It’s been nearly 11 months of plot at this point. Twists and turns, unexpected detours and multiple side quests along the way as we as a family have navigated this cancer diagnosis.

And last week’s news out of Iowa City felt…well…boring?

One of the most sensitive ways doctors can measure how deeply multiple myeloma has responded to treatment is through measurable residual disease, or MRD—a test that can estimate the number of residual cancer cells per million cells tested. Think of it as taking an extremely fine-tooth comb to a sample and searching for traces of myeloma that may remain even when standard tests can no longer detect the disease.

While this testing wasn’t done at Grant’s initial diagnosis, there was some testing done by allowed his doctors to retrospectively estimate a result from that time of around 11,500 and potentially higher because of the limitations of that method.

After several rounds of chemotherapy, but before his stem cell transplant, that number had dropped to 6,800.

His latest result? 1,900.

Multiple myeloma is generally considered incurable, so remission doesn’t mean we get to declare the cancer gone forever. The goal is to knock it down as far as possible and keep it there for as long as possible.

On all the other standard tests, Grant is considered in remission. Which is amazing. His treatment has worked, and the measures his doctors routinely use to track his multiple myeloma are showing no active disease. The more sensitive MRD testing can still find residual myeloma, but his doctors aren’t concerned about where that number stands at this point.

That doesn’t mean we’re anywhere close to being done.

Because of the intensity of the stem cell transplant, Grant is still a long way from fully recovered. He’s nearing day 100 of the post-transplant isolation period and will return to Iowa City to start making vaccination plans once he reaches that milestone. Rebuilding the immunity he lost during transplant (including getting all those childhood vaccines again) takes roughly another two years.

He’ll also begin maintenance chemotherapy, a combination of injections and pills, that will be ongoing.

And as we continue getting him healthy, there are still questions about how to address the bone damage the cancer left behind and what long-term pain management looks like.

So no, we’re not nearing “normal” yet.

But after nearly 11 months in which it felt like every appointment had the potential to introduce a new plot twist, we got one where the news was essentially: things are moving in the right direction. Keep going.

Healing from here is slow. There are still appointments and medications and precautions and plenty of unknowns ahead. But slow, positive momentum feels pretty damn good after the turbulence we became accustomed to early on.

It turns out, boring isn’t such a bad thing.

For now, we’re very happy to forgo the dramatics.

As the stem cell transplant shifted from intensity of treatment to the slower, quiet work of recovery, my own life somehow went into turbo speed.

I’ve had an incredible (albeit exhausting) season of work and personal life this summer. I got to work on influencer campaigns tied to the World Cup, travel to fan events across the country, cheer through another busy Pride season, work alongside two famous drag queens, and finish it all with WNBA All-Star Weekend in Chicago. Somewhere in the middle of this chaos, I got to take my brother to a World Cup match while dressed as a goat (long story). I know how fortunate I am to get to do work like this, even if it left very little room to come up for air.

On paper, it’s been one of the coolest summers of my career. At the very same time, my parents have been doing the quiet work of recovery, where seemingly tiny steps are actually monumental victories.

The pendulum swing between living those two realities at once can only be described as emotional whiplash.

It weighed on me heavily that I couldn’t be in Iowa more. At the same time, I know my parents are unbelievably proud to watch me succeed and wouldn’t ask or expect me to sacrifice in order to be with them.

Week over week I felt the guilt for not having the battery left to draft an update. But it also simply became one less plate I had to keep spinning during this circus of a life.

The normal exhaustion that accompanies a busy season hits differently when you’re already emotionally running on fumes. As work has started to even out again, I’ve realized that all the things you’ve been too busy to feel eventually catch up with you.

I’ve written a lot about my various family members on this blog, about what this experience has been like. But I know I’ve also purposely avoided sharing too much about how I am doing throughout all of it. I’ve been intentional about the fact this is quite literally a space not about me, just one curated by.

The blog has also become another way to lean on the same coping mechanisms I’ve relied on for years. Focus on everyone else before myself. Keep moving fast enough that I don’t have to sit still with difficult feelings. Stay productive so I don’t have to be vulnerable. Needless to say, my therapist remains gainfully employed.

Ironically, writing this blog has become one of the healthiest ways I’ve processed everything that’s happened, even as I’ve struggled to figure out how much space I should take up here. I’d love to start regularly writing for myself again (future Substack perhaps?), but I’m not ready to commit to that yet.

So in the meantime, thanks for giving me grace—as always on this blog, pun fully intended.

Grace here. I’ve been admittedly absent in recent weeks. After returning to Iowa following a work trip to New York, I came back to Chicago and immediately got pulled onto a project with a two-week turnaround.

That project? A surprise PitBull concert.

Scheduled to take place in Miami the day before a close friend’s wedding in Michigan.

Needless to say I’ve been both busy and mentally at capacity, so apologies for a lack of updates here.

I’d also like the record to show that Grant remains such a supportive dad that he decided to go bald in honor of said PitBull project. Science will tell you it’s because of the high-dose chemotherapy he received during his stem cell transplant, but I’m choosing to believe whimsy here

Today I’m tapping in my other supportive parent, Mary, to share the latest from her point of view.

____

When my children were growing up, I would often bestow advice and wit to them that was sometimes appreciated and sometimes not. As a result of me sharing my wisdom, Jacob and Grace began to refer to this as me being “Momfucious.” While I will try and spare you any Mary Confucius-like wisdom this week, I am going to dredge out familiar sayings to sum up our last several weeks navigating Grant’s treatment and recovery.

Better Safe Than Sorry

Grant got dismissed from the hospital on June 4 to continue his recovery at home. This was an earlier dismissal than any of us were expecting, but it also means not having to drive back and forth to Iowa City. For the first 100 days post transplant, he will have to take extra precautions to avoid any chance of getting sick with a compromised immune system.

Until at least August 27, he is not allowed to go into public places. He can have visitors as long as they are healthy and everyone wears a facemask; luckily COVID has prepared us in this department.

Additionally, his diet has the same restrictions as pregnant women - no deli meat, sushi, unpasteurized products, etc. Food needs to be very carefully washed and prepared and handwashing frequently is a must. At this point our precautions have precautions, but it’s important for us to keep him healthy.

No Pain, No Gain

As Grace mentioned in her last post, high dose chemotherapy that precedes the stem cell transplant brings with it a host of difficult side effects. The Melphalan works to destroy the cancer cells but also destroys your red and white blood cells and platelets. These were monitored closely during Grant’s two and half week hospital stay. His white blood count went to almost zero and his platelets got low enough to necessitate an infusion to bring them up. His hemoglobin (red blood cells) got very close to also needing an infusion before beginning to rebuild.

The result of all of this is a huge amount of fatigue both because those counts are low and because the body is working hard to rebuild those. In addition, the Melphalan destroys all of the mucus lining in the GI tract which then becomes inflamed. Grant has little to no appetite and eating becomes a chore rather than a joy-- a major pivot from the man who normally can clear any plate on the table. Other functions of the GI tract also rebel and make for discomfort and quick trips to the bathroom. We knew these things going in. They are not fun but are part of getting to the results we are seeking.

The last side effect is hair loss. In true Gubbrud family form, we had a pool as to what day Grant would begin to lose his hair. Jacob was the winner on June 1. Grant went ahead and had his head shaved to minimize the results and actually looks quite good with his chrome dome!

Slow and Steady Wins the Race

Since coming home, Grant has continued to battle fatigue, reduced appetite, and GI issues. Nonetheless, there are tiny improvements everyday. We were told that he would not really notice a difference until around day 30-40 and the improvements would be slow. We are getting nearer to those days but already he is finding a bit more energy. Home health is providing some physical therapy but for now we are listening to his body and not pushing too hard as it first needs to work to rebuild cells.

Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

This is a marathon and not a sprint. It is a game of patience and faith. We believe that muddling through these difficult days will ultimately lead to a deep remission. While we wish it could happen more quickly, “we know that suffering produces perseverance, character; and character, hope.”

It also reminds us to appreciate the beauty to be found in an ordinary day. All good things. Momfucious out.

I’m starting to draft this post in Grant’s hospital room in Iowa City, where a machine is low-beeping and his first bag of stem cells is being injected back into his body.

I came back to Cedar Falls last Saturday and spent the weekend enjoying time with my parents and helping them prepare for Grant’s extended stay in Iowa City.

Tuesday morning, we came down bright and early for blood work and hospital check-in. It’s the largest hospital room he’s had yet, tucked away in a quiet corner of the unit, complete with a lead door (is this where criminals are put during treatment? unclear).

Tuesday evening, Grant was hit with high-dose chemotherapy — the final, brutal clearing. The idea is to wipe out whatever cancer cells remain and knock his immune system down far enough that when the new stem cells arrive today, his body has no choice but to accept them.

Destroy the old. Make room for something new.

Today he made it through eight bags of cells while my mother and I talked the ear off his nurse. Tomorrow he’ll get the final two bags of cells and begin the grueling process of recovery. One of the most fascinating things I learned this week is that you can actually see the individual stem cells in the IV as they’re injected back into him. Tiny, but mighty and present.

The other fun fact from today is that stem cells are preserved in a chemical called DMSO, which the body excretes through sweat and breath. So as the day progressed, a very specific smell slowly filled the room. Mary thought it smelled like creamed corn. I still can’t place it, and it will likely haunt me for the foreseeable future.

We are a family who loves to plan. To know what we’re getting ourselves into. Always have been.

There’s so much we don’t know about what these next few weeks will look like. Stem cell transplant is considered the gold standard treatment, and the majority of patients come out the other side in a much better position. But the road to getting there can vary drastically from person to person.

There’s a side effect list longer than a short novel, and very little clear rhyme or reason to which symptoms from the potpourri might show up, when they’ll appear, or how intense they’ll be. Some people breeze through parts of it. Others get hit hard. Most land somewhere unpredictably in between.

It’s uncomfortable. For all of us. That unease made even heavier by how twisted the path has been to get here.

One technique I’ve used to manage my own anxiety over the years is the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding method. So as I finish drafting this on the drive home from Iowa City, here’s the exercise in real time:

5 things I can see: Rolling corn fields. A sign for the Amana Colonies. A bottle of Purell shoved into a cup holder. Gray skies threatening rain. A blinking power light on the sweet, sweet hotspot connection that allows me to be online during this drive.

4 things I can touch: A clicky-clacky keyboard. The stereo volume controls. The almost-faded adhesive from today’s visitor pass. The soft fabric of my yoga pants.

3 things I can hear: “Pinky Up” by KATSEYE (introducing my mom to new music on these drives has become one of my favorite traditions). Her voice as we discuss tonight’s to-do list. The gentle rumble of highway roads beneath us.

2 things I can smell: Freddy’s onion rings (excellent choice, no notes). And somehow, I still swear I can smell the stem cells, though I think that may just be my brain still trying to identify the scent.

1 thing I can taste: Diet Dr Pepper. Extremely off-brand for this Diet Coke-forward household, but desperate times.

We don’t know exactly how this will go. But we’re in it together, we are loved deeply by many, and we have faith that brighter days will meet us on the other side — however rocky the road there may be.

Here’s to Day Zero. The start of whatever comes next.

The machine keeps beeping. The bags keep draining. Grant keeps watching TV like the man he is.

I realize this is a deeply unoriginal thought, but time is fake. When life is good, it moves impossibly fast. When things are hard, a single week somehow lasts a calendar year.

Recent weeks have felt like both at once. I’ve been wrapping big projects, handing off others, stepping into a new role at work, and maintaining a social calendar that middle school me would find both impressive and deeply confusing.

All of which is to say: it’s been a minute since I’ve shared an update here. And by the time I finally sat down to write one, we were close enough to having answers about next steps that I decided to wait a little longer.

In that time, Grant successfully completed his stem cell harvest in Iowa City. His body produced around 2.8 million cells — enough for one transplant. We didn’t hit the original goal of 10 million that would have allowed some to be banked for potential future treatments, but getting enough for the transplant itself was still a win.

My parents have also spent the past several weeks navigating the glamorous administrative side of cancer care: applying for a clinical trial, signing and re-signing consent forms, transferring records, waiting on approvals, waiting on more approvals.

This morning, we found out his application was ineligible for the trial.

Which we knew was a possibility — and honestly, not a catastrophic one — just not the outcome I had personally been hoping for.

So. It’s time for a stem cell transplant.

I wrote about this process in a previous post while comparing it to a different clinical trial option. The short version: it’s gnarly, but it’s also considered the gold standard.

Grant will be admitted to Iowa City on May 19. The process starts with one extremely high dose of chemotherapy. Two days later, his stem cells will be returned to his body to help rebuild everything the chemo wipes out.

The first few weeks are expected to be the toughest. Around days 3–5, he’ll hit the rough stretch: nausea, flu-like symptoms, fatigue — all the glamorous side effects of temporarily obliterating your immune system. His blood counts will bottom out around day 10 before slowly starting to recover, and he’s expected to remain hospitalized for about three weeks while doctors monitor everything closely.

Once he’s discharged, recovery truly begins. My mom will need to act as a 24-hour caregiver for at least the first week before returning to her normal schedule of approximately 23.5 hours a day. There will also be frequent follow-up appointments, labs, and monitoring in Iowa City.

Because the chemo wipes out both good and bad cells, Grant will be immunocompromised for a long time afterward — lots of hand washing, avoiding sick people, and probably masking in crowded places for the foreseeable future. As his caregiver, Mary will also have her own set of precautions and protocols to follow. Luckily, there is nothing Mary loves more than following rules.

This weekend I’ll head back to Iowa to support the first week of treatment however I can, and to potentially kidnap my parents’ dog for a few months.

Here’s hoping the next few weeks move quickly. Or slowly. Honestly, at this point I no longer understand how time works.

A while back, I wrote about the possible paths ahead. At the time, we were preparing for either a stem cell transplant or a CAR T clinical trial. Naturally, the universe decided to hit us with a classic plot twist: there is not currently a CAR T trial available.

But, as the overused adage goes, when one door closes, a window opens.

There is another clinical trial option on the table: something called bispecific antibody therapy (or “BiTE” therapy for short). Similar to CAR T, it’s an advanced treatment typically used later in the process, but this trial is testing it as a first-line option.

Getting into a clinical trial involves an actual application process. Much to my brother’s and my disappointment, there is apparently no section for “additional materials.” We were fully prepared to submit a sibling-produced video essay, complete with emotional score and Oscar campaign rollout.

For now, Grant’s doctor is completing the application. If he’s accepted, there’s still only a 50/50 chance he’d actually receive the BiTE therapy. The other path would be a stem cell transplant, which remains the standard of care at this stage.

As we shared before, stem cell collection is the next step either way. Doctors collect healthy stem cells from Grant’s blood now and store them so they’re ready whenever they’re needed — whether that’s soon or years down the line. The cells can be frozen for up to ten years, which means this process helps keep both paths on the table.

So this Thursday, my parents are heading back to Iowa City for Grant’s initial testing and prep. Additional activities will include a bone marrow biopsy, cat scan and echocardiogram.

Then on Saturday, they’ll return to begin the harvest process. Over the course of several days, Grant will get medication to help move stem cells from his bone marrow into his bloodstream. From there, the collection itself is similar to donating plasma: blood comes out, the machine separates and saves the stem cells, and the rest goes right back in. They’ll repeat that until they’ve collected enough.

As always, we’re learning in real time that cancer seems to love a plot twist. But for now, we’re focused on what’s in front of us: one step, one appointment, one bag of stem cells at a time.

So today, a quick interruption to focus on someone else.
My mom.

Today is her birthday, and I want to take a moment to celebrate her.

There’s a song lyric I think about often:
“I’m okay with every part, If I became half the woman you are”

Truthfully, to be even a tenth of the woman my mom is would be more than enough.

She loves deeply and advocates fiercely for the people and the things she believes in. She’s never distracted by differences; she leads with curiosity, always trying to understand someone else’s perspective while staying grounded in her own. She finds a way to begin and end each day with gratitude.

Even in her less-than-picture-perfect moments, she carries herself in a way that is nothing short of admirable. (And to be fair, most of those moments can be traced back to forgetting to eat, resulting in a very lovable kind of hangry.)

Growing up, I watched her navigate mine and my brothers’ medical challenges. A lot of that didn’t fully register until I was older.

Watching her move through this season with my dad has felt like watching a series reboot. She advocates at every turn, tracks details better than the literal systems designed to hold them, and never loses sight of what matters most: making sure the people she loves are cared for.

I could go on-- and I will, for just a bit.

She’s smart as a whip. She has the mind (and degree) of a lawyer, paired with a heart of gold. She chose to step away from a career in law (where, who knows, she may have ended up arguing before the Supreme Court) to instead be the most present parent we could have asked for. And in doing so, she made it possible for my dad to show up just as fully for our family.

Every day growing up, as we left for school, she’d say the same thing to us:
“Have a good day. Do your best work. Be nice to everyone. I love you.”

Even now, I still wake up to texts that say the same thing. And because I’ve watched her live those words my entire life, they feel like home.

After all of that, she found a second wind.

In more recent years, she’s poured herself into advocacy for foster children—serving as a CASA, working with the foster care review board, and supporting her local office. Not for recognition, not for credit, but because she believes everyone deserves someone in their corner.

Lucky feels like too small a word to describe what it means to have her in ours. The English language falls short of capturing the full weight of being cared for by Mary Gubbrud.

She has cared for so many.
And today, I hope some of that care finds its way back to her.

Happy birthday, Mom.
The world is better because you’re in it.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

(Every other post on this Substack has been pre-vetted and approved by Grant and Mary. Today, I did in fact go rogue. Sorry not sorry for going rogue, Mom. I’ll call you after work.)

In lieu of a comprehensive update, I’m here today with something different — a look back at some of the lighter moments from the past few months.

The age-old adage “if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry” has never felt more accurate. As a family, we’ve leaned hard into humor. We’re going to make jokes no matter what, it’s the only way through.

So today, enjoy a small collection of moments that gave us a bit of relief along the way.

My mother is notorious for running into people everywhere she goes. It turns a quick Hy-Vee trip into a 45-minute social event. So it only made sense that while walking the hallways at Mayo, Mary ran into someone she knew. Only my mother could be 200 miles from home and still manage to stop for a side conversation.

I’ve never realized how much thought my dad puts into his outfit choices until I helped him organize his clothing over Thanksgiving. He has T-shirts, “premium” T-shirts — all meticulously sorted by sleeve length and sports team affiliation. This entire operation was directed by him via a laser pointer he made me retrieve from the basement.

Every time my mom goes to pick up Grant’s medication, she has to confirm she is not pregnant. Which feels like an especially bold question given the circumstances.

My coworkers were kind enough to send me a DoorDash gift card while we were at Mayo. After fasting all day for testing, I told my dad he could order whatever he wanted for dinner. His choice? Arby’s. Beef and cheddar. No notes.

The week I got back to Chicago from Rochester, I was sitting at my neighborhood bar reading when a few people started playing two truths and a lie. For my turn, I said:
“I have one niece, I am learning to crochet, and my dad got diagnosed with cancer last week.”

The reaction when I revealed I actually have two nieces and that the cancer one was true was something.

The fact that a guy who was there on a first date with someone else came back later to give me his number? Also something. Turns out “dad has cancer” is, apparently, a surprising draw in the Chicago dating scene.

And if there’s one thing that has remained completely consistent, it’s Grant’s ability to deliver a one-liner. Including, but not limited to:

• “Grace, quit reading your phone and feed me”

• “We had to go to the ER- I had to watch the World Series in there!!”

• “I would’ve kept walking but I was hungry”

• Partway through eating cheese puff corn

  • Grant: “Grace I haven’t gotten any caramels yet”

  • Grace: “Yes Grant because they’re cheese puffs”

• While fasting for a test:

  • Doctor:“Do you have a drinking problem?”

  • Grant: “Yeah. I haven’t had a drink all freaking morning!”

No matter what next week brings we’ll keep laughing, it’s all we can do.

This Saturday, 3/14, marks not just Pi Day, but also Grant’s birthday. My brother, sister-in-law, and nieces will be trekking to Iowa to spend time with him and my mom. Meanwhile I’ll be in Chicago tending to my own adult responsibilities, a phrase that sounds impressive until you realize it mostly means answering emails and occasionally remembering to eat vegetables.

In an interesting bit of timing, the CMO at my company (DoorDash) announced last week that he’ll be leaving after nearly seven years to spend more time with family. His decision came on the heels of a personal loss, and reading his reflections stuck with me more than I expected.

My brother and I are lucky enough to have two of the best parents under the sun. I know lots of people say that about their parents, and ours would absolutely deny it, but the facts are the facts. We’ve been loved, supported, and cared for in ways that carried us well into adulthood.

My mom has always had one standing rule: she will answer a call from me no matter what. A policy that has been tested more than once by my drunk dialing tendencies during college years.

In recent months, though, the dynamic has started to shift. I knew this would happen eventually. I watched both of my parents care for their own parents as they aged. But I didn’t expect the pendulum to swing quite so quickly.

It’s become our turn as children to step into caretaking roles. No one has asked us to. There’s no obligation attached. But when you grow up watching that kind of love modeled for you, stepping up feels less like a choice and more like the natural order of things.

I first felt that shift when we were all together at Mayo Clinic. While Grant was being taken care of by doctors and pumped full of pain medication, it was my mom I found myself worrying about most. Making sure she took breaks. Making sure she ate. Trying to take care of her emotionally in small ways while everything around us felt heavy and uncertain.

Then in the fall, I returned to Cedar Falls to help care for my dad after my grandfather passed away. The heartbreaking irony of that moment wasn’t lost on me. Transparently, I don’t think most of our family—myself included—has fully processed the loss or the timing of it.

During that week in Cedar Falls, the weight of being responsible for another person became very real. It gave me a deeper appreciation for the kind of care my parents have quietly carried for decades.

It also reminded me that some people are meant to raise children, and some of us are meant to be really enthusiastic aunts.

But caring for the people who raised you?

That feels different.

It feels right.

Happy birthday, Dad.

Thanks for raising me.

• First — please keep opinions, advice, and treatment preferences to yourself. We already have plenty of cooks in the kitchen and more than enough variables to consider.

• Second — this is simply our understanding of what’s been explained to us. We are not doctors. We’re doing our best to translate.

Grant has two more cycles of chemotherapy. The first started this week. After that, things branch.

For lack of a better phrase, it becomes a choose your own adventure. It’s important to understand one thing: multiple myeloma is not considered curable. The goal of treatment isn’t to eliminate it forever, but to push it into remission and manage it for as long as possible.

Option 1: Continue Chemotherapy

With chemo alone, remission typically lasts 3–5 years before relapse. Some patients stay the course with that approach.

If we want to aim for what doctors call “deep remission,” though, we move into a different category of options.

Both of those start the same way: with a stem cell harvest.

We may have farming in our blood, but this is more along the lines of farming for blood.

Those cells can be used right away for a transplant or frozen for up to ten years in case they’re needed later.

Grant is scheduled for harvest in mid-April, which means about a week in Iowa City.

After that, the road splits.

Path A: Stem Cell Transplant

This is the current standard first-line treatment for multiple myeloma.

It involves:

• One very high dose of chemotherapy

• About a three-week hospital stay

• His stem cells being infused back into his body

• A rough stretch while his immune system bottoms out and slowly rebuilds

There’s no way to dress it up — this is intense.

The chemo wipes out healthy and cancerous cells alike. Grant would be immunocompromised for up to two years. That means strict infection precautions, a required 24-hour caregiver at first, and essentially restarting his vaccines from scratch (MMR being the final one, years later).

It’s hard on the body.
It’s also the most studied and widely accepted option.

Path B: CAR-T Therapy (Clinical Trial)

CAR-T is immunotherapy, not chemotherapy. Instead of destroying everything, it re-engineers Grant’s own immune cells to better recognize and attack the cancer.

Right now, CAR-T is approved as a second- or third-line treatment. Grant would be participating in a clinical trial using it as a first-line option. Early results have been promising — but it is still a trial.

The process looks like:

• A blood draw to collect immune cells

• Lab modification of those cells (this takes several weeks)

• A hospital stay to infuse them back in and then close monitoring of his bodies reaction as part of the study

Most people experience fever and flu-like symptoms for a few days. There’s also a small risk (around 5%) of neurotoxicity or Parkinson’s-like symptoms. They’re often manageable — but given our family history, that particular risk carries extra weight. Rare inflammatory or movement-related complications have also been reported.

CAR-T is generally considered more tolerable than transplant and doesn’t require full revaccination. But it’s less proven as a first-line defense and comes with its own unknowns.

One path is aggressive, proven, and physically demanding — with a long immune rebuild.

The other is newer and potentially gentler — but still being studied.

We’re grateful to even have choices.
And we’re taking our time deciding which adventure to step into.

It’s been a busy—but good—week for Grant. Tuesday he had his follow-up appointment with the care team in Iowa City. This check-in point felt so far away back in November, and I swear we blinked and it arrived.

The good news—his numbers are trending in a very positive direction. Those cancer cells we mentioned were at 1,500 when first logged at Mayo Clinic. They dropped to 400 after radiation. Chemotherapy has been working exactly as intended-- they now sit at a solid 6.7.

Six. point. seven.

His ranges are almost normal—a word that felt borderline fictional a few months ago. A number of additional tests will need to be done before anyone officially uses the word remission, but everything seems to be pointing toward that goal being just around the corner.

When he was first diagnosed, doctors used the metaphor of putting out a fire—explaining that we needed to kill off the cancer cells before they could keep spreading. It looks like this fire department has been pretty dang effective.

That said, the fire has left its fair share of rubble behind.

His mobility has improved greatly since I last saw him, but he still needs a good amount of assistance. Neuropathy continues to be a stubborn barrier to rebuilding strength and balance. The brain fog is clearing slightly—mostly in a way that makes me realize how thick it actually was before. It’s subtle but meaningful.

The most frustrating piece for me personally is his taste. Food has always been our family’s love language. I come from a long line of relatives who show affection through home-cooked meals and who build our best memories around tables that are a little too full and a little too loud.

When the physical toll has been at its worst, food has been the one thing for Grant to look forward to. I remember him in the hospital eating each meal like it was the best thing he’d ever had—which, let’s be honest, is not exactly the brand promise of hospital food. But when the next meal is the only bright spot on the horizon, anticipation alone can season the plate.

Now there’s no rhyme or reason to what tastes like something and what tastes like metal or dust. It shifts by the hour. So not only does it stink—it’s an unsolvable puzzle. I’ve always been able to pour myself into home-cooked dishes when I’m back home, but this week it’s felt like shooting blanks. Dramatic? Maybe. But food is emotional currency in our family, and this particular side effect has felt like the marquee annoyance for me.

Because there is still a lot of rebuilding to do, the doctor wants him to complete two more full rounds of chemo to get his body in the best shape possible ahead of whatever next step we choose. The good news is we have options. The harder news is that options require decisions.

More to come on that front.

Reporting live from Cedar Falls, this is Grace—signing off for now.

A few years back, my family decided to make Groundhog Day our official unofficial family holiday of choice. In a normal year, this looks like a weekend where we all gather—my parents, my brother and sister-in-law, my nieces, Uncle Bill, and Aunt Gina—for a few days of shenanigans. We plan activities, play games, and compete for points, all of which culminates in a charcuterie board competition and the crowning of the next Groundhog Queen or King. That person then earns the honor (and responsibility) of planning the following year’s celebration.

Lucky for me, I was crowned Queen Groundhog in 2025, which means I’ve had the opportunity to spearhead something I’ve quietly perfected over the years: the art of the pivot.

Today, we’ll hop on a Zoom call with the crew for a brief virtual celebration. When the time is right, we’ll have our delayed, more formal gathering—likely centered around another nonsensical calendar event. Because remaining a little unhinged is on brand for us.

One of my favorite parts of our Groundhog Day tradition has been establishing rituals that are entirely our own. We do an annual book swap, complete with informal book reports. We’ve also learned, year after year, that puzzles are perhaps the activity most likely to bring out the absolute worst in us.

In classic silent-but-deadly fashion, Grant has been the brain behind some of our best traditions. We now all arrive at Groundhog Day with penalty flags, ready to be thrown when someone is annoying, makes a bad dad joke, or is generally unhinged.

Under Grant’s reign as King Groundhog, we also formally established ourselves as members of the Punxsutawney Phil Groundhog Club. He coined our official motto: “Sumus quam sumus”—Latin for we are what we are. Which feels like an accurate summary of our general vibe.

As for Grant, he’s making progress. His walking continues to improve—he’s starting to regain a bit of sensation in his feet and has more movement than before—which is encouraging, even as new side effects like changes to his sense of taste remind us that progress is rarely linear. He’s been diligently following his PT plan, and it does seem to be making a difference. Next week, he has his next check-in with the Iowa City cancer team, something we’re all looking forward to.

This year’s Groundhog Day looks different because this season of life is different. For our family, that’s never been a dealbreaker. The tradition has never been about the date or the plans—it’s about showing up in whatever way makes sense at the time, even if that means pivoting.

That instinct to show up didn’t start with this season. Growing up, we spent many spring breaks with Bill and Gina, who have long been a second set of parents to Jacob and me. When things shifted quickly this winter, they helped my brother and me understand how serious things were and when to be there. It was the same muscle we’ve always relied on—pay attention, adjust, and show up.

The plans change, the calendar shifts, but the way we show up doesn’t—even when a penalty flag is involved.

Being home hasn’t meant slowing down; if anything, the pace has picked up. In just a few short days, my parents have been immersed in the kind of logistical whirlwind that comes with serious illness. This past week included an initial intake with a home health nurse, along with first meetings with physical therapy, occupational therapy, and palliative care.

Wednesday brought a four-and-a-half-hour marathon at the cancer center for labs, consults, and chemo. The good news: Grant’s numbers continue to trend in a positive direction, which we’re taking as a win. The week has also been filled with phone calls with his primary care team and the insurance caseworker. And Mary has managed not one, not two, but three trips to the pharmacy to juggle refills, new prescriptions, and medication adjustments—she’s officially on a first-name basis at CVS.

Next week looks much the same, if not busier. There’s a cardiology follow-up related to the embolism, an appointment with his primary care physician, another long day at the cancer center for labs, consult, and chemo, and continued visits from home health—along with what we hope will be multiple sessions of PT and OT. It’s a lot. The kind of full-body, full-brain exhaustion that doesn’t really lift at the end of the day. Much of this orchestration falls to my mom, who somehow keeps all the plates spinning while making it look easy.

I know it’s been exhausting and draining on both of them. And yet, there’s a quiet undercurrent of hope running through all of it. My mom put it best in a text she sent me this week: “We are lucky to be able to have so many people coming to work to improve his situation—and to do it in our home.”

Staying booked, busy and blessed. No pause buttons, just taking it one episode at a time.

I love HGTV shows (ask me about the time I was almost on House Hunters). From renovation drama to arguments over paint colors and the inevitable use of sliding barn doors, there’s always entertainment. But what’s missing from their lineup is a show focused on adapting homes to be accessible when life changes.

Grant will return home to a familiar space, but behind the scenes my family and I have worked to make changes to, in the words of another reality TV star, Tim Gunn, “make it work.”

Our two-story home is open on the first floor, but there’s no full-size bathroom or bedroom to be had. What was once a formal dining room has been transformed into an exercise space, complete with a recumbent bike for Grant to regain strength.

The table from the formal dining room has been relocated to our everyday dining room, which previously had a high-top table that has now disappeared into the basement. The living room gained a lift chair, purchased early on in this journey. Just as importantly, our entertainment center is gone—replaced with a makeshift buffet holding an upgraded, larger TV. Something my brother and I thought would be a fitting Christmas present, and a small incentive to make it home.

Stairs are the biggest hurdle at this point, but we’ve taken steps (pun intended) to adapt. The steps into our house from the garage now have rails for assistance. Our main staircase to the second floor has a chair placed on the mid-flight landing, offering a spot to pause and catch a breath.

Upstairs, there’s a new bed—also from early on—complete with lift capabilities (and a massage feature that I’ve personally really enjoyed). My childhood bathroom has seen the biggest transformation: a fully accessible shower renovation, including a folding seat option.

Despite all the change, it’s still home. Stable. Filled with love.

There’s no dramatic reveal here—just a space that’s been quietly reworked to support what matters most. Getting Grant back home lets us stop renovating and start living again, focused on fighting cancer and building strength.

Last Thursday, Grant had one of his best mornings in weeks. He walked farther than he had in some time and was feeling optimistic about how skilled care had been going.

That afternoon, after my mom helped him back into bed for a nap, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he passed out.

Luckily, Mary was there. Luckily, an ambulance was able to get him to the hospital quickly. Luckily, medical teams moved fast and were able to perform a thrombectomy that same day.

Grant had developed a saddle pulmonary embolism—a massive blood clot touching both lungs. The doctors who removed it said it was one of the largest they’d ever seen. It’s a true miracle that things worked out the way they did.

Both chemotherapy and Multiple Myeloma put people at a higher risk for blood clots. While he was in the hospital, he was on medication to help prevent this. But somewhere in the transfer to skilled nursing that medication was removed from his lineup.

He does have additional clots in his legs, but doctors are hopeful that continued blood-thinning medication will take care of those. In the meantime, this gives us just one more thing to monitor (and one more medication for Mary to track).

While we are beyond lucky for how things played out, another hospital stay is still another hospital stay. He wasn’t on the same floor as before, so getting used to new staff was a learning curve, and once again, holidays and weekends meant reduced staffing. It may sound like an oxymoron, but hospital stays are both exhausting and monotonous. Being back on that hamster wheel is hard. This whole experience has weighed heavily on me emotionally, so I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been for both of my parents.

And then there’s insurance. For lack of a better word: stupid. They won’t cover costs for staying in two places at once, which meant holding his room at skilled care became an out-of-pocket expense. That same insurance team also had to approve his return to skilled care—and moved at a snail’s pace. Thanks to persistent advocacy on his behalf, Grant was finally able to return to skilled care this evening. Another unexpected hurdle tackled.

To end this post, I want to pause and express my gratitude for my mom.

Based on how much she has tracked, researched, and advocated—especially when it comes to finding and managing the right lineup of medications—I’m fairly certain she could earn a pharmacy degree at this point. If you know our family, you know that my brother and I both had our own difficult medical mysteries growing up. In many ways, watching my mom navigate this feels like watching an Olympian return to their sport.

Not only does she manage the logistics of all of this, she’s also the emotional backbone of our family. She’s constantly reminding us to look for the bright spots and to trust that God has a plan, even when it’s hard to see.

I could—and probably should—write an entire post just about her someday. But for now, in true Mary fashion, I wanted to end on a positive note: we are so, so, so lucky to have her.

One day, to help with standing, his therapist had him play poker at a high table. The cards were from the Isle Casino—where Grant spent much of his career as Director of Finance which brought some levity to the situation. He lost the game miserably, but it did exactly what it was meant to do: distracted him from the fact that he was standing. It wasn’t really about poker; it was about giving his mind somewhere else to go.

Last Wednesday, after 17 long days in the hospital, Grant was transferred to skilled nursing at Deery Suites. This move happened about two days later than it could have—an intentional delay so he could begin his second chemo cycle, as it was unclear whether treatment could continue once he transferred. During this cycle, he started Revlimid. It’s highly regulated, hard to get, and costly, so you can imagine the stress of keeping it in the lineup. He was also taken off Velcade, which doctors believe has been contributing to his neuropathy.

The tradeoff for continuing chemo meant transferring to skilled nursing on Christmas Eve. Most full-time staff were off for the holiday, and the skeleton crew that remained weren’t typically assigned to this unit. While we tried to navigate the situation with grace (no pun intended), knowing everyone deserves time off, it also felt like a painful reminder that this was as good as our holiday celebration was going to get.

My mom—truly a saint—is a champion at tracking the approximately 50,439,524 medications Grant has been on. Her advocacy and relentless question-asking were a huge blessing during this transition, ensuring no detail slipped through the cracks and Grant stayed on his regimen.

Christmas Day began bleakly. The three of us sat in Grant’s room, feeling like we’d arrived in a new place without a map, a schedule, or anyone to tell us what came next. I’d managed to help get a lot done over the past ten days, but my sleep was questionable at best, and I was emotionally and physically spent.

After attending a brief Christmas service in the memory care unit—with my parents’ dog, Nestor, in tow—I brought him to visit Grant. For lunch, my mom and I ordered the same meal the facility was serving, and perhaps because it was our first home-cooked food in weeks, we devoured it. Afterward, my mom took Nestor home, and my dad and I settled in for a post-lunch nap.

Grant was in the bathroom and I was half-awake when there was a knock at the door. I assumed it was a nurse coming to help him, but despite saying “come in” twice, no one entered. When I finally opened the door, I was stunned to find my grandma, Uncle Dwight, and Aunt Amy standing there. Unbeknownst to us, they’d decided just hours earlier to make the drive over and spend Christmas with us.

I can’t overstate the joy that it brought. It was exactly the lift we needed. The hours that followed were filled with laughter, tears, and a smorgasbord of gas station food for dinner.

It didn’t change the reality—that I was spending Christmas in a skilled nursing facility, watching my parents navigate the tumultuous beast that is multiple myeloma. But much like the poker game, it gave us something else to focus on for a while. A brief reprieve.

The next day, I headed back to Chicago. While I continue to wrestle with the guilt of not being physically present with my parents, I also know this is a marathon, not a sprint. We all have to keep doing the things that recharge us.

I’m happy to report that Grant is settling in well at the skilled nursing facility. He’s continuing with oral chemo medications, and we’re still working through whether he’ll be able to maintain the injection schedule. The biggest hurdle remains neuropathy. Thankfully, his doctors have been incredible at adjusting, readjusting, and re-adjusting the plan as needed.

In the coming weeks, I’ll be looking for poker wherever I can find it—those small moments that don’t fix anything, but make it a little easier to get through the day.

As we prepare for Grant to be transferred to skilled care tomorrow, we’ll have a more informational update later this week. In the meantime, here are some holiday-season musings from Jacob.

This Christmas will look different for our family.

That sentence feels obvious, almost understated - but it’s true in ways we didn’t see coming and certainly didn’t plan for.

For us, Christmas is usually defined by time together. A house that’s too loud. A table that’s too full. Football humming in the background all day. And at the center of it all, a very specific tradition: bacon-wrapped, crab-stuffed beef tenderloin. That meal started years ago at my Oma and Opa’s house and became something we deliberately carried forward - one of those traditions that anchors you, year after year, to the people and places that formed you.

This year, Opa isn’t around.

That absence alone would be enough to make the season feel heavier. Opa was never loud or showy, but when he spoke, people listened. He was admired for his accomplishments, but loved for the quiet, steady way he cared for all of us. Before meals - Christmas especially - we always prayed together, saying the Lord’s Prayer in German. It wasn’t flashy. It was grounding. A reminder of who we were and whose we were.

Alongside that loss, we’re also navigating Grant’s multiple myeloma.

Grant can’t travel right now. Chemo and its side effects have narrowed life considerably, and with his immune system compromised, we’re being extra cautious - especially with my two young daughters, who are essentially walking petri dishes. Emotionally and mentally, our family is tired in a way that sleep doesn’t really fix.

Granta Claus - a title my dad wears proudly this time of year -is feeling the weight of it. The joy is still there, but quieter. Harder-won.

So yes, this Christmas will look different. Fewer people around the table. Different logistics. A noticeable empty chair.

And that’s hard.

Still, we know where comfort comes from, even when the season feels thinner than usual.

We always pray before meals, but especially at Christmas we say it slowly, deliberately:

Come Lord Jesus,

Be our guest,

Let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen.

I’ve heard that prayer my whole life. This year, it lands with particular weight.

Christmas is the celebration of Jesus entering a broken world - not standing at a safe distance from pain, but stepping directly into it. Emmanuel. God with us.

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices.

That truth doesn’t magically make cancer easier or grief lighter. It doesn’t pretend things aren’t hard. But it does mean we are not alone at the table - even when the table feels emptier than it should.

Scripture speaks to people walking through uncertainty and loss:

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name, you are mine.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.” (Isaiah 43:1–2)

Originally spoken to a weary people in exile, this promise still steadies those walking through long goodbyes and hard treatments alike.

C.S. Lewis once wrote that God “whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains.” Pain has a way of clarifying what matters most. Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote that God is found not in escaping suffering, but in entering it. And that, ultimately, is the story of Christmas: not a denial of brokenness, but God’s decision to dwell within it.

We are quietly hopeful this year - not because everything is okay, but because Jesus is present. Hopeful that treatment will help Grant regain strength and mobility. Hopeful that healing - whether partial now or complete later - is real and promised.

That promise carried Opa through a long life of faith. It carries us now.

So this Christmas, the meal might be simpler. The gathering smaller. The joy more subdued. But we will still pray. We will still gather in the ways we can. And we will still ask Jesus to be our guest - trusting that when He comes, He also comes as host, blessing what He has already given.

Different doesn’t mean empty.

It just means we’re holding the season a little more gently - and maybe a little more honestly - than we ever have before.

The universe, of course, laughed.

Pain continued to intensify. Internal blockages built up. New symptoms emerged. By Saturday evening, Grant was experiencing foot neuropathy on top of everything else — a new and, understandably, terrifying development. It’s easy to imagine how hard this is for him, how frightening it must feel to sense your own mobility slipping away. He is entitled to every emotion under the sun.

My mom, as his caretaker, is also carrying the weight of all of it — managing logistics, navigating setbacks, holding space for his fear and frustration, while also reminding herself that she’s allowed to have her own emotions, too. It’s a lot. Cancer is famously cruel and unfair. We’re learning that firsthand. It’s been a crash course, to say the least.

On Sunday, I decided to head back to Cedar Falls early for the holidays to provide some extra support this week — reminding myself that one of the gifts of having a flexible job is being able to work from anywhere.

By Monday, we finally started to turn a corner. The foot neuropathy is likely a side effect of the chemo, and the care team is actively working to address it. On Tuesday, our house had an accessible shower installed in anticipation of his eventual return. He’s back to standing, experiencing reduced pain levels, and doing some assisted walking.

At this point, the focus shifts to rebuilding strength and continuing physical movement. To do that safely and effectively, the best next step is a short stay at a skilled nursing facility. The frustrating catch: in order for this care to be covered by insurance, chemo treatments will need to pause (make it make sense, American healthcare system). We’ve been reassured that this isn’t uncommon and shouldn’t have any long-term impact—think of it as a delay, not a derailment.

Grant has never been fond of delays, so this news understandably dimmed spirits for a moment. Still, we’re confident this is the right and positive next step, and we’re grateful to have social workers helping us navigate placement and next steps.

I’d be remiss not to acknowledge the overwhelming love and warmth and support we’re feeling didn’t appear out of nowhere. It exists because it’s something Grant has modeled his entire life.

There’s a core memory from my childhood that always surfaces when I think about this. One Christmas, we were driving back to South Dakota to spend the holidays with our grandparents. Midwestern winter weather was doing what it does best — turning roads into ice rinks. By all accounts, we should not have been traveling. But Grant insisted.

I remember creeping along at less than 10 miles an hour while Grant and Mary periodically opened their car doors to step out and test the ice with their hands. A drive that normally took four hours stretched to twelve. At the time, I was annoyed — trapped in the back of a minivan, secretly wishing we had just stayed home.

But when we finally arrived, I remember the joy. The relief. The thrill my grandparents felt simply because we showed up. I don’t remember the exact words exchanged, if there were any at all, but the message was clear through action alone: you show up for family.

You show up.
Not because it’s easy.
Not because it’s convenient.
Not because it’s perfect.

You show up because that’s what you do.

I often joke with my therapist that, despite having zero Italian lineage, my dad has instilled in me a Tony Soprano–esque approach to family. He’s always demonstrated that you do what needs to be done to support the people you love. He would dislike me elaborating too much here (and yes, he reads and approves these posts), but just know this: Grant has never phoned it in.

He’s shown us that for decades. Now it’s our turn to show up for him.

The blessings surrounding us have been abundant. I’m not writing this to ask for more, but to acknowledge why they exist — because Grant is someone who has always shown up for others.

We’re taking things day by day, and we’ll be having a nontraditional, but deeply love-filled, holiday celebration. Not because things are easy. Not because everything is okay. But because we show up.

May you show up in the ways that matter most for the people you love this holiday season.

Much love from all of us.
We rise by lifting others.
Thank you for the ways you have — and continue to — show up.

Last Saturday counted as a good day. Grant’s pain was manageable, and—for only the second time in over a month—he made it outside for a short walk partway up the block and back. It felt like a small win, the kind you tuck away and hold onto.

But by 2 AM, the pendulum swung hard in the opposite direction. He began experiencing painful back spasms, and by Sunday afternoon his pain had escalated so significantly, even with medication, that my parents headed to the ER, where he was admitted. His pain shot back up to an 8–10 with any movement, leaving him essentially immobile. It felt like being back to day one of our Mayo visit.

He’s been hospitalized since with a steady stream of medical professionals working to adjust his pain regimen, trying combination after combination in hopes of getting things to a tolerable place. When you’re living inside that much pain—and when the medications meant to help also leave you foggy—it can be hard to spot progress or feel hopeful.

One of the weirdest parts of watching your parents go through something like this is trying to understand when your presence is truly needed—and when it’s okay to keep living your own life. It’s been weighing heavily on me that my brother and I aren’t there in person this week, wishing we could provide more hands-on support. At the same time, I’m holding onto the truth that my parents are managing, that they have good people looking out for them, and that they understand we, too, have lives and families that still need tending.

Growing up, around the dinner table my parents always had us share “Happies and Crappies” from our days. It allowed us to hold space for the highs and lows for what they were (and constantly chuckle at the term crappy).

So in that spirit, here are this week’s Happies and Crappies (featuring the whole family):

• Crappy: Intense pain and limited mobility.

• Happy: Being in a hospital where people are actively working to help him find relief.

• Crappy: Not knowing what his leg strength will look like day to day.

• Happy: Getting on his feet on Wednesday and walking to the doorway of his room with physical therapy.

• Happy: Being able to sit upright in bed at an elevated angle—and even sit in a chair for a bit.

• Crappy: All the machines that insist on beeping… constantly. (Mary)

• Happy: A check-in call from one of the Mayo doctors, just to see how we were holding up. (Mary)

• Crappy: That this is all happening during baseball’s off-season. If Grant has to be stuck in a chair or bed for long stretches, the least he could ask for is a few good baseball games to watch. The timing feels especially unfair. (Jacob)

• Happy: Having two beautiful little girls who brighten my days -and his. Even when we can’t be there in person, a single photo of their goofy smiles can put a real smile on my family’s faces. They’re tiny, but their joy carries a lot of light. (Jacob)

• Crappy: The guilt of not being with my parents this week. Struggling to focus on closing out the work year. Trying to find the energy to care about project deadlines while carrying the emotional burnout of the past few months. (Grace)

• Happy: The love and care from family and friends who have shown up in so many ways—not just for Mary and Grant, but for Jacob and me, too. Best friends who let me cry it out. Coworkers who let me vent in Lyft’s home from holiday parties. A cheerleading team that reminds me the importance of moving my own body. (Grace)

Again, we just want to share how truly OVERWHELMED we all are by the support we’ve received. We are constantly taken aback by the kindness that surrounds us. Even in a bumpy week, the bright spots matter—and we’re holding onto them, one day at a time.

The first phase of managing multiple myeloma is chemotherapy — broken into repeating 28-day cycles. Grant began his first cycle the Thursday before Thanksgiving. Because the holiday shut everything down, his schedule shifted a bit, and this past Monday he received the second treatment of the first cycle. From here on out, Mondays will be his treatment days.

Each weekly visit means time at the cancer center for labs and for two of the four medications he receives — either by injection into his abdomen or, occasionally, through an IV. His chemo regimen is made up of four medications, known together as DRVd:

• Daratumumab — given weekly by injection.

• Velcade — another injection into the stomach area (responsible for some intense-looking bruises).

• Revlimid — a highly regulated oral medication he’ll begin in the second cycle.

• Dexamethasone — an oral steroid taken in larger doses eight days out of each cycle.

Revlimid deserves a small paragraph of its own. Because it’s so highly regulated, there are several layers of approvals, agreements, and safety measures. Grant had to sign off on a series of precautions, insurance had to approve it, and once everything was green-lit the medication will be mailed from one of only a handful of pharmacies in the entire country that are allowed to distribute it. When it arrives, I’ll administer it using disposable gloves and dispose of them immediately afterward. We’re nearly through the process and hope to have the medication in hand within the next week.

As for the final “d” — dexamethasone — we’ve seen glimpses that it has helped control his pain. Because of that, we’re entering the upcoming stretch without it with a healthy dose of apprehension.

Looking ahead, the goal after the third or fourth chemotherapy cycle is remission. If – and hopefully when – we get there, the next step will be exploring options to move him into what the doctors call “deep remission,” essentially extending how long remission lasts. We’ve been given a high-level overview of two possibilities. Neither are small undertakings, but both show promising results — and those decisions will come when the time is right.

In the meantime, pain management has been a journey of its own. Grant has a palliative team supporting him at home, plus a lineup of more than fifteen medications he uses in various combinations — and another five that exist solely for “just in case” scenarios. Every day looks a little different. Some days his pain is tolerable; some days it’s not. But we’re learning, adjusting, and holding onto hope that the scale will slowly begin to tip toward more good days than bad.

For now, we remain grateful — for your messages, your prayers, and the steady stream of love you’ve shown us. It matters more than you know.