I had a dream that I was stuck in a burning building and while trying to escape, I kept running into construction crews already rebuilding. That’s a little bit of what ongoing treatment feels like for me. We will keep repairing but there is no way to fully extinguish the flames.

Because I have support on every front, we are not necessarily in crisis mode. I can blur the details of my health situation in my mind’s eye and take each challenge as it comes instead of assuming the worst is near.

I want to say something about aligning my suffering with Christ, but I don’t know how. Lord, use my suffering for good.

The five rounds of immunotherapy I received on the clinical trial were horrendously difficult, and while the trial NPs tell me that tumor swelling can be a sign the treatment is working, I just do not trust this outcome. Additionally, my pain has increased again and it is time to admit to myself that cancer pain means I cannot go off treatment. Our reality is that we are suspended in grief long term.

There is no way this story will not end sadly but we are going to figure out how to make the most of my time. I will start working more closely with my palliative team, who has seen me since the beginning, to make that happen.

Thinking or writing about the nature of my prognosis does not feel very good right now, so I will not dwell on it. I have a lot of appointments this week. I will get the right treatment locally ASAP and stabilize my cancer once again.

All I know for sure is I am loved.

I am not asking you have faith blindly, I am asking you to have faith and hang in there because we have data indicating the success is possible, and even if we do not know how likely it is, given that we have some signs, the best outcome is still possible and you have given so much already, having hope and faith at this juncture makes sense.

I love you”

I’ll repeat the process again this week, and the week after as well, before the protocol switches to every-other-week outpatient infusions. And I won’t get scans until 8 weeks in.

Please pray for my stamina.

Last Wednesday when I was here in the city for labs, I had 16 vials of blood drawn and in the process, my port (central line) got clogged. They stuck me in my arm (dislike) for the sake of time and I called the clinic the next day so they could order whatever meds would be needed to fix it when I arrived yesterday. They agreed but when I got there, each nurse pushed off the task to the next provider I would see.

Well you can’t sit here in the blood draw room as long as it would take.

I messaged the NP but she hasn’t responded. They can help you at the clinic.

You could go to the treatment suite across the hall, but it makes more sense to just get this done at the hospital.

I see the order here for Cathflo but it’s an outpatient order so I can’t use it.

The IV team is at shift change so someone will come later.

In the meantime, I wanted to go on a walk and check my luggage. I asked the front desk person on the floor and she said she was going on lunch soon, didn’t feel right taking my stuff. So I took it down to the security desk and they said they can’t do that, to ask at my treatment floor. So I went back there (it was after lunch time) and just told the girl I’d be leaving my stuff here. Another staff person said, okay but usually we like you to do that at the security desk. I smiled and said, they told me they don’t do that anymore and to bring it here.

So I took my walk, got some dumplings, returned for my stuff, and sat to wait for the shuttle to the main hospital. I was next to a wife and husband who used a walker and the cancer center wheelchair. He had a lot of trouble getting onto the shuttle. It was clear to me he was losing the ability to walk in front of my eyes. Maybe tumors in his spine? I never forget that we all have cancer here. I caught bits of their whispers to each other on the bus, “we’re heading to urgent care…what do you want to do? …I love you.” The image of their stoic faces will stick with me forever. I bet they are just downstairs.

I got my Cathflo for my port finally last night. It’s working, hallelujia. I also was given steroids and Ativan and a roommate who is friendly and relatively quiet but also has a finicky IV that caused her pump alarm to go off several times throughout the night. I think I slept a few hours.

I appreciate you hearing my complaints. These teeny tiny hurdles are nothing compared to accessing this trial, enduring chemotherapy, being away from Hilde, or having cancer take so much away from me. I don’t get to indulge in a pity party right now or go limp and let things happen around me. I have to advocate at every step just to get what I know will need to happen. But I am able to do that because I am prepared and capable and because I feel like God has been propelling me forward in this process. And when I can’t cope, I have a loving team of supporters to step in.

I just ordered my breakfast and Isaac is almost here. Today is the big day that I get the first dose of this new immunotherapy. I’m not too nervous because I’ve taken a lot of new and strange drugs, and they’re giving me a small first dose. Your continued prayers for healing and peace are much appreciated. The plan is to be discharged on Thursday, then repeat this whole process next week and the week after.

Love, Liz

You can trust me when I say, life has been incredibly stressful, painful, and by the grace of God, joyful still.

You are welcome to ask questions in the comments, or respond to me directly via email, and I’d be happy to share more as I can.

I’m doing a lot better now than I was during the pain crisis of December, January, and February. We managed to get me chemo (FOLFIRI) on Feb 10 and 24. I say “we” because it truly took our entire village to get me supported and prepared to do that. I don’t even want to talk about it except to say that I’ve experienced the love of Christ over and over in the people helping me exist in this complicated state. My Mom, mother-in-law, husband, and nanny have perfected the nuanced task of letting me parent as much as I am able.

I wish more than anything to get a break from all of this. Us CRC patients are desperate for better treatment options. There are so few and they are so hard to tolerate. And none of them are curative for a metastatic patient like me. So I’ll take each next step as it comes and trust that I can survive while waiting for new treatments to become available.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind (2 Timothy 1:7).

I got chemo last week, and will get it again next week. All my appointments are in Albany for now.

These past several weeks have been so scary, and I am so so grateful for your continued love.

I have continued to experience severe pelvic pain, for several hours at a time, daily, since Dec 26. I’ve been to urgent care, my local ER, and even spent 5 nights in NYC going in and out of the urgent care at Sloan Kettering. I’ve gone through a lot of testing to rule out life-threatening emergencies.

As far as I can tell, I’m having menstrual cramps that I cannot tolerate, in a pathological pattern that is not normal. Nothing my body has been through in the last three years has been normal.

Cancer is always high stakes but this moment feels especially so. I sit here in pain, waiting for my next treatment, hoping I’ll be well enough to get it. It’s my only option.

I’m not strong anymore. I’m just a vessel being held by the people who love me. I will get through these difficult days so that I can get back on treatment and continue to live.

My faith is the only thing left keeping me afloat. Please pray that we make the correct treatment decisions over the next few weeks. It feels like such a critical time for me against my cancer, and I can’t fall behind.

I’ve been struggling with pelvic pain, on and off, daily since before Christmas. I’ve been in and out of urgent care, ER, and specialist appointments. I don’t even want to go over the brutal details of everything but it seems like an ovarian cyst that got infected. I’m on antibiotics and on the mend now, I think.

While dealing with all of this, I got evidence that my liver tumors are growing. That’s expected, but I can only handle so much at once. Now I’m just so frustrated trying to get the medical system to integrate my recovery with my cancer treatment in a timely fashion. It’s my survival, after all.

I have to continue to believe that this is just a hiccup and there will be many more good days to come. In the meantime, I’d appreciate your prayers for my continued healing and strength for me and my family.

I completed two rounds of maintenance chemo in mid Nov and early Dec. The side effects were surprisingly difficult, but my CEA went to “<0.5.” Then I saw my local oncologist, who supports whatever I decide to do next.

I have been struggling with on and off pelvic pain that I think is an ovarian cyst. It doesn’t seem that serious, all things considered.

Now I am using all my power to keep gratitude and contentment at the top of my mind. Scans at the end of January will dictate next steps. The possibilities require too many details to convey so I will just say that I still have a little bit of cancer. Isaac and I are still planning new treatments for 2026. And I am enjoying the holidays while I get a break from appointments. Most importantly, I am still trying to figure out how I can transform my belief in Christ into action that serves Him, while cooped up in this complicated body.

“For God has not given us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self discipline.” 2 Timothy 1:7

I went from thinking I might be cured, to realizing I need to go back on chemo, in a very short time frame, and I have not handled it very well. My care team has not handled it well either. Despite the fact that I show up at one of the top cancer centers in the world every single week, Isaac and I still feel very much on our own in coming up with my next best treatment plan.

Maintenance chemotherapy looks like a 46 hr infusion (begun at the cancer center and completed at home) of 5FU every 2 weeks or so, and I’m sure that it will be effective at reducing or at least stabilizing my lesions. I’ll transfer my care back to my local clinic soon because they can provide this very well-established treatment. I won’t need to travel so much, which is a definite plus.

Your continued prayers and loving support keeps me going through this emotional time. As the shock subsides, I hold onto the fact that my disease burden remains exceedingly low. This clinical trial provided 70% reduction in my disease, and there will continue to be more options for me in the future. In the meantime, I’ll keep my eyes on the prize: a full life on Earth and eternal life in Heaven.

There’s no question we’re taking another swing at this. I’m pursuing ablation (through interventional radiology), and talking to all my old liver surgeons to get their take. I’ll most likely go back on chemotherapy. We could use my HAI pump. We could pursue another clinical trial. I have options. This clinical trial gave me a year of stability off chemotherapy and was a huge success. Now it’s time for the next thing.

I do have meaningful things to say, but can’t quite focus on writing them down yet. Isaac and I are hitting the ground running to make a new treatment plan, and I’m leaning into my regular routines. This doesn’t change the fact that I’m still doing very well, and I’ll weather this blip like everything else that has come up.

God I am your vessel. Let me do your Will.

But guess what? It’s already time for another set of scans again on Monday. Weariness from travel and anxiety waiting for results have officially surpassed any actual cancer treatment side effects but my eyes remain fixed ahead, doing the next right thing every week.

October 31 will mark one year on this clinical trial, and I’m staring down the barrel of another year of weekly infusions in New York City. That’s a bad metaphor since these drugs keep me alive, and technically, I’m so grateful. But I think you know what I mean: cancer treatment has become a grind and this is the best case scenario.

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Being Hilde’s parent is extremely motivating and distracting from my own personal plight. Isaac has protected our little family from the devastation my loss would bring by spending every waking moment since my diagnosis doing not just his best, but what actually needs to be done. Every well-researched step he’s initiated has brought us to this moment: my health is exceptional, Hilde is learning to talk, and we have a future of togetherness to look forward to.

I want to bask in the gratitude I feel that this clinical trial is still working, but yesterday I had more scans and I’m waiting on the results. CT scans every six weeks is a lot of scans especially when I’m already at the cancer center for infusions every single week (I only missed one infusion for our 10-day Europe trip). I’m hopeful about the results, but having to question the foundation of my survival so often is overwhelming.

Nonetheless I continue to feel pulled forward, putting one step in front of the other, to live as normal a life as possible while my body works very hard to fight cancer. I’ll go back and forth from Albany to NYC over and over again as long as it takes.

Our trip to Ireland did not turn into a hospice trip, nor a victory lap, but an opportunity to use all of my skills and preparation to prove to myself that I can continue to handle new experiences with grace and confidence because God created me in His image. It leaves the rest of my path pretty obvious: To live honestly. And to serve.

I adopted Sonic in July 2013. Isaac and I had just started a farm internship together, near our college town. We brought Sonic home and immediately became a family of three. Her origin is our origin.

Sonic stuck with us through many moves since then, and I don’t think she ever regretted it. The three of us lived in many places together where she was always able to find ground grub – mostly full slices of pizza and chicken bones. Our honesty about her pit bull heritage kept us renting in weird places of all kinds until we bought our home.

Her personality was always instantly loved. She didn’t bite or bark (at least not until her old age). If she wandered away, she always came back. If she went through the trash, it was only because we left her home alone for too long. She was good not because we trained her well but because it was just how she was.

Every other step through this house today reminds me of her absence. She’s buried in our backyard under a serviceberry tree. Her service to our family as the most loyal friend and defender will live on in the memories of everyone that loved her.

We held her paws as we said goodbye on Wednesday. She was a good good dog.

Rest in Peace Sonic Louise Burrichter 2011-2025