging over your head without living from a place of fear.

Ah, the balance! A tightrope of astronomical proportions: Not giving more credence than necessary to the topic, and at the same time, not wanting to forget any part of this experience. On the contrary, I want to remain forever changed, continuing to show up to this deep level of mindfulness and not be dulled back into my pre-cancer life that now feels like some form of a surface existence.

Maybe the softness of its conclusion was intentional in order to blur the point of before-and-after.

To keep a foot on both sides now.

It was no coincidence that my dear friend, Gabby, dropped off a belated Christmas gift to me a week later with the lyrics to the beautiful iconic ballad by Joni Mitchell.

But now old friends are acting strange.

They shake their heads, they think I’ve changed.

Well, something’s lost, but something’s gained

In every living day.

I’ve looked at life from both sides now.

From win and lose and still somehow

It’s life’s illusions I recall.

I really don’t know life at all.

And there was my answer. I was not closing the door on my journey, but rather accepting a view that now simply included a wider panorama. To shut the door on this chapter and move on to “normal life” (whatever that is) felt like a disservice to the gifts and truths I’d been given along the way. Because the truth is, with everything that had been lost, even more had been gained. And with that soft conclusion, I found a way to embrace the part of the season that was ending while still holding on to the story that continues to be written.

And it felt right.

Time to Celebrate

Last year at this time, I was about three chemo sessions into a year-long journey that seemed unending. We shelved most of the “fun” things and gave 110% to what lay before us.

So, when we began to plan for a celebration trip this Summer, our heads went to all the big options. The Italy trip we’d never taken? Africa like we’ve always talked about? An epic beach vacation to somewhere exotic? In the end, we decided we needed rest more than adventure and chose an extended trip to one of our happiest places: St. Maarten in the Caribbean. We’ve gone twice before, and know our way around, so it’s just a comfortable, easy vacation with no need to expend energy on learning a new place. It’s a beautiful island between Anguilla and St. Barts. One side is Dutch, the other side French, so you can imagine the food is amazing, and the water and beaches are even better.

Last night, we returned home from 15 incredible days that will forever be marked as one of our loungiest, bougiest, tastiest, coziest family vacations on record. Most of those 15 days included time with some of our favorite people on the planet… my best friend from college and her wonderful husband and kids. Girlfriends are a lifeline, a treasure of infinite proportions.

We swam with sea turtles, floated in sparkling, turquoise water, consumed daily umbrella drinks, listened to endless amounts of Bob Marley, checked off a bucket list item with scuba diving, slept a lot, laughed, cried, processed.

It was truly a trip for the books.

Right before we left our hotel, the three of us circled up in a hug and prayed a prayer of thanks for helping us through this last year and relishing the goodness of it all with this beautiful trip, chock full of memories.

Thanks to all who helped make it possible: My clients, Bob’s staff, friends, and family who helped with our animals at home. You know who you are.

With all that, it feels like the appropriate time to announce that this will likely be my final blog post marking this incredible journey. I may continue blogging but on a separate platform with a separate purpose. I did my level best to write only when led to do so, and never a second before. In that same vein, I now feel a transition is coming, and I will continue to honor its leading. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for walking alongside me and my family over these last 13 months as we were refined by both fire and love. Truth flowed through my fingers with words that were not my own. It grounded me. Humbled me. Carried me in a special, delicate, and light way like only Love can do. With over 5,000 unique visitors from 41 countries and 10,000 page views since we launched it in May 2023, I have been bowled over by its reach; it was my lifeline, and I pray it spoke to others as well.

Special thanks to my sisters, Jamie and Marcie, for helping me manage this blog and disseminate info when I could not. Also to my parents, who did so much behind the scenes at every turn, only weeks after they permanently moved her with a hearty welcome like this! And to all our friends, near and far, who supported us with love in the forms of food, house help, gifts, visits, head-shaving parties, and notes of encouragement.

I sit here grateful. Thankful. Blessed beyond measure in this light of a new day.

It marks the beginning of a new season, an acknowledgment of the beautiful fact that after each storm is another glorious sunrise.

And sometimes, we get to watch it over turquoise waters… even if – or perhaps, especially when – our view is a little wider than before.

With love always,

Evie, Bob, & Henry