As we enter this Christmas holiday, Carter and I have received the greatest gift that we could have ever asked for in our wildest, most bold dreams:  After seven months of treatment, we are overjoyed and humbled to share that Carter is now in remission for both of his cancers.

 

Earlier this week, we had the chance to meet with Dr. Hunter, who, after reviewing Carter's most recent scans alongside the rest of Carter's oncology team, have concluded that Carter's blast phase cancer is now within the range which constitutes remission.  In other words, Carter's bone marrow cancer is showing no evidence of the disease ("NED"), and his acute lymphoblastic leukemia blast phase component has responded remarkably to his therapies, to the point where Carter's test results are "consistent with treatment of disease".

 

The rest of that day, I'll be honest, is a total blur of tight hugs, the happiest of tears, and LOTS of champagne.  We celebrated with friends and family, held each other close, and, above all, exhaled for what truly felt like the first time in 212 days.  Throughout phone calls and mid-day drop ins to friends' homes, Carter and I would catch each other's eyes, and without even saying a word, say everything: this world - this life, is so, so, so good.

 

As we process this overwhelming miracle with gratitude and humility, we also have reckoned with the post-cancer reality that, while we feel like we have gotten our lives "back", we frankly will never be the same people we were before May 22, 2023.  And that is a beautiful and, in some parts, painful truth.

 

When we received Carter's original diagnosis, we had to come to terms with the reality he might not be here for Christmas. And while we thank God and the universe every single moment of every day for tailored diagnoses and modern medical marvels in terms of treatment, in my heart of hearts, I believe processing that type information changes your physiological makeup, particularly eighteen months into your marriage at twenty-seven years old.

 

We are simply not the same people. And, in that same breath, Carter and I firmly declare that this year was the best thing that could have happened to us.

 

In the course of the past seven months, I have raged my fists against walls and steering wheels, screaming at God and his angels with a newly birthed anger and righteousness I didn't know my bones could contain. In response, God did not forsake me. Instead, in his awful grace, he invited me to witness the utterly remarkable expanse that is the human capacity to love another person - on a molecular, cellular level. A scale of which I could have never comprehended, but for this trial.

 

In the course of the past seven months, we have snuck bottles of wine and Whataburger past watchful charge nurses. We have held communion with friends on hospital floors and spoke at professorial length about whether "everything happens for a reason." We have laughed uncontrollably at others’ visible discomfort with processing our reality and held gingerly the hands and hearts of those who have joined this club alongside us. We have played countless rounds of scrabble and cribbage. We have taken drives onto the highway, rolled the windows down, and screamed until our lungs burned. And then kept screaming.

 

We have reconnected with old friends and family and embraced reckless vulnerability with those closest to us. We have fought and we have fallen more in love with each other. We have reflected on and recalibrated our goals and aspirations, personally and professionally. We have bought a lot of Mountain Dew.

 

We have dreamed about our children and the travels we will take. We have relished in morning coffees and afternoon naps as the rain hits the windowsill. We have drawn inward at times, knowing there are so few who can actually understand. We have opened our hearts to new friends.

 

We have expressed gratitude for our healthcare providers, who choose to face pain and fear every single day for the sake of helping others. We (namely, me) have also told a few where they could shove it. We have been patient and gracious. We have been angry and belligerent. We have been exceptionally and astonishingly human.

 

We are not the same people we were before May 22, 2023. No - instead, we have Become. Instead, we are Real.

 

And, as we have Become Real, we have all of you to thank. It has been your prayers, your kind words, your hope, and your love that has brought us here today. Know that we think about you all each and every single day, and no act of kindness or goodness toward us has ever gone unnoticed or unappreciated. We love you all more than words can ever contain.

 

As we look to this Christmas, we allow our hearts to fill with magic, peace, and hope, while also remembering that but for the grace of God go us, carefully carving space out in our hearts to cherish those who have fought before us or who continue to fight. Carter is still recovering from the nasty side-effects of his final round of lumbar puncture chemotherapy, so sleepy mornings, festive films paired with fires and warm blankets, and deep dish pizzas shipped all the way from Chicago are the extent of our docket this holiday. We will celebrate with our loved ones in the New Year, but, for now, we will close this chapter of 2023 together as husband and wife, side by side, quietly and peacefully. We couldn't have asked for anything more.

 

Merry Christmas - we love you so much.

Lauren & Carter