Trusting through the Unknown

Biopsy – April 17th

My mom took me to my biopsy appointment that morning, while Andy went with Graysen to another doctor’s visit. He met us at the hospital just before my procedure.

When Dr. Longo—a very young-looking doctor—walked into the room, she began explaining what to expect. As she talked, she mentioned they would be taking a sample from my right lumbar vertebrae. I waited until she stopped and then asked, “Is there a reason you’re taking it from the right side when it’s my left side that’s been hurting?” She stopped for a moment and said, “No, you’re absolutely right—it is the left side.” 

Well… if that didn’t do much for my confidence.

I also asked what it actually meant to do a bone biopsy. She explained that it would be a needle biopsy using imaging guidance, and that they would take two small bone samples. She had a great sense of humor and reassured me that everything was precisely programmed, so she really couldn’t miss the spot.

As the nurse came in to get me ready to go back, Andy—true to form—kept talking and asking questions. Anyone who knows Andy can probably picture that. Finally, my mom stepped in and said, “Andy, you need to stop talking so they can take her back.”

When we got into the procedure room, the mood lightened a bit as we started chatting. I mentioned that my daughter was having three friends over that night for a sleepover to celebrate her 13th birthday. I’m usually the one who makes the cakes, but this time Grandma was stepping in to make our favorite oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. One of the nurses asked if I had ever had tres leches cake and started describing it—it sounded amazing.

Then it was time to get into position. I climbed onto a very narrow exam table, unsure where to put my hands as I lay face down. Since they needed to reposition me during the procedure, they had me lift up into a sort of plank so they could slide a sheet underneath me. Then they wrapped me up tightly—like a mummy—so I wouldn’t move.

As everything was getting set, I heard someone say, “Okay, we’re doing the right side.” At that point, I wasn’t sure if they were joking, but I quickly said, “It’s the left—the left side.”

I was awake during the procedure, though I must have drifted in and out because I don’t remember much—not even seeing Dr. Longo.

When they wheeled me back to recovery, I remember asking the nurse again for the name of that cake. We had to stay a few more hours before I could go home. My mom gave me a hug and headed back to help get things ready for the birthday sleepover, while Andy stayed with me. I ended up napping for a couple of hours, and before long, they were getting me ready to go.

We asked how long it would take to get the results, and they said typically 3–5 business days—which meant waiting through the weekend. But they also mentioned that Dr. Hake tends to move things along quickly. Since we already had an appointment scheduled with him the following Wednesday, we were hopeful he’d have answers by then.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t too sore afterward. Before bed that night, I asked my mom what the biopsy site looked like. She said, “I think I can see it,” which made me realize it was much smaller than it had felt in my mind.

We kept things pretty low-key over the weekend. My dad came down on Saturday after state bowling, and on Sunday, my cousin Brian and his wife Jen stopped by for a visit. Monday, I had an MRI of my head to check for any cancer in that area. Tuesday was the first day with no appointments, and I was able to just be present and enjoy time with my parents.

The waiting in all of this has been the hardest part. There are so many unknowns—so much that’s out of our control. Letting go and trusting God has truly been a test for me. I’ve been incredibly grateful for all the messages, prayers, and encouragement. My friend Cindy shared a song with me that I listened to right before the biopsy, and it brought me a sense of peace. 

Katy Nichole - "In Jesus Name (God of Possible)"

Holding on through the Unknown

PET Scan – April 15th

The days leading up to the PET scan—and the unknown that came with it—were truly agonizing. I can honestly say I had rarely seen Andy cry, but during those days, he held me with tears in his eyes. He kept reassuring me that everything would be okay, and that no matter what, he would keep our children grounded in faith. We held each other often, but it felt different this time—heavier, as fear quietly settled in.

The PET scan itself wasn’t too bad. It was at least much quicker than the MRIs I had the week before. When it was over, I sat up slowly and took a moment before standing. I said a small prayer and asked the technician how long it would take to get the results. She mentioned it was already late in the afternoon, so it might not be until the next morning before Dr. Hake called.

When I got home, Andy came home right away instead of going to track practice. We were all waiting, anxious and on edge. Then, just a few hours later, my phone rang—Dr. Hake.

As Clara handed me the phone, I told her to go get her dad. We stepped out onto the deck together, and I put the call on speaker so we could both listen. Dr. Hake began gently, “I am so sorry, Sheila…” and then the words that changed everything: metastatic bone cancer. He explained it had been found in multiple areas—my left hip, lumbar spine, ribs, scapula, skull, and femur—but there was no evidence in my liver, lungs, or brain. He repeated how sorry he was.

Tears filled my eyes, and I didn’t know what to say. Andy immediately began asking questions. I don’t even remember what he asked—I felt frozen in that moment, like time had stopped. Dr. Hake told us they would schedule a biopsy for Friday to determine whether this was a recurrence of my breast cancer or something new. He ended the call with his gentle voice saying, “Hang in there. We’ll talk again soon.”

After we hung up, the kids came out to the screened porch where we were sitting, holding each other. We shared the news with the kids. With tears in their eyes, they wrapped me in the biggest hugs. Andy tried to reassure them that this was something we could treat. But in my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder—how could this be treatable when it was in so many places already?

Looking Back: The Signs I Didn’t Yet Understand

Looking back, I can’t help but ask myself—what symptoms were early warning signs that something more serious was going on?

In early March 2026, I began experiencing episodes of pressure in my left arm along with numbness in my fingers. However, I have cording at my surgical site and this can cause tightness. Most of the time, I can manage it with stretching on my own. This was followed by chest pressure and a constant tightness in my arm. Naturally, this raised concerns about my heart, and I went to the emergency room. My bloodwork came back normal, and the CT scan of my chest didn’t show any vascular issues.

Then came the pain in my left hip and lower back, also beginning in March. It felt like a deep ache—tender to the touch and hard to ignore. I was starting to not sleep on my left side because of the pain—even though that’s the side I’ve always slept on. Over spring break, I decided to try running to prepare, even just a little, for the upcoming track season. I ended up walking more than running. Every time I tried to pick up my pace, I felt intense pain in my hip and back. It got to the point where I could barely lift my left leg as high as my right. After about a quarter mile, I had to stop and walk, even considering calling my son, Gavin, to come pick me up.

At the time, I assumed I had pulled a muscle. I tried everything—ice, heat, ibuprofen, stretching—but nothing touched the pain. I called the MHS Health Clinic and was able to get in right away. They prescribed muscle relaxers, but those didn’t help either. The following Monday, April 6th, just after Easter, I called again. That’s when they recommended an MRI along with starting physical therapy.

I wasn’t able to get in until Friday, April 10th. That day was long—nearly three hours for the MRI, both with and without contrast. Looking back, I remember asking the technician if it usually took that long. She told me they needed to image three different areas and repeat everything with contrast. At the time, I didn’t think much of it—but I do remember the look in her eyes. There was a quiet sympathy there that now feels different in hindsight.

That same afternoon, I went to physical therapy. During the evaluation, it was clear I had reduced mobility on my left side due to the hip and back pain. The therapist also noted that my hips seemed misaligned and thought we could work on that over the coming weeks. He gave me one exercise I could do without pain, and I went into the weekend not thinking much beyond that.

Then Monday, April 13th changed everything.

I received a message to call the clinic about my MRI results. After my third block class ended, I made the call. The nurse’s voice was gentle but heavy as she said, “Unfortunately, the results show that your cancer is back.”

I felt numb. Completely in shock. How could this be happening again?

I broke down on the phone, and she cried with me. At that point, they didn’t yet know where it had originated or how far it had spread, but she assured me they had already contacted Dr. Hake and that next steps were being put into motion.

I sat there in my classroom, sobbing, unsure what to do next. Eventually, I walked down the hallway and went to a coworker’s room. When she opened the door, all I could say was, “My cancer is back.” I felt like I was going to collapse. She held me as I cried uncontrollably.

The questions flooded my mind: How is this happening? Why? Is this a new cancer, or is my breast cancer back? Where else is it in my body?

After some time, she gently said, “Let’s get you out of here.” She gathered my things, walked me out of the building, and assured me she would take care of my next class and inform the track coaches.

When I got home, I was on the phone again with a nurse, trying to process everything. My son Graysen was home sick and could tell something was wrong. When I got off the phone, I went to him, and he held me as we both cried.

I called my parents and waited to reach Andy. When he called before track practice, he said he was coming straight home.

That evening, we still went to Gavin’s home track meet—it was senior night. We walked out onto the track with him, and I held onto that moment as tightly as I could. Watching him race brought a sense of normalcy, even in the middle of everything unraveling.

After the meet, we told Andy’s parents in the parking lot. Later at home, we told Clara, who cried and held me tightly. When Gavin got home, we shared the news with him. He didn’t say anything—he just turned and walked downstairs. Later, Andy went to him and reminded him that he didn’t have to be strong right now. When Gavin came back upstairs, he wrapped his arms around me, and we both cried together.

Tuesday, I went to work. I didn’t have appointments yet, and I felt like I needed to prepare—just in case it would be my last day in the classroom for a while. Throughout the day, the calls started coming in. By then, I knew I had a PET scan scheduled for Wednesday.

I made sub plans, copies, videos—everything someone would need to just press “play.” By the end of the day, I had prepared enough for the next week and a half. After school, I gathered my math team and administration and shared the news. They were incredibly supportive, immediately stepping in to help—taking my quizzes with them to grade and telling me not to worry about school they will take care of everything. 

As they left, I hugged each of them. Then I finished a few last things, stood in my classroom, and closed the door with tears in my eyes—knowing this might be my last day there for a while.

The fear of the unknown is overwhelming. It’s hard to trust that God has a plan when your world feels like it’s been completely turned upside down. I was—and still am—angry, confused, and scared.

But I’m here.
Taking this one breath at a time.
Navigating this next chapter as it comes.

Intro at 46

I always thought I had a pretty good life. I was blessed with incredible parents who supported me in everything and pushed me to be the best version of myself. My two older brothers were always there—protective, steady, and looking out for me. I grew up, did well in school and sports, went to college, and married my best friend. Together, we built a beautiful life and were blessed with three amazing children.

At 34, everything changed. The words no one ever expects to hear stopped me in my tracks and turned my world upside down. But somehow, through the fear and uncertainty, life moved forward—and I was given 12 more years to watch my children grow, to make memories, and to hold onto the blessings I once feared I might lose.

Now, at 46, I hear those words again: your cancer is back. The same heaviness settles in, the same sense of disbelief. How can this be? How can life feel so full and steady one moment, and so fragile the next? I’m still trying to take it in—but my story doesn’t end here. Even in the uncertainty and fear, I know I am not walking this path alone. This is not the end; it’s a place where my faith is stretched, deepened, and where I learn to trust Him more fully.