Larry, Curly, No Mo
As scan season approached at the end of the year, conversations kicked up about what my future scan schedule might look like. I’ve been healthy with no evidence of disease for over 8 years now, so it was probably time to space things out a bit. I had settled for a CT scan at the end of January since I wasn’t sure insurance was going to cover another PET anyway…until UAB Imaging called on the Saturday after Christmas and scheduled the PET. I had already come to terms with not having one and had moved on, and all of a sudden it was back on the table…and so was the scanxiety.
The last few years
In December 2023, the PET scan showed a tiny 7mm nodule in my left lung (I’m not even sure I’ve said that out loud in this space. Oops). A year later in January 2025, that 7mm nodule was 8mm. But here’s the crazy thing, I don’t remember anything about a lung anything from that PET in 2023, so when I read the 2025 report, it sent me to another galaxy.
I was laying on the couch in my post-scan puddle of carbs and coffee and read the report myself while K.T. was elbows deep in the kitchen sink with dishes. I read “lung nodule” and every bit of blood left my body. My face and neck warmed uncomfortably and the pit in my stomach might as well have introduced itself with a microphone. I could hardly breathe, much less say anything towards the kitchen for emotional backup. All I could do was send the report to both K.T. and Dr. Carroll, and hope the blood started circulating again soon. Next thing I knew, I was on the phone with Dr. Carroll and that’s when the water shut off and K.T. walked over to see what was going on.
While the lung nodule had grown per the radiology report, we weren’t totally convinced it wasn’t just due to my positioning on the table year-to-year or that the image slicing wasn’t just a little different from the year prior. Little spots in our lungs aren’t really that uncommon, but most people aren’t being scanned a bajillion times a year to know about these little lung guys, but I guess I’m one of the lucky ones. With no metabolic uptake or suspected malignancy and with how tiny it was, there wasn’t anything to do, and the original tumor bed was notably very stable. What was not stable was my mental state with the new information.
After that little episode, I could feel my scanxiety starting to surface again as the end of the year drew near. I was cautiously aware that last year’s scans showed that little lung guy, and I was terrified what it would say this year. Had it grown? Had it moved? Did it disappear? Did it have friends? I didn’t know and in some ways, I didn’t want to find out. But as a previous cancer patient, this is the necessary evil.
Scan Day 2026
The morning of January 7th, we got up, we showered, we prayed together, listened to worship music, and we did all the usual things. But I could not for the life of me find my scan-day leggings. You know, the blue ones with the small hole in the knee from the wear and tear of 21 other scan days and the comfort of good results year after year after year. I frantically looked through drawers and rows of hangers until K.T. got my attention, held me by the shoulders, and reminded me that a pair of leggings didn’t have any actual impact on my results.
I had woken up that morning with the song “Do It Again” in my head. Some friends of ours are facing a hard diagnosis and some very dark days ahead and I knew the Lord had put it on my heart for me to share it with them. So on our drive downtown, I did. I knew the daunting feeling of diagnosis all too well and how hopeful something as simple as a song and a text can be through those moments. And honestly, it has given me such joy since 2017 that God has allowed me to meet others where they are in those times with His love and promise. It’s put purpose to what felt like punishment so many times, so I obey.
After scans, we made a quick stop for coffee and headed to the house to decompress. I knew the radiology report would be in my patient portal before anyone called me with results. So I didn’t make the same mistake again of reading results on my own, I had put my seasoned medical professional people on standby to help me translate results as soon as they were in. I dropped the PDF into our text thread and watched intently as those 3 little dots paced across the screen for what felt like forever.
“H&N clear. They still see the small left lower lobe lung nodule and it is a fraction larger than last year with slight tracer uptake. Let me know if you wanna talk.”
The blood drained from my face again. I called immediately. But, sitting here now, I don’t remember much of what was said next. What I do remember is the guttural sounds that came from within as I sobbed and screamed and sobbed some more. These were the moments I prayed I would never, ever have to face again. And maybe that was a little naive of me. But also maybe not.
Larry the left lung nodule
Ok, so with the least amount of pleasure, I need to introduce yall to Larry. Ugh.
Larry is a 1.1cm, pea-sized nodule in the middle of my left lower lung lobe. It is clinically inconclusive as to what Larry is, but chances are he is Glanda’s distant cousin. And if you ask me, Larry is ugly, wears wife beaters and jorts, and has a ratty mullet.
Now, it may seem like Larry sounds a lot like he’s from Alabama and showed up with no real roots anywhere. I thought the same thing. How the heck do I now have something in my lung when I have been perfectly free and clear of everything since the beginning of this whole mess?
And then the Lord reminded me of a little post I wrote back in August of 2017 when I had my first PET scan, pulmonary function testing, and chest CT. That post is full of words I haven’t thought of or probably even read since I wrote them, and before I went back and read it, I couldn’t have told you what the findings were back then. Tiny, normal grains of sand specs were all they found if you even want to call that a finding.
So while Glanda was most certainly executed effectively, my little grains of sand were apparently Larry’s roots in hindsight. Crazy, right? And let me be clear, this was not a missed diagnosis. PET has been unconcerning until this year when that heathen glowed jusssst enough to raise an eyebrow but not enough to tell us what’s going on. We’ve known about Larry from scans for 3 years, and we are just now to a point where any kind of treatment is reasonable. And clearly it took Larry 8.5 years to bow up and say “here, hold my beer,” so nothing is urgent here. (I’m sorry, the Alabama jokes will stop eventually. I just can’t help myself)
The Post-Scan Scenario
The days that followed scan day were some of the darker days I’ve faced since waking up from surgery with a surprise malignant diagnosis of Glanda. I have healed tremendously over 8.5 years, but I quickly realized how powerful and present PTSD is in the moments that followed results this year. When I got undesirable news the first time, I was acutely healing up from surgery. My energy was low, my ability was limited, my appetite was trash, and my head felt big and heavy. This time, I was on my couch in the best health I’ve been in in years (thanks pilates and therapy), yet my body immediately went back to that low energy, limited ability, no appetite, big and heavy head state it remembered from before, and it lasted for days. But God.
Almost immediately, things started falling into place as far as what next steps needed to be. Sometimes peace comes to me in the form of a plan, and that’s exactly what happened. I went back to my radiation oncology roots, had some extra big brains weigh in, and within two days, we had a thoracic surgeon lined up, case presented to tumor board, and appointments scheduled for additional imaging/testing to feed into a surgical consult. As I sat at my desk that Friday trying to get some work done despite it all, I got a text saying the thoracic surgeon thought he could remove Larry robotically which meant 1) he looked accessible enough for removal which is not always the case with these things and 2) Robotic resection was possible which is the less invasive, easier recovery option.
I immediately dropped my face in to my hands as I noticed that “Do It Again” was playing in the background. In that moment, it became very clear that that song was not only for our friends but also for me…God was going to do it again. His promise still stands. He is still faithful. I am still in His hands. He’s never failed me. God.
I can’t tell you how many people I’ve told about that moment and how many times I’ve returned to that peace that surrounded me then when things feel scary again. Fewer moments have been more clearly from the Lord for me. And that’s what I hold on to now and forever. (I had a very similar peace when I know the Lord told me “there he is” with my now husband and if you know K.T. you know God delivered BIG time here).
Surgical Consult
Meet Dr. Benjamin Wei. A man as wonderful in craft as he is in character. A Yale, Columbia, and Duke graduate and a skilled, cardio-thoracic surgeon at UAB who will be responsible for Larry’s execution and funeral. From the time of scans to surgical consult, was about a month. Naturally, my appointment with Dr. Wei was on Groundhog Day which appropriately falls into place with the whole “do it again” thing (although I’m hopeful this day won’t repeat as many times as it did for Bill Murray). Regardless, it’s important to acknowledge that God still has a sense of humor.
Our appointment was early, and as with most surgeons, it was filled with an abundance of information. The week prior, an additional, more detailed CT scan was done along with an ENT appointment, a pulmonary function test, and a supportive care massage and derm appointment because ya girl needed a treat after all the other mess. Scans confirmed Larry’s size and placement, and while it’s a little unclear how much lung will have to be taken, the absolute worst case scenarios still present a really good outcome. Larry does have a neighbor across the street, Curly who also wears jorts, in my right lung that is the size of a couple of grains of sand together and not concerning but was shared as information during the appointment. Nobody freak out. There is NO Mo. Two stooges only.
We left with a good plan, a surgery date of February 25th, and feelings of confidence in what our future holds. Larry will die. I will be fine. And no further treatment should follow.
The guts of it all
So, we’re here. I’m disappointed. I’m sad. And I’m frustrated.
But not because of the nature of what lies ahead. It’s the frustration of feeling like we’re back in a space that we’ve worked so very hard to move on from mentally and find “normalcy” again. I was just getting to a place where cancer wasn’t a part of my thought life day to day, and, in fact, I said that exact thing in a recent patient advocacy video clip we were a part of. I was just getting to the point where I felt like my scarlet letter “C” was fading enough to where I could get by without explaining that mess as part of who I am. But now the news from scan day has stripped me back to feeling like living in my body is no longer safe and secure. It’s the familiar place of being hyperaware that mortality is real and ever present on this side of heaven. For everyone, not just me.
When I faced diagnosis at 28, my sadness mainly focused around whether or not we would or should have a family and if we did, what would their mother with a previous history of cancer look like? Would she see them grow up? Was it cruel to try to conceive knowing the possibility of that? At times, I’ve even had the thought that maybe we’ve been unable to conceive because something else like this was coming for me. And no, I’m not sitting here saying, “I knew it” now that there is a “something else”.
That painstakingly awful thought of K.T. lying in our bed at night yearning to snuggle me to sleep and not having me present anymore to hold has returned as well. I can’t even type that without tears flooding my eyes. These thoughts are what torment me in this journey this time. It’s not the anger and the frustration with my body that it has once again formed something that isn’t supposed to be there like it was before. And I think that’s growth. Growth that I’m proud of.
I’m going to be just fine, and I’m fully confident of that. And please don’t read that as some over-spiritual, defense mechanism that will briefly provide me the comfort and braveness to get through it. It’s a confident trust in the Lord. It’s trust in my physicians as well as the medicine/technology that they have at their fingertips (literally). And it’s trust in the ability of my body to heal and move forward gracefully.
I hope you will join me in those beliefs. I hope you will join me in praying for Dr. Wei and his team, and for my precious K.T. as he holds my hand through it all. And I hope you will join me in experiencing God “Do It Again.”
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Gone, Glanda, Gone 
Very well written and explained. As scary as any illness is I think you have the right mind set. As far as life goes, none of us are promised tomorrow. So as you said we just have to have faith and believe we are being watched over. And don’t forget you have a lot of family in your corner too. ❤️🙏