Thursday, July 11 — Round 5, Day 5 // Day 15 of Immunotherapy 

The FINAL round of immunotherapy + chemo before transplant 
 

Today marks a milestone. 

 

It’s Day 15 of immunotherapy.  And the end of all pre-transplant treatment. 

Five months. Three days a month. 

And now, we’ve come through it—every round, every infusion, every sedation. 

 

Back in March, I looked at this date on the calendar and thought it seemed so far away. 

Every day since then, our motto has been: 

“Just put one foot in front of the other. Get through today. And if today feels too heavy, just get through this moment.” 

 

And somehow… we’re here. 

How did we get from March 9 to July 11? 

How are we still standing? 

 

But God… 

That was our only response on March 9. 

And it’s still our only response today. 

 

It’s been the hardest five months of our lives. 

 

Jake left for work this morning and I sat outside sedation suite, waiting to be brought back to Avry. 

Dr. Cohn came out and hugged me. 

“We did it! 15 days of immunotherapy!” 

 

Immunotherapy is brutal—just as hard as chemo, if not harder. But this was the final dose before transplant. (Post-transplant immunotherapy will continue, but it will be less intense and won’t require sedation.) 

 

Looking back on what we’ve walked through, I’m reminded: 

We can do hard things. 

We have survived. We will continue. 

 

Anna was here again today, leading Avry’s case. Tiffany and Carolyn were both present. Dr. Cohn, too. 

All the people who know Avry best—the ones who have consistently walked this sedation journey with us. I felt so grateful all over again. These precious team members have made the painful as smooth as possible. They’ve gone out of their way for us, time and again. 

 

Honestly, this week didn’t even feel like a typical chemo week. The side effects were so mild. 

 

Because of Avry’s significant hearing loss, we followed protocol and halved the chemo dosage. I’ve wondered—does that make it less effective? But we choose to trust the process. She’s done really well this week. 

Partly because she had a break last week, allowing her body to rebuild some reserves. 

Partly because by Round 5, we’ve learned a few things. 

 

Today, while Avry was under sedation, Jake and I had lunch together in the café. 

 

I told him how, last night, I saw a couple walking into the grocery store—laughing, carefree. And it hit me hard… how foreign that feels to us now. 

The idea of running into the store together just feels… unreachable. 

 

Would we ever feel that carefree again? 

Would we ever long for the things that used to stress us out? 

 

It’s this in-between place we live in. I know I’ve said this before, but it’s true every single day: 

Seeing other people’s “normal” reminds us how far from normal our reality is. 

But even when these conversations surface… they don’t end in despair. 

Yes, we grieve. 

Yes, we ache. 

Yes, we worry—especially for Trace. 

I used to think I’d lay in bed when he was 17, praying and worrying…

But he’s nine. And I’m already there. 

 

So much of our life feels out of control right now, and I don’t know how to help him when all of me is occupied with Avrys care.

My prayer—my only prayer some nights—is that God would fill in the gaps. 

Because no one can fully stand in the shoes of both Mom and Dad. 

Our hearts bleed for him, too. he’s hurting 

 the worst sort of way. 

Jake and I always come back to this: 

We cannot control this situation. But we can control how we respond to it. 
 

So at lunch today, we started listing off all the people who’ve gone out of their way to love us on purpose. Who have chosen to just show up physically and emotionally for us… not when it suits them, but because they know we needed it. 

We pushed our unfinished plates to the side, overwhelmed by your kindness. 

You are our village. You carry us. 

 

This week, Jake met two mothers in the kitchen. 

One from Cedar Creek—her family is facing stage four cancer for the second time. They had two years cancer-free… had finally exhaled… finally began to live again… only to be hit all over again. She was broken. Their family is hurting deeply. Please pray for them. 

 

And then, another mother… who lost her child to neuroblastoma in April. 

Now she’s back, caring for one of her other children—this time with a terminal diagnosis. 

 

Jake asked her how in the world they’re still standing. 

And she said, “God. And positivity. Those are the only two things that will carry you through this journey.” 

Jake said, “If they’re still standing… that gives us hope.” 

 

Please pray for us and for Trace—knowing we won’t be able to see him for a few weeks in August, possibly even the entire month. That ache is real and raw. 

Pray for all the meetings and appointments that must happen between now and August 3—for clarity, peace, and God’s hand over each one. 

 

We do not take it lightly- your love, your constant encouragement, and support. 

Thank you for standing with us. For praying. For being a part of the reason we’re still standing. For intentionally checking in. (We count in this.)  We appreciate it more than you know. 


I’m currently leading a Book of Proverbs study for a group of women this July, and I’m going to share today’s inspiration with you 

Proverbs 11:25 (TPT)
“Those who live to bless others will have blessings heaped upon them, and the one who pours out his life to pour out blessings will be saturated with favor.”


In this particular season, it feels like I have nothing to give.
And that’s hard—because historically, I’ve been the giver.
The one who shows up. The one who helps. The one who pours out.
But right now? I’m being asked to receive. Wow this is wildly uncomfortable, being asked 
To accept help.
To let others carry me.
To learn how to be held—with grace.
It’s stretching me in ways I didn’t expect.
But even in this—in the quiet, the weary, the tender—I still ask:

What do I already have that someone else might need?
A word.
A prayer. A smile. 
A reminder that they’re not alone.
Even here. Especially here on 3 East.

Because maybe the invitation in this season isn’t to give from abundance…
But to give from the deep places.
From what’s eternal. From what costs something.
And maybe, just maybe—that’s the doorway to even deeper joy… and divine favor.

——————God is still Here.