The Morning Everything Changed

I remember this drive so clearly — the day my life changed forever.

It was the next morning, and I’m still not sure if what I felt was excitement, anxiety, or the fear of the unknown. Maybe it was all of it rolled together. I checked into UCSF Mission Bay for my MRI and CAT scans, not knowing that this would be the day my life completely changed.

When they came back to get me, one of the techs asked if I had received the COVID shot. I said no, and he told me that was actually a good thing—it could cause false readings in the MRI when they used contrast. That contrast dye, the fluid they inject into

your veins, can light up certain areas on the scans, showing cancer spots or sugar spots. Apparently, the shot would have interfered with that process. So, in a strange way, my decision not to take it became a small blessing.

They got me settled in for my scans. It took a little time to get the IVs in place, and the room was cold, so they brought me warm blankets—simple, small acts of kindness that made me feel safe. I’d always heard MRIs were scary or claustrophobic, but honestly, it wasn’t that bad. I think people fear them mostly because they don’t know what to expect. For me, it was just a narrow bed, some warm blankets, a headset, and a soft strap to keep my head still. They even gave me a small pump to press if I got nervous, but I never used it. I closed my eyes, heard the rhythmic click-click-click of the machine, and just breathed. I wasn’t going anywhere.

And then came the contrast.

If you’ve never had contrast before, it’s one of the strangest feelings you can experience. When they inject it into your vein, you can feel it traveling through your body—it’s wild. It starts as a warmth, then turns into this tingly sensation that zigzags its way through your arms, chest, and legs. It’s like you can feel your veins lighting up, little squiggly tracks running through you. It feels weird, freaky, and oddly kind of good all at once. Then comes the rush of heat—it’s almost like a wave—and a faint metallic, aluminum taste in your mouth. And just as fast as it begins, it fades. It’s one of those moments you’ll never forget because it’s so completely foreign to anything else.

Sometimes laughter helps calm the nerves — literally!

When it was all over, I headed back toward home. I was maybe an hour and a half outside of San Francisco when my phone rang—it was Dr. Ryan. He asked if I was still nearby or if I could come back. I told him I was already on the road, assuming maybe I’d forgotten a lab or form. But he said, “I have your results. Can we go over them now?”

I turned the truck around.

When I got back, he squeezed me in between patients. His tone was serious. He looked me in the eye and said, “You have an extremely rare form of stage three brain cancer. It’s developed into the nerves. It’s extremely

aggressive.”

Those words should have crushed me, but they didn’t. He didn’t have the warmest bedside manner—very clinical, very direct—but I appreciated that. He didn’t sugarcoat it. He told me exactly what I was facing and exactly what needed to happen next. In his own way, he was building the battle plan to save my life.

He said surgery would be risky. The tumor’s position meant there was a real chance of losing my sight, or of severe damage if things didn’t go perfectly. But he promised me this: he would assemble the best of the best. He wouldn’t take chances. He wanted the right team, and he wanted to move fast. Without immediate surgery, I might have six months.

That was a lot to process, but even then—I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t cry. I didn’t panic. I just said, “You’re the boss. You tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. My faith is in God, and God put me in your hands for a reason.”

On the drive home that night, I remember thinking how strange it was that I wasn’t scared. I was calm—peaceful, even. It wasn’t denial. It was something deeper. I realized that fear doesn’t live where faith does. I knew this battle wasn’t mine alone. I was simply the vessel—God and my doctors would take it from here.

I called Auntie Connie, Aunt Jacquie, Cousin Ranae, and Carolyn from the road. We prayed. We talked. We stayed positive. And together, the journey began.

That call began the journey — one I’d never chosen, but one I’d walk with faith

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in You.” — Psalm 56:3

The next few days became a blur of surgery plans, faith, and fear colliding in ways I never expected. That’s where Blog #4 will pick up…