1,051,200 Minutes...

Two Years, Countless Labs, and One Very Rude Cancer: A Reflective Musical (in Prose)

Sitting in my hotel room tonight in lovely Kirkland, Seattle, after a productive week of meeting with my leadership team and realizing it's been TWO YEARS!

...Two years since I found out I had multiple myeloma, and I’ve learned a lot since then — about life, mortality, stem cells, bone marrow, calcium supplements, and the unrelenting absurdity of trying to carry a suitcase with two dead arms and no core strength. (Shoutout to escalators, my unexpected nemesis.)

What started with a sneeze and a handful of fractured ribs became a Broadway-worthy production full of plot twists, understudies, and at least three acts too many. There were scans and biopsies, chemo cycles, and hospital gowns, and just when I thought the curtain might close... surprise! Intermission was over, and it was time for another scene change.

So, what have I learned? Pull up a chair. This is the second act. There’s no choreography, but I do promise a few Sondheim references and absolutely no jazz hands. #DoubleThreat #IDontDoDance

1. You don’t control the script. You just show up and deliver your lines.

I went into this thinking I could out-plan cancer. Color-coded calendars. Coordinated opinions from top-tier hospitals. I had binders. Binders, people. But cancer? Cancer is improv theater. It throws tomatoes mid-monologue, changes scenes with no warning, and every now and then, lights the stage on fire just to see what you’ll do. I had to learn to let go — not of hope, but of the illusion of control. It's like Company, but instead of being about commitment, it’s about platelets. “You’re always sorry, you’re always grateful,” except here it’s more like, “You’re always neutropenic, you’re always itchy.”

2. You either laugh or cry. And crying messes with your electrolytes.

Look, when both arms stop working and you sound like you’ve been cast in Drunk Les Mis, you’ve got two choices: cry, or laugh while crying. I chose laughter. It’s cheaper than therapy and slightly more socially acceptable than screaming at furniture. And besides, everything is funnier in hindsight — even the phrase “goober removal” (a legit medical term, apparently) or when you find yourself celebrating getting an IV placed in one attempt like it’s opening night at the Majestic.

3. Pride is great until it punches you in the face.

For a long time, I wore the whole “I’m fine, I’ve got this” thing like a badge of honor. Type A. Doer. Problem solver. Then I fractured another rib and realized I couldn’t open a jar of peanut butter without sounding like I was performing Sweeney Todd entirely in grunts.

The truth? You can’t do it alone. And honestly, you’re not supposed to. Letting people help you is not a sign of weakness. It’s just intermission — someone’s gotta refill the snacks while you catch your breath.

4. Healing is wildly unsexy.

Hollywood lied. Recovery isn’t a glorious training montage. It’s naps. It’s side effects. It’s fatigue so deep your bones feel like they’re filing HR complaints. It’s a mental fog so thick you forget what you were doing mid-Zoom and just smile blankly until someone else speaks.

And somehow, it’s beautiful. Because one day you wake up, and you’re a little stronger. You walk a little farther. You laugh at something stupid. You board your first flight in 18 months ... and you realize you’re still you, even if a slightly dented version. Like an off-Broadway revival with a new cast and a few rewritten lyrics.

5. You are allowed to grieve things that seem “small.”

Like… missing a work trip. Or needing to cancel plans. Or being told, definitively, “No, you may not go to Vegas for SKO.” (Rude.)

Or — and I say this with deep emotional damage — Brad Marchand getting traded to the Florida Panthers. I mean, truly, what is the point of remission if you can’t even cling to a Marchand-led Bruins redemption arc? I’ve faced a lot over the past two years, but that one? That one stung.

6. There’s no “normal” to go back to. Only a new one to build.

After the transplant, I thought: Okay, great. Now we rebuild. But it’s not like assembling IKEA furniture. There’s no manual, and if there were, I probably lost the Allen wrench anyway.

So now, I’m creating a new normal. One where my calendar is built in pencil. One where I still get tired at 8 PM and have the immune system of a wet paper towel. One where I pace myself, listen to my body, and try not to feel bad about doing less than I used to. I’m still working on that last part. The perfectionist in me wants to headline the whole show. The realist just wants to get through tech rehearsal without collapsing.

7. The show must go on — but it’s okay to change the show.

I’m still here. Still in treatment. Still #Fighting. But the fight looks different now. It’s not all bone marrow biopsies and hospital stays (the biopsies still happen; in fact, the next one is in May)— it’s quiet routines and slow mornings, regular blood draws, monthly immunotherapy and oral chemo routines, and making peace with the phrase “maintenance phase.”

Some days are rough. Others are surprising. A few are even joyful. And like any good Sondheim show, it’s complex, layered, and at times a little dissonant — but still beautiful.

And through it all, I keep going. With gratitude. With humor. With more Broadway references than strictly necessary. Because, as Into the Woods reminds us:

Finale: Curtain Call

So here I am. Two years later. Still upright. Still sarcastic. Still muttering, “I’m not throwing away my shot,” while organizing pill containers.

And somehow, despite it all — the chaos, the chemo, the canceled plans, and the crushed hockey dreams — I’m grateful. For the science. For the people. For the chance to keep writing Act III.

And if you’re on your own journey, know this: you don’t have to do it perfectly. Just keep going. Be kind to yourself. Find your music. Laugh when you can. And above all — don’t lose your damn playbill.

#StillHere

#NoOneIsAlone

#ChemoAndCompany

#SondheimSaves

#MarchandDeservedBetter

#Onward