Radiation Consultation

Radiation Consultation -  April 28

Andy and my mom came with me to my radiation consultation. When Dr. Weyers walked into the room, she had tears in her eyes and gave me a huge hug. She said, “You should not be here,” and I couldn’t have agreed more. From the very beginning, she was incredibly thorough, compassionate, and patient as she answered all of our questions.

Initially, her nurse explained that it could take almost two weeks to get in for the planning session, followed by another week or two for all of the calculations and treatment planning to be completed and reviewed. But after Dr. Weyers completed her initial examination, she said, “Let me see if we can get you started as soon as possible.”

By the end of the consultation, everything had changed. She scheduled me to begin the simulation planning session on Friday, May 1, with hopes of starting radiation treatment the following Wednesday.

Dr. Weyers recommended palliative radiation directed at my left hip and lumbar spine to help with pain control. We discussed the treatment planning and delivery process for external beam radiation, along with possible side effects including skin irritation, fatigue, nausea, and bladder or bowel irritation.

On Thursday, my daughter Clara and a group of girls from her Jam Choir stopped and sang a few songs for me. It was such a nice surprise and they did such beautiful job. 

• Seek Ye First
• By His Wounds we are Healed
• 10,000 Reasons (Blessed the Lord)

On Friday, May 1, my parents took me in for the simulation — the planning session for radiation treatment. During the appointment, I laid on the treatment table in the exact position that would be used during treatment. Immobilization devices, including molds for my legs, were created to help keep me perfectly still during each session.

They then performed specialized imaging scans to map the precise location of the tumors. Afterward, the team placed four small markings on my skin to ensure the radiation would be aimed at the exact same area every time.

Using all of the simulation data, Dr. Weyers designed a customized treatment plan. The team carefully calculated the exact radiation dose and beam angles to target the cancer cells while protecting as much healthy tissue as possible. Normally, this planning process can take one to two weeks, but Dr. Weyers worked quickly to have everything ready for me in just three days.

After the planning session, Dr. Weyers met with us again and answered a few more questions. 

I continue to be so thankful for my team of doctors and for the genuine care they show for my health and well-being.

As we move into the weekend, I’m reminded once again about the balance of letting go while still holding onto hope.

One of my favorite lyrics right now is from “Worship Through It” by Tasha Layton featuring Chris Brown:

“This looks impossible
But You’re the God of impossible
And I’ve seen Your faithfulness all over my life
I need a miracle
And You’re the God of miracles
Somehow, some way, You come through every time.”

Where Treatment Begins and Hope Grows

Start of Some Treatments – April 24

Andy’s sister Kris took me in for my first round of treatments. That day, I received my first infusions of Zometa and Lupron—both commonly used in treating advanced cancers.

Zometa is a medication that helps strengthen bones and is often used when cancer has spread to the bones. It can come with some side effects like bone pain, nausea, fever, and fatigue. Lupron, on the other hand, is a hormone therapy injection I’ll receive monthly. It works by suppressing estrogen, which helps slow or stop the growth of hormone-driven cancer. Its side effects can include hot flashes, mood swings, fatigue, and decreased libido—so yes, Andy may have to show a little extra patience with me.

I was also able to start taking letrozole that day. This is a daily pill that blocks the production of estrogen in the body, essentially “starving” cancer cells that rely on it to grow. In the short term, it can cause things like hot flashes, night sweats, fatigue, dizziness, and headaches. Over time, it may also weaken bones, which is why the Zometa is such an important part of the plan.

When we arrived at the Mukwonago Cancer Center, there was a hiccup—my Lupron injection hadn’t yet been approved by insurance. When the nurse informed Dr. Hake, he stepped in right away. I also reached out to our Nurse Navigator, Olivia Budiac, who immediately started working on it from her end. Thanks to their persistence and advocacy, everything moved forward, and I was able to receive the Lupron shot that day—which meant I could begin the letrozole as planned. I’m incredibly grateful for a care team that truly goes to bat for me.

The rest of the weekend was filled with meaningful moments. On Saturday, watch Gavin race, then drove up to Brillion and I was able to spend time with my best friend from high school Kelly—there’s nothing quite like a long-overdue, in-person hug. On Sunday, we celebrated my niece Maddie’s confirmation and enjoyed time with my brothers and their families.

During Pastor Henzie’s sermon that morning, he shared a simple but powerful progression: “I think I can, I know I can, I will,” inspired by The Little Engine That Could. It’s about moving from doubt, to belief, to action—holding onto hope and pressing forward even when things feel overwhelming.

As I sat there listening, it felt like the message was meant just for me. Learning to let go and lean fully on God during times like this isn’t easy. But I trust that there is purpose in this journey. We are called to serve Him, and somehow—even in this battle—He will use my story for His greater good.

Our God is merciful. He is faithful. He is good.

Echo Test and Birthday Wishes

Echo Test and Birthday Wishes – April 23

Turning 46 wasn’t quite how I had imagined it. Still, I was surrounded by love in the best ways. My cousin Rhonda and my goddaughter Lauren took me to my echocardiogram appointment and stayed with me throughout the day.

We started the morning at the Pewaukee Cancer Center for my echo, which lasted about an hour. An echocardiogram uses ultrasound to create images of the heart, showing its size, shape, and how well it’s pumping. My implants made it a bit more challenging for the technician to capture all the necessary images, but she was thorough and patient. This test serves as a baseline, and they’ll continue to monitor my heart throughout treatment.

Afterward, we headed to lunch and met up with Andy’s cousin Kate—who also happens to be my college roommate—at Danny Haskell’s Pub and Grill in Muskego. We sat outside on the patio, enjoying the beautiful weather and a delicious meal. From there, we went back to our house and spent the afternoon on the patio, soaking in the sunshine, sharing laughs (and a few tears), and listening to the peaceful flow of the river behind us.

Clara surprised me with a homemade tres leches cake, inspired by something a nurse had mentioned at my biopsy appointment. She made it the night before with Grandma Judy. It was absolutely delicious—topped with strawberries, Cool Whip, cinnamon, chocolate, and caramel drizzle. She was so proud, and I was so touched.

Throughout the day, I felt incredibly loved. So many people reached out with birthday wishes, flowers, and thoughtful messages—it meant more than I can put into words.

My friend Cindy also sent me a song for the day, along with her favorite lyric:

“And every fear I lay at Your feet. I’ll sing through the night—oh God, the battle belongs to You.” 

- Phil Wickham

Tears, Truth, and Some Treatment Plans

 The News from Dr. Hake - April 22

Wednesday afternoon was filled with a swirl of emotions I can’t fully put into words. As we walked into the upper level of the Greenwald Center in Mukwonago, my eyes landed on the sign: Cancer Center Entrance.

In that moment, I was transported back 11 years—to standing in this very place with my hands raised in the air, just after completing one of the hardest years of my life. Six months of chemotherapy (including the “Red Devil”), two surgeries including a double mastectomy, and 37 rounds of radiation had brought me to that finish line.

And yet here I was again.

Walking back through those same doors brought a wave of questions I wasn’t ready to answer. How am I back here? What does treatment look like this time? Is this my breast cancer returning? And what does this mean for my long-term prognosis?

Everything felt familiar—but also completely unknown at the same time.

Last Radiation Treatment June 2015

As we walked toward the clinic doors, I stopped. There, painted on a rock, were the words: "Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go." (Joshua 1:9). I took a deep breath, whispered to myself “we got this,” and stepped inside.

Once we were back in the exam room, Dr. Hake came in shortly after. As he walked through the door, tears were already in my eyes and I stood up to give him a hug. He held me as I cried, and for a moment there were no words—just the weight of everything settling in.

We began by going back through the last several weeks, retracing the changes and symptoms that had brought us to this point. Then he gently explained what the imaging was showing: this was my breast cancer, now metastatic to the bones. He reassured us that it was not in any organs and not in my brain.

Next, he walked us through the PET scan. The images showed areas of concern throughout my spine, with more concentrated involvement in the lower back and hip. When the scan was shown in contrast, the tracer highlighted the cancer activity even more clearly—those brighter “hot spots” indicating where the disease was active. As he explained it, I could feel the reality of it settle in. It wasn’t just a few areas—it was widespread. Some spots were small, but they were everywhere.

When he finished, I asked the question I was afraid to ask out loud: “How long do I have?”

He was honest, but also steady. He explained that there are many treatment options for metastatic breast cancer, and we would start with one approach and adjust as needed. Some patients live many years—sometimes a decade or even two—but ultimately, this is something that will one day take my life. Hearing those words made everything stop. I am 46 years old… and I was being told I may have one or two decades. My mind struggled to catch up as emotions came crashing in and I felt myself beginning to hyperventilate. After a few moments, we slowly continued the conversation.

Andy began asking more detailed questions about treatment options, and Dr. Hake walked us through how much has changed since my first diagnosis. Medicine has advanced significantly, and there are far more tools available now. Based on my current cancer profile—still estrogen and progesterone positive, with HER2 status pending—they would begin with a multi-pronged approach.

The plan includes monthly zoledronic acid infusions to strengthen my bones and reduce fracture risk, along with an ovarian suppression injection to medically induce menopause. I will also start a daily aromatase inhibitor (letrozole) to lower estrogen levels, essentially cutting off the fuel that feeds the cancer—slowing growth, stabilizing disease, and in some cases shrinking tumors.

We are still waiting on the final HER2 (FISH) results, which could adjust the treatment plan further if positive. In addition, the Next Generation Sequencing (NGS) testing will look at the cancer at a genetic level—analyzing its DNA to identify what is driving it. This can reveal targeted treatment options, including specific pills or therapies designed to attack certain mutations or pathways. It’s one of the most important pieces of information in guiding next steps.

Dr. Hake discussed using Targeted Therapy—essentially a 'smart' pill that carries chemotherapy directly to the cancer cells. This treatment follows a cycle where I take the medication daily for 21 days, followed by a seven-day break to let my body rest. If needed, additional chemotherapy or a port could be part of future treatment depending on how things respond. There are still multiple options available if one approach stops working, and ongoing research continues to bring new developments.

Dr. Hake also recommended I meet with Dr. Weyers early the following week to discuss whether radiation might help with areas of focal bone pain.

As the visit was coming to an end, Dr. Hake reassured me once more that a solid plan would be in place. He encouraged me that he expects I’ll be ready to hike on our Tennessee trip in August, even be back to running, and that returning to teaching in the fall is very much within reach—which he strongly supports. Before I left, he gave me another big hug, again reminding me that once all the final results are in, we’ll move forward with clarity and direction.

Shortly after, one of my nurses from 12 years ago stopped in. She wrapped me in a familiar hug, and we shared a few very emotional moments together. Another nurse then came in to go over the plan for my first treatments—Lupron injections to shut down ovarian function, along with a zoledronic infusion for bone strength, both scheduled for Friday of this week.

The nurse navigator also visited, offering steady support and helpful resources for our family as we continue to navigate my cancer diagnosis.

Andy left feeling reassured, and my mom kept reminding me that there are many treatment options ahead. But in my mind, one sentence kept replaying, louder than everything else:

“Eventually, this will take your life.”

A Heart Full of Gratitude in a Hard Week

Brain MRI - April 20

On Sunday, we were surrounded by so much love. The Meinecke side of the family came to church with us, and our pastor said a prayer for our family. There were a lot of tears, many shocked faces in the congregation, and more hugs than I could count. It was emotional, but also incredibly comforting to feel so supported.

After that, we kept the rest of the day pretty low-key, knowing the week ahead would bring a lot.

On Monday, April 20th, I went in for a brain MRI to check for any cancer activity. The results confirmed the abnormal lesion in the back of my skull bone, measuring 25 x 14 x 15 mm—about the size of a grape to a walnut. This was not present on my 2019 MRI, meaning it developed sometime after that.

Hearing the location is definitely scary, but there is some reassurance: the lesion is in the bone, not the brain itself. While it will need treatment and close monitoring, it is different from cancer in the brain and is often more manageable.

Special Visit with Park View Students - April 22

Wednesday was a much busier day. 

Andy and I went to Park View, where I taught 8th grade math, to visit some of my students. This meant so much to me because I had to leave so suddenly that I never really got the chance to say goodbye.

We brought birthday treats (which may have helped draw a crowd 😊), but the turnout was beyond anything I expected. Around 80 students came out to the courtyard to see me. I was able to hug so many of them, they sang “Happy Birthday,” and I was showered with treats, cards, flowers and so much love.

Since then, I’ve continued to receive emails—and even some videos—from both past and present students letting me know they’re thinking of me. To all of my students and their families: thank you. Your continued support means more than I can put into words.

Throughout my teaching career, I always tried to build strong, positive relationships and help shape each student’s character. Moments like this remind me just how meaningful that work has been. I feel incredibly blessed to have had an impact on so many lives.

God has a plan in all of this—He is working, even in the hard moments.

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?