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Welcome to My Journey- Then and Now
When I first started this blog, I had no idea what the road ahead would look like. It began as a way to keep friends and colleagues updated as I faced what I thought might be a cancerous sarcoma in my thigh. I didn’t want to burden people with constant updates, but I knew many cared and wanted to follow along. What started as a way to document my medical journey has now evolved into something much bigger—a reflection of resilience, growth, and the lessons I’ve learned along the way.
Back in 2015, everything started with a small twinge in my left quad—nothing major, just something I brushed off. Then, one day, I noticed a lump. The initial tests were inconclusive, but an MRI confirmed what I never expected to hear: I had a tumor. That was the day my journey with cancer truly began. Since then, my path has taken twists and turns I never could have predicted. There have been battles, setbacks, and victories, but most importantly, there has been learning.
Today, this blog isn’t just about medical updates. It’s about perseverance, hope, and the reality that we are all capable of handling more than we think we can. If you’re here, know that this space is about more than just my journey—it’s about the shared human experience of facing hard things and pushing forward. Thank you for walking this road with me.
2025: Scan-to-Scan, Laugh-to-Laugh, Fight-to-Fight
If you’ve been reading my posts this year, you already know 2025 didn’t exactly hand me one of those “easy mode” controllers.
It handed me a calendar full of chemo dates, blood draws, side effects, detours, and the occasional “surprise!” trip to the ER—because apparently my body decided the theme for this year was to make things more “interesting”
And yet… here we are. End of the year. Still standing. Still laughing (sometimes at inappropriate moments). Still learning—often the hard way.
The highs (yes, there were highs)
1) The days I felt normal.
Not “perfect.” Not “invincible.” Just normal. The kind of day where you forget, for a few hours, that your life has a whole medical department attached to it. Those days were gold.
2) The people.
Family, friends, and the extended circle of humans who check in, pray, text, and show up. And the nurses and docs who somehow manage to be wildly competent and kind—often while I’m trying to crack jokes.
3) Perspective upgrades.
Cancer is a ruthless teacher, but it does cut through the nonsense. You get clearer on what matters. You get faster at letting things go. You stop saving the good stuff—good conversations, good food, good moments—for “someday.”
The lows (because honesty matters)
1) The infections and interruptions.
Chemo + a weakened immune system = life in the “Are we sure this little thing isn’t a big thing?” category. This year included more than one frustrating moment where treatment plans got pushed because my body had other ideas.
2) The mental ping-pong.
Some days I’m strong. Some days I’m tired of being strong. Some days I’m doing great… until I’m not. That swing between hope and heaviness is real. If you’ve lived scan-to-scan, you know exactly what I mean.
3) The reminders that none of us are guaranteed tomorrow.
That truth can feel scary—or clarifying—or both. It’s not “doom and gloom,” It’s reality. And reality has a way of waking you up.
The humor (because I refuse to lose this too)
Look—if you can’t laugh at some of this, it’ll eat you alive.
Humor doesn’t mean I’m not taking this seriously. It means I’m not letting cancer take everything.
Stuart Scott, “Boo-Yah,” and the lesson I’m stealing for my own life
This week I watched ESPN’s 30 for 30 documentary “Boo-Yah: A Portrait of Stuart Scott.”
If you remember Stuart Scott, you remember the energy—his voice, his style, his phrases—he didn’t just deliver highlights, he owned the moment. ESPN even calls out how his wit and authenticity changed sports storytelling.
But what hit me hardest wasn’t a catchphrase.
It was his message about cancer and life.
Stuart Scott said, “When you die, it does not mean that you lose to cancer.”
That one line is a gut-punch—in the best way. Because it flips the scoreboard.
Cancer wants the definition of “winning” to be simple: you live or you don’t.
But Stuart reframed it: “you beat cancer by how you live, why you live and the manner in which you live“. When he showed up at ESPY Awards in 2014, it was a miracle that he was able to be there at all. He also said “So Live, fight like hell and when you get too tired to fight, lay down and rest and let somebody else fight for you.”
That’s the part I’m carrying into 2026.
Flight or fight
Right now, I’ve got two choices:
- Flight: shrink my world, live scared, wait for the next shoe to drop.
- Fight: keep living, keep showing up, keep loving people, keep finding purpose—even when it’s messy.
I choose fight.
Fight doesn’t mean pretending. It doesn’t mean toxic positivity. It means I will acknowledge the fear… and still move forward. It means I’ll have hard days and still look for the next good moment. It means I’ll let people help me (Yey, I know, I am not good at that, but I am getting better!). It means I’ll keep writing these posts—even when I’d rather disappear into the couch and watch something mindless.
My end-of-year takeaway
If 2025 taught me anything, it’s this:
Life is not a someday project.
You don’t wait for perfect conditions to call someone you love.
You don’t wait for “after this is over” to be grateful.
You don’t wait until the fear is gone to be brave.
You live now. You love now. You fight now.
And when I catch myself drifting into “poor me” territory (because yes, that happens), I’m going to borrow from Stuart Scott and remind myself:
The goal isn’t just to survive cancer.
The goal is to live—fully, honestly, and with heart—while I’m here.
So here’s my toast to the end of 2025:
To the highs. To the lows. To the people who carried me.
To the laughter that kept me human.
And to the fight I’m bringing into the new year.
Boo-Yah.
Walking on the Edge
I will cut to the chase, the scans from Friday weren’t good.
I’ve been trying to carry that sentence with some grace, but I’ll be honest—it’s been weighing heavy on me. The reality is stark: about 50% of my liver is now being occupied by tumors. Seeing it in black and white does something to you. It doesn’t just inform you. It tests you.
My first reaction wasn’t my best.
It was a quick slip into a “poor me” mindset. That dark place where your brain starts running a highlight reel of worst-case scenarios… and you start believing them. I visited it. I don’t want to live there.
Because here’s the truth none of us can escape: tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.
Cancer just has a way of making that truth louder.
Lately, the lyrics from Sons of Legion—Walking on the Edge—have been sitting with me. These lines feel like they were written for moments like this:
“see the sunrise through the window”
“another day, another chance at life”
“and the wind is blowing through the willows reminds me that we are all just passing through” “There is an old man is coming, but he ain’t here yet, so I’m walking on the edge.”
That’s the reality I’m living in right now. The scan-to-scan uncertainty… and making the choice to keep noticing what’s real and good in front of me. Not forced optimism. Not pretending. Just remembering that life is fragile for all of us, and every day we get is still a day we get. Cancer has a way of trying to pull you into a darker place—one where your thoughts get loud, your hope gets quiet, and the future starts feeling like a hallway with no lights. That’s the place I can’t live in. I’m allowed to visit for a moment, but I’m not unpacking my bags there.
What’s next is already on the calendar:treatment is 12/22, right after we get back from seeing my son in Florida. We’ll get off the plane and head straight to Dana-Farber for blood work and chemo. That sentence feels surreal to type. Family time… then right back into the fight. New treatment is a targeted chemo with a name I won’t dare try to pronounce, Datopotamab Deruxtecan (often shortened to Dato-DXd, I can say that!), which is an antibody-drug conjugate: a targeted antibody that homes in on TROP2 on cancer cells and delivers a chemo “payload” (DXd, a topoisomerase I inhibitor) inside the cell.
I don’t share this for sympathy. I share it because it’s honest. And because saying the hard part out loud is one way I keep it from owning me.
So here’s where I’m landing today:
I’m allowed to feel the weight of this news.
But I’m not allowed to move into that dark place and decorate.
Today I’m choosing the next right step. I’m choosing presence over panic. Gratitude over gloom. Faith over fear—at least as best I can.
Because I’m still here.
And today still counts.
Don’t Give Up, Don’t Ever Give up!
The journey continues to get a little bit harder. Just when I think I’ve found my footing, something new gets thrown in my path. More scans, rouge infections and more unknowns. The road, as I battle cancer, is anything but straight or smooth.
Tonight, I just happened to catch Jim Valvano’s 1993 ESPY speech on ESPN. You probably know the line:
“Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.”
I’ve heard those words before, but they landed very differently tonight.
Jimmy V talked about three things cancer cannot touch:
It cannot touch my mind.
It cannot touch my heart.
It cannot touch my soul.
Those three things will live on long after everything else fades. Hearing that, while actively fighting my own battle, stirred something deep inside me.
We are not defined by what happens to us.
We are defined by how we choose to face what happens for us.
Watching that special, they featured Stuart Scott and Craig Sager, both of whom eventually passed from cancer. Their courage, humor, and grit—right up to the end—are both inspiring and heartbreaking. Seeing their faces, hearing their words, brought a lot to the surface for me.
So yes, the tears are flowing.
I don’t always show that side. A lot of the time I try to keep the emotions neatly packed away in boxes on a shelf. But that speech, and those stories, ripped the tape right off those boxes. Underneath the toughness and the day-to-day routines, there’s a simple truth:
I know I have so much more to do.
So much more love to give.
So many more lives to impact.
None of us knows how much time we have left. That’s true for all of us, cancer or no cancer. Every single day is a blank canvas with the opportunity to paint something brilliant. Some days it might be a masterpiece. Some days it might just be a few shaky brushstrokes. But it’s still our canvas, and we still get to choose what we put on it.
The message from Jimmy V is clear and simple:
You must continue to fight.
You must refuse to give up.
You have to find a way—your way—to live every day as fully as you can.
I’ll be the first to admit: I don’t always do that as well as I should. Some days I fall short. Some days the fear, fatigue, or frustration wins more of the day than I’d like. But tonight was a reminder that the goal isn’t perfection. The goal is to keep showing up and to keep choosing courage over fear.
My next big mile markers are coming up: PET scans on December 12 to see how things are progressing, and then meeting with my oncology team on December 15 to decide next steps.
And here’s what I know:
As long as I can think clearly, love deeply, and stay connected to my soul, cancer doesn’t win.
As long as I keep getting up, keep loving people, keep making an impact—even in small ways—cancer doesn’t get the last word.
The journey is getting harder.
But the journey continues.
And I’m not giving up. Not now. Not ever.
Breaking Down Walls: What a Rogue Finger Taught Me in the ER
I showed up at Dana-Farber this morning expecting Round 4 of chemo and a quiet date with the infusion chair and my fav nurse Ollie!
Instead, my right index finger stole the show.
Over the last couple of days it had gone from “a little sore” to “this might actually explode.” By the time I got to Boston it was swollen, angry purple, and sore as hell. My oncologist took one look and called an audible: No chemo today. We’re sending you to the ER at Brigham & Women’s.
Cancer treatment, it turns out, is a bit like flying standby. You think you know the plan… until you don’t.
In the ER, they confirmed what my finger had been screaming all along: bacterial infection.
The best way to deal with it wasn’t more pills or creams, but a small incision on the side of the finger to let everything drain. Simple enough in theory.
First step: lidocaine shots.
Two of them.
Into an already angry finger.
I’ve had my share of unpleasant procedures this year, but I’ll just say those shots made the highlight reel. Once things were numb-ish, the doctor explained something I’d never heard before:
Bacteria are clever. They build little “compartments” inside the infected area—tiny walled-off pockets that the antibiotics can’t easily reach. From the outside it looks like one big problem. Inside, it’s a neighborhood of smaller ones, each with its own little fortress.
So after the incision, he had to go in and literally break down those mini walls by scraping inside the incision so the antibiotics can actually do their job.
We talk a lot in coaching about getting past surface issues to the find the real problem. Turns out fingers work the same way.
ER déjà vu
As I’m lying there, bandaged finger elevated, I realize I’m about five feet from the same hospital bed I was in two weeks ago.
This time, that bed is occupied by an older woman. She’s frail—can’t stand on her own—so the staff gently helps her onto a stretcher or wheelchair to head off for more testing. A few minutes later, they’re moving her down the hallway toward a better bed, still in the hallway but much more comfortable.
Walking beside her is her husband.
He reminds me of a present-day Harrison Ford: older, worn around the edges, solid. The kind of guy who’s probably been fixing things his whole life and now has to face something he can’t fix.
As they pause near me, he and I start talking. In a few short sentences, he tells me his wife has stage 4 cancer and will be going into hospice soon. He says it calmly, almost matter-of-fact. Not cold, not resigned—just… settled.
That was the sound of someone who has walked through shock, anger, bargaining, and every version of why us—and has made some kind of fragile peace with what’s coming.
It lands on me hard.
Everyone in these beds, everyone pushing the wheelchairs, everyone holding a hand in the waiting room. They ALL have a story!
The plan is to admit me so they can keep a close eye on the infection and hammer it with IV antibiotics. “Just overnight,” they say. Maybe a day or two or possibly 3 is the reality based on what oncologist on duty told me. It all depends on how this finger behaves.
I arrived at 7:30 a.m.
It’s now 9:31 p.m.
I’m still in the ER, still in a hallway, still waiting to find out if I get a real bed at Dana-Farber or if I’m sleeping under fluorescent lights with the soundtrack of beeping monitors and rolling carts.
Is it frustrating? Yep.
I came in ready to knock out another round of chemo and instead I’m watching my treatment schedule get reshuffled again because of a rogue finger. It’s inconvenient and exhausting and, honestly, a little demoralizing.
And yet…
The same small incision and procedure that made me wince and whine a bit is also what gives the antibiotics a chance to work.
Tonight, I’m the guy with the giant bandaged finger, killing time in the ER, wondering where I’ll sleep.
I’m also the guy who got another reminder that healing—whether it’s a finger, a liver, or a soul—often starts with breaking down the hidden walls we didn’t even know were there.
Everybody has a story.
This is just today’s chapter in mine.
Another Detour on the Road to Healing
I spent today at Brigham & Women’s ER in Boston, checking in around 2 p.m. after noticing swelling under my chin getting worse over the last 24-48 hours. Eight hours later, I’m still here — but hopefully heading home by midnight.
And no, I never made it into a room. Like dozens of others, I spent the day on a gurney in the hallway, shoulder to shoulder with people facing every kind of medical curveball you can imagine. The place was packed. Nurses and doctors moved with purpose, somehow managing the chaos with calm. Watching them juggle so much reminded me that hospitals really are small cities that never sleep — and everyone in them has a story.
As for mine: this is round three of a skin infection called cellulitis, something I’ve become prone to since starting chemo. The CT showed early signs of an infection under the skin with a small developing abscess — not big enough to drain yet, thankfully. The team thinks it might be MRSA, which means the antibiotics will need to be fine-tuned to hit the right target.
It’s amazing how something so small can grab so much attention when your immune system is already working overtime. Still, I’m grateful. Grateful we caught it early. Grateful for the steady hands caring for people up and down this hallway. And grateful that, despite all this, I still feel strong.
As we were getting ready to see the doctor for final instructions, a young woman rolled past us in a wheelchair. She wore a wool hat pulled low, and her skin was as pale as paper. I could tell she was deep in her own cancer battle, and for a moment, everything went still. My heart ached for her — for the road she’s on, for the fight that’s still ahead. In that instant, the noise of the ER faded, and I was reminded how many of us are fighting unseen battles, just trying to make it to tomorrow.
This journey keeps teaching me a familiar lesson: control what you can, and keep your head up for what you can’t. Tonight, that means trusting the process, taking the meds, and remembering that healing isn’t always neat — in fact, most of the time it’s messy and complicated.
Cycle 2 Begins: Finding Hope in the Wait
This morning I’m back at Dana-Farber for my Taxol infusion — cycle number two. I’ll have another infusion next Monday, then a week off before starting cycle three.
The last couple of weeks have been encouraging. I’ve had a few days of fatigue, but overall, my energy has been strong — especially these past five days. My mindset feels solid too. All things considered, I’m in a good place right now.
While I know scans are coming in December, I’m doing my best not to let that thought take up space in my head. For now, I’m focused on today — on what I can control.
As I sit in the waiting room, I’m getting ready to meet with Bri, my oncologist who works with Dr. Leone. One of my big questions today is about clinical trials. The latest issue of EMBRACE magazine from Dana-Farber shared some inspiring updates about new research. EMBRACE stands for Ending Metastatic Breast Cancer for Everyone — and that phrase really hits home.
The question I keep asking myself is: How do I fit in?
Maybe that’s what hope looks like — staying curious, staying engaged, and believing that new options will continue to emerge. Technology continues to move at such a fast pace and that keeps me hopeful.
Each visit reminds me: I’m part of something bigger — a fight that’s not just mine, but one shared by so many others walking this same hallway today.
Every Journey Has a Story
As I sit in the waiting room on the 9th floor of Dana-Farber, I’m reminded that every person here carries their own story. Each one is different — some harder than others, many filled with small victories — but all shaped by the same reality of living with cancer.
You can feel the emotions in the room: hope, worry, courage, and strength. No one’s path looks the same, yet there’s an unspoken bond among us. We understand, without words, what it means to keep showing up.
I can’t know what anyone else’s journey feels like, but I can empathize. We’re all part of this shared experience — fighting in our own ways, holding on to hope, and finding gratitude in each new day.
Day 8 of Taxol – It’s All About Ollie
Today marks Day 8 of my Taxol chemo, and while the medicine does its job, I have to give credit where it’s really due — to the people who make this process human.
Meet Ollie (short for Olimpia), my chemo nurse and partner-in-crime at Dana-Farber. We first met during my original chemotherapy rounds, and we hit it off instantly. Now, whenever I’m scheduled and it happens to be with someone else, she somehow “steals” me back — and trust me, I don’t complain.
Ollie is one of those rare people who mixes skill, kindness, and just the right amount of humor to make a tough day a little easier. She has this calm confidence that makes you feel safe, even when you’re hooked up to enough medicine to make a small elephant sleepy.
It’s people like her — and the entire team at Dana-Farber — who turn a place filled with IV poles and hospital gowns into a place filled with hope, laughter, and real connection.
So here’s to Ollie, and to every nurse, tech, and doctor who shows up with skill and heart. The medicine may fight the cancer, but people like Ollie heal the spirit.
Chemo: Taxol – Day 1
As I sit here getting my first Taxol IV, I thought I’d share a little update. Taxol comes with its own set of “usual suspects” when it comes to side effects—fatigue, nausea, bone pain, and even possible allergic reactions. Out of my seven previous treatment regimes, fatigue has been the real heavyweight champ. Some GI issues too, but so far I’ve managed to dodge the rest of the bullets. I’ll take that as a small win!
This new cycle runs on a rhythm like past treatments: Chemo on Day 1, again on Day 8, then a 7-day break before starting all over. Think of it like a two-part song with a short intermission. The plan is to get through at least 3–4 full cycles before my next scan in late November or early December. That’s when we’ll see how well Taxol is doing its job.
The truth is, chemo days are never fun, but they’re not all doom and gloom either. Fatigue may try to steal the show, but I’ve learned how to roll with it—rest when I need to, rally when I can. Humor helps too. For example, I like to think of these chemo chairs as “spa chairs.” Sure, instead of cucumber water and soft music, I get IV drips and beeping machines—but hey, free heated blankets!
So today, I’m leaning into hope, humor, and the knowledge that each drip is working toward giving me more time to enjoy the things I love—family, coaching, music, and yes, even the occasional omelet from the Dana-Farber cafeteria.
Onward we go—one drip, one cycle, one day at a time.
New Treatment Update: Taxol is the next Step
Well, today wasn’t the news I was hoping for. The clinical trial that looked so promising didn’t pan out for me. Turns out my biopsy didn’t show the NECTINE-4 protein, which was the key to getting in. No protein, no trial. Disappointing? Yes. A little down? Absolutely.
That’s the tough reality with metastatic breast cancer. We can slow it down, sometimes even shrink it, but the truth is, it won’t ever go away. In the past 24 months, I’ve been on 7 different treatments: Xeloda, Olaparib, Enhurtu, Tamoxifen, Lupron, and Everolimus (try saying that three times fast). Each one worked—until it didn’t.
So now, the plan is Taxol. The good news? Taxol is a proven fighter and has helped many people by slowing or reducing the cancer. The not-so-good news? Like the others, it will stop working at some point. That’s when we hope another clinical trial shows up that I qualify for. There are many similar side effects and one of the main ones that most experience is hair loss. That will not be a problem as I already took care of the hair loss issue and shaved my head!
In the meantime, I’ll keep showing up, one treatment at a time, coffee in hand, and a little humor to carry me through. After all, the cancer may dictate the treatment, but I get to choose the attitude.
Tony's Journey 
