The last mile

A spontaneous hug broke out in the middle of a walkway in a crowded amusement park, thanks to my amazing tiny humans, and the tears could not be held. These kids and their dad are worth every obstacle I've fought to overcome.

Hey guys! Sorry to have gone silent, it’s been hectic over here! With follow-ups, drain removals, expander fills, starting back to work, kids going back to school, getting six different iterations of back-to-school-funk (I was sick for a month and a half?!), and now undergoing radiation — there hasn’t been much time to relax, let alone write.

But I have missed you all!

Things are going really well and I am feeling a little more like myself every day. Although with every step forward I feel a little tug back. Uncertainty about the future. Worries about recurrence or side effects from radiation. I’m continuously reminding myself to live for today. For my family.

I’m doing every possible thing I can to avoid a recurrence. Everything else is out of my control.

I’m preparing for another surgery at the end of this month — on Halloween! I pushed and pushed to get surgery scheduled as quickly as I could to be one step closer to the finish line, and then it was scheduled on one of my favorite days of the year.

But so it goes. 2025 has taken a lot of hits, what’s one more? All in the name of 2026 until forever. My Wonder Woman costume will have to wait a year, but enjoying and cherishing every day is never on hold.

Cancer has changed so much and nothing at all. I’m still the same energetic, optimistic, pink-loving, magic-believing, Keri I’ve always been.

But I’ve let some parts of her go, too. She’s not quite as type A as she was (although just as competitive!). I couldn’t tell you the last time I made a list — work excluded because, if I don’t make a list of work tasks, they’re simply not getting done!

I’m letting laundry sit in baskets for — gasp — days before folding! Ah! And I’m not wasting time in the evening running around like a Hoover hurricane picking up dirty socks and forgotten water bottles.

Instead I’m nudging the kids to get better at picking up after themselves — a favor to me and them — and I’m using the evenings to recharge with Justin in the hot tub, with a book, even out on the town!

I’m doing less but coloring more, actually reading some of the books I’ve bought, listening more actively, speaking with intention and awareness, and playing Taylor Swift on repeat, unapologetically. I’m catching myself getting spun up in those Type A ways and rewiring my brain.

There’s a balance to it. I can’t live in a mess. The chaos of it invades my mental calm. But I can walk past pillows kicked off the couch and Hot Wheels all over (ALL OVER) the room and allow myself to let it go. To come back to it when I have time.

After all, those messes stem from joy. From quality time spent unplugged, using our creative minds while being together, sharing and holding space.

Radiation has been a wild ride. There isn’t much to do. It’s a lot of waiting. Literally holding my breath. The treatment sessions feel like scenes from a dystopian, post-apocalyptic movie.

I’m lying in a gray, sterile room alone, under a machine with lasers beaming onto my alien chest, marking the frame of the area to be radiated.

Music is playing, often oldies, on low-quality speakers. There’s a pause in the music and a voice comes over the speaker directing me to take a deep breath and hold it.

It is surreal.

And it’s hard to keep your mind from wandering to how dangerous the process actually is, when you’re holding your breath, having been perfectly positioned by a team on a sterile table to ensure precision in the application of the treatment, sealed inside a room in an otherwise empty hallway so as to protect those not needing treatment from … harm?

I’m more than halfway through it.

Radiation itself takes maybe four minutes? But the process of driving to and from the hospital, checking in, changing, and waiting for my turn can take hours out of my day.

I wonder how long it will take for these days to become a distant memory.

Nine sessions left.

Nine more times to check in, lay flat, stare at the ceiling and wonder if this will keep the cancer from coming back. If this will make a new cancer come forward.

Nine more (week) days interrupted mid-flow by driving to the cancer center. Days of schedule Tetris to fit all the school drop-offs and kid activities, the work meetings and project tasks, around treatment time. Days struggling to show up as best I can so no one and nothing feels neglected or shows signs of distress, of a lack of attention.

Nine more times reciting name, date of birth, area of radiation to the incredible care team, counting the seconds of radiation in my head. Drowning out that ominous beep with my own voice in my head.

Nine more. And then it’s on to the next step.

I’m rounding the first corner of the last lap. My coach is there, almost whispering in that steady, deep voice. I’m ahead of the competition. Miles ahead. I’m going to win this. He believes in me. He is so sure that I’m going to win that it convinces me that I can do it.

Dig deep. Don’t look back. Keep doing what you’re doing. You can do this.

Coach Salmon is the reason I still accelerate running up hills. Nearly 30 years since my first season those practices still stick with me.

I’m a stronger human for his influence on the course, influence which permeated into my life off of the course.

I’m grateful to have known him.

And I’m sad he’s gone.