I wrote a letter four years ago, long before I knew just how much the library would come to mean to me.

After I came home from rehab, the library was one of the first places I went with my kids.

It felt like home.

At the time, I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to manage a trip to the library with my kids on my own again. For a while, Derrick had to help me.

Now I do it all on my own.

I came across this old love letter recently, and it made me smile. So much has changed since I wrote it.

But this hasn’t.

I still love the library.

And I still think it deserves a love letter.

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Fresh notebooks.

A box of crayons with perfect points.

A package of Ticonderoga pencils.

Maybe it’s because, years ago, a movie introduced me to the idea of a bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils.

I’ve never forgotten it.

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Eventually, the rain stops falling.

But the landscape doesn’t always look the way it did before.

Some storms leave a few limbs in the yard. Others leave us rebuilding.

My latest MRI showed no new tumor growth. We celebrated that answer to prayer with grateful hearts.

The fiercest part of the storm has passed.

But I’ve discovered something I never expected.

Living after cancer treatment is a journey all its own.

People often ask how I’m doing.

It’s a harder question to answer now than it was during treatment.

Back then, the path was obvious.

Surgery.

Radiation.

Chemotherapy. MRIs.

Every day had a purpose, even if it was painful.

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Yesterday, I went to the cancer infusion center for a routine appointment. It felt both strange and good to be back there.

The feeling surprised me.

It was a little like returning to a gym after a long break—your body remembers the movements, even if your muscles protest. Or like walking into a favorite restaurant after months away, recognizing the staff before they recognize you. Familiar, unsettling, and oddly comforting all at once.

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Over the past two years, Derrick has been the constant in our storm.

“The caregiver’s life is ultimately dictated by the cycle of decay, and the demands of someone else’s body.”
— Between Two Kingdoms, Suleika Jaouad

Before cancer, I don’t think I fully understood what it meant to be a caregiver.

Jaouad describes her partner, Will, this way:

“He organized my pillbox and came with me to every single doctor’s appointment. Will never complained—even when it meant missing out on parties and special events. He reassured me again and again, there was nowhere else he would rather be than by my side.”

There is something sacred about that kind of presence.

• The quiet faithfulness.

• The showing up—over and over again.

• The choosing to stay when life looks nothing like it used to.

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The second Christmas after trauma.
The second year after cancer.
The second round of holidays where survival mode has faded just enough for reality to settle in.

Now, we are approaching our second summer post-craniotomy.

And summer used to mean something very different.

Summer used to look like long afternoons at the pool, popsicles dripping onto sidewalks, packed sunscreen bags, spontaneous outings, road trips, exhaustion that felt earned and joyful.

Summer used to feel light.

Our first summer after surgery was survival.

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She was in her twenties.
I was in my forties.

Different lives. Same landscape.

Because no one truly understands cancer until you’ve sat in that chair—
behind a curtain,
while strangers insert needles and pump poison into your veins in the name of saving you.

Jaouad, Suleika

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On Christmas morning, we surprised our three kids with the news.

What they didn’t know was that this trip would become a bright, life-giving pause in the middle of one of the hardest seasons our family has faced.

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I want to briefly explain why the majority of my writing here is part of a paid subscription.

What I’m offering isn’t just content — it is an ongoing journal of my journey with cancer and life after treatment.

It’s the honest

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Yesterday, I placed the 500th piece into one.

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Please view these photos, and listen to the audio with tender care. I am vulnerable and honest, knowing my words , voice and visuals help others understand where I’ve been.

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I imagined finishing treatment would mean a return—a clear line between BEFORE and AFTER.

Life resumes.

Routines reappear.

But, familiarity isn’t the same as sameness.

From the outside, life looks normal again.

Calen

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This account isn’t just about medical terms, and a scientific cancer journey. Writing is healing; And, hopefully educational for those outside of a cancer journey.

In addition, travel has been a huge part of this journey, as well as my recovery.

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I have learned a new cancer term.

Post treatment.

It sounds conclusive, almost celebratory — like a period at the end of a long and brutal sentence. As if something has been finished, wrapped, tidied, resolved.

I am post treatment.

For so long, my life was defined by anticipation and endurance.

I was waiting for treatment.

Then I was in the middle of treatment. Time was measured in appointments, scans, lab results, infusion and recovery days.

But now; apparently, I am post treatment.

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While lying in a hospital bed for three weeks, I often thought warmly about my new puppy and our future surprise trip to Hawaii.

Surprise #1: A Puppy

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The first Christmas after a heart attack.

The first summer vacation after a drowning.

The first family road trip after an accident.

In those firsts, there is a hypervigilance to survive.
“I must get through it. I will steel myself until it is over. I should stay strong for those around me. Life will soon be normal again.”

I am here to tell you—it is the seconds that have the potential to be most difficult.

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There is a cast that did not need a costume or a badge: my friends and my family.

They held space for every monologue of fear, every improvisation of hope. They stepped into the wings when I needed rest; and, stood center stage with me when I needed strength.

Their presence was its own kind of medicine.

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