Calm Before the Storm

It’s been a while and I hardly know how to catch Team Kara up on everything that has unfolded. Maybe I’ll just start with the present. Right now, I’m looking at Kara lying comfortably in her brand-new bed. She’s smiling, giggling and looks so at peace. When she’s happy, I feel like I can finally exhale. And then my mind shifts to what’s coming and suddenly it feels like I’ve jumped into the deep end of a pool with a brick, kicking as hard as I can but can't get to the surface for the next breath in.

We actually haven’t had chemo since early July. And while there have been rough patches, Kara’s personality and energy finally rebounded. Her giggles and her spark came back. It has been such a gift to see her light again. That break felt like a deep breath we didn’t know we needed. Which makes it even harder to face what’s ahead, because choosing treatment means sacrificing the joy of this reprieve.

Kara’s last PET scan showed that her current chemo and immunotherapy are no longer working. Her doctor recommended starting Trodelvy and suddenly we were scheduling treatment. I’ve spent so much energy reflecting on what matters most right now and for me it’s her comfort. It’s not that I’ve stopped hoping for a miracle but something shifted in me. It’s been hard to find the strength to keep battling through treatment. And then the guilt creeps in: You’re tired? You’re not strong enough? Suck it up, Kara needs you. But needs me to do what? To put her through more suffering? But you can't give up on her. ...And these are the conversations I wrestle with inside.

I took last week off work to focus on her care. I started researching palliative care at the University of Iowa and tried to get another opinion about what comes next. We delayed starting treatment, hoping to get to Iowa City sooner, but the earliest appointment for us is September 30.

In the meantime, we rearranged Kara’s room, bought a new recliner and installed a big TV on the wall. She proudly told everyone about her room makeover and invited people over to see it. Her excitement made it worth it, even though for Mom and me, the reason behind the changes are heavy.

We also had a stretch of nights that were deeply traumatic. Her pain has been pretty under control during the day but the minute she laid down at night she would cry out, wailing that she couldn’t do this anymore. None of the meds we had helped. It broke me to see her like that. One night as we surrounded her bed with ice packs, heating pads and our hands that feel helpless, Dad told her, “I would do anything to make this better.” I snapped back: Good, because you’re buying her a new bed. Of course, I actually had no idea if that would be a solution.

I had already spent hours researching what would work best for Kara and I knew exactly what we needed. The challenge was finding it in stock and convincing Dad to go along with the price. Money has always been a trigger word in our house that I avoid at all costs but in this case, I knew I had to do something. Friday night I tracked down the adjustable base in Davenport and the mattress in Moline. By Saturday morning, I was in full-on mission mode.

I told Roger to drop whatever plans he had because I needed his help. I marched Dad straight to the checkout counter, I didn't give him an opportunity to shop or question my decision. Decision fatigue is real these days and I was done with this topic so I left no opportunity for other thoughts or negotiations.

We bought the base in Davenport, loaded it into the Highlander and I sent Dad home in time for kickoff of the Iowa/ISU game because Kara needed her football buddy. Then Roger picked me up and we headed straight to Moline to grab the mattress, hauled it back and put everything together.

So it was a little chaotic but we pulled it off. And when Kara climbed into her new bed that night with no tears, just relief, it felt worth every minute of research and bit of assertiveness. She’s thanked us over and over since. We can’t control so much about this situation but this was one thing we could fix and I'm grateful my dad went along for the ride on this one.

And yet, even in moments like that, I wonder if I’ve been in this battle so long that I’ve lost perspective. Wins like the bed feel huge and fleeting at the same time. I don’t trust anything anymore... not the scans, not the timelines, not even my own instincts. Every decision feels like standing on shaky ground. I want to be steady for Kara, I want to believe but sometimes it feels impossibly overwhelming.

When I returned to work Monday, her nurse reminded us that treatment was still scheduled this week. We’ve tried to explain options to Kara as best we can. With Trodelvy, there’s a high chance she’ll lose her hair. I joke with her about the “bright side”... no greasy hair to fight on shower days but it feels deeper than that. The other side effects worry me: nausea, fatigue, pain, low counts. If her platelets drop, she won’t be able to take Advil, the one thing that really helps. Stronger pain meds exist, but nothing else works like anti-inflammatories. That scares me.

The truth is, every path in front of us feels unbearable. One path might be shorter but the walk would be gentler, with support and dignity along the way. The other path is a marathon of suffering, with no guarantee of extra time. And no one can tell us which road is better. Either way, the destination is the same: she will be blessed in God’s arms and I will be left here shattered.

The hardest part is that the decision falls to us and the responsibility weighs heavier than I can describe or that most people can probably comprehend. Kara can only understand pieces of it. In some ways, that’s a mercy. But right now, I wish she could fully grasp and help decide for herself. When we ask, she says she wants to fight. And how could we not follow her lead? She loves life more than anyone I know. So I choose faith over fear. I choose to believe that God is guiding us, even as my body aches under the weight of it all. I’ve seen doctors, I hear the reminders to care for myself but right now I don’t know how. We are preparing for an epic battle and she needs my oxygen. And maybe I’ve been in this battle so long I don’t trust anything anymore. But I do trust Kara’s joy and that’s what I hold onto.

Please keep my sweet girl and our family in your prayers as we are set to begin this new treatment tomorrow. We are always so grateful for your love and support.

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If You're New Here

Hi, I’m Alisha, Kara’s sister and biggest advocate. Kara was diagnosed with Stage 4 Triple-Negative Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (TNBC) in December 2024. Her cancer has spread to her bones, liver, and other areas, making this an incredibly difficult and uncertain journey.

Despite it all, Kara’s light still shines so brightly. She’s full of love, giggles, and endless positivity. This blog is where I share updates on her fight, the highs and lows and the incredible community rallying around her.

Thank you for being here, for your love, support and prayers. We need them more than ever. 💛 And of course, Go Hawks!

Team Kara Support Fund

Your gift helps cover travel, caregiving and comfort-related expenses for Kara’s support team. While Kara cannot receive funds directly, your generosity provides the relief and resources we need to keep showing up with love.

https://givebutter.com/teamkara