So many faces. So many stories. Some we will understand. Some we will hear whispers from. Most we will never know.

One of the first things that I was most surprised by is just how many people are dealing with cancer. If you’ve never been to the Cross you will probably first be taken aback by the volume of people here. The doors revolve constantly with people coming and going. Many old, some young, and a few middle-aged.

Some are at the very start of their journeys. They collect outside Waiting Area ‘A,’ their eyes wide open, searching for answers they may never find, as they await the Chemo School teacher to lead them up to the auditorium. There they will learn about the impossibility of predicting just what will happen next; what their unique journeys hold in store for them.

Some are at the end of their journeys. Outside the entranceways to the various chemotherapy and radiation treatment rooms are bells and plaques. Some of the bells are permanently affixed to the walls while others site idly on wooden tables. They all serve the same purpose: to be wrung with gusto and joy by those who have finished their last treatment session. It is a sound of celebration that is met by applause by anyone within earshot of the singing steel tintinnabulation. It speaks loudly for those at the end of a long, hellish road that has been fraught with uncertainty, dread, heartache, and fear. It says the things that words cannot say and profoundly connects each of our souls with one single life-preserving word: hope.

Many never get the chance. All of us who walk these halls are well aware of that stark reality.

But whether we are in the therapy chair or supporting someone who is, we all are connected in a way that makes us family. Each of us unique, yet united by that same hope that urges us all forward, step by step, towards a future that is void of that horrific ‘C’ word.

Lindsay’s first round of chemo led to many, many days of nausea and utter exhaustion. This led to a nearly non-existent desire to eat or drink anything. Which led to dehydration. I had to take her to the Cross for a hydration session where they pumped a bunch of fluids and anti-nausea drugs into her intravenously. That worked miracles and I got to see a rapid return of Lindsay’s energy before the day was through. With it came a return of her hunger and thirst! She discovered a strong craving for poutine and chocolate milkshakes—which I not only provided for her but also indulged in myself!

With a fuelled body came a fuelled mind. Lindsay found herself struggling with feelings and emotions that were hard for her to comprehend. It took some days and conversations with our amazing medical team to get feeling ‘right’ again. (As I’ve mentioned before, this whole experience is a continual rollercoaster ride and you’re never quite sure who is manning the controls!)

Early this week we had the pleasure of sitting down with my cousin Tim Monds and his wife Patty. Tim has lung cancer as well and it was especially nice to connect with family who can share in the perspective. Tim sits on the board of Evict Radon (please, get your homes checked! https://evictradon.org) and is a vocal advocate for lung cancer screening and acquiring proper funding for patients. Additionally, his family has organized the Give a Breath walk/run (https://runlabtrack.com/give-a-breath) happening on Saturday, June 6. We all would love to see you come out to raise awareness and funds for lung cancer research.

On Tuesday we had a meeting with our medical oncology team. Lindsay had mentioned some pain she was having for the past few days that felt like it was near her heart. They were concerned that it could be a pulmonary embolism (which would not be good at all) so they sent her for a CT scan. Thankfully, it was not a PE and she looks to be okay. As an additional happy note, the doctors told us that it appears that the largest tumour has shrunk. They told us not to get too excited but we will take it!

We also read a news story about Kerri Tucker, a young never-smoking mother of 3 from Saskatchewan, who was diagnosed with lung cancer and is pushing for people to get their homes checked for radon. Lindsay and Kerri have started chatting on Messenger, sharing in their journeys and connecting in a way that only cancer patients probably can. (You can read that article here: https://cbc.ca/…/radon-lung-cancer-test-saskatchewan-1.5461…)

Yesterday, Lindsay’s oldest friend, Karrone, took her to radiation and out for a bit of shopping. It was great for Lindsay to have that time with her and I could see the small fragment of normalcy lifted her spirits a lot.

Today, we had the second cycle of chemo. They’ve switched up some of Lindsay’s anti-nausea pills and gave her some pre-emptive treatment before administering the chemo to see if it will help this time around. We met with one of our radiation oncologists and shared in the news of her shrinking tumours. He looked legitimately happy as he told us that we had every right to feel good about the news. I told him how much that meant to us; that patients hold on tightly to each thread of hope that they can and it meant the world to us to have his vocal support and encouragement. I looked over at Lindsay and she was tearing up. I looked back at the doctor and so was he. It was a beautifully human moment that I think we all needed.

Lindsay is sleeping now, extremely exhausted from the day. I hope that she gets the rest her body and mind need to continue shrinking the tumours. Her awesome mindset, excellent medical team, your good thoughts, warm meals, well wishes, prayers, intentions—and those chocolate milkshakes and poutine, of course—are all working miracles! I can almost hear that bell ringing now…