Florida, you look the same. We don't.

We made it to Florida.

Physically, at least.

Mentally… I’m on another planet.

I’ve been hesitant to write because I feel like what I’m about to say might disappoint people, or at the very least weigh heavy on you and I never want to be the person who brings darkness to someone else’s day. But here's the raw update from the sunshine state.

I keep thinking about the version of me who last stood on this stretch of beach, that girl who didn’t yet know what the next 11 months would demand. I wonder what I would tell her now. I reach for something wise, something comforting but come up empty every time. I just miss her. I miss the version of me who didn’t know this level of fear and love and exhaustion and vigilance that's braided (or maybe unraveling) all together.

We were supposed to leave Saturday. We left Sunday instead. But honestly, I didn't sweat that much. Planning hasn't made sense in awhile. Our life is a series of pivots, new decisions, expectations that are always changing. Day by day. Hour by hour.

Sunday morning, I drive us to the airport. Kara’s excited but I hear it: her breathing, heavier than normal. Anxiety tries to takeover, I tell it firmly: Not now, not today.

The airport is the busiest I've ever seen it. Typically you wouldn't find me anywhere near this place on a holiday weekend.

It's loud. Coughs everywhere. Sniffles echoing off the walls. I wonder if I'll always be this crazy about germs. Or if I'm just particularly triggered by everything that I have to lose.

I’m not expecting sick people to change their travel plans, but God, I wish more people would wear masks. We wore ours. But masking only really works when the sick person does too. And that was definitely not the case around us.

The guilt starts creeping in: Am I exposing her? Did I misjudge this? Was this too risky?

And then I look at Kara. The pure happiness radiating from her because she’s heading to her happy place.

I hear her doctor’s words: Go live your life.

So we are. Even if my nervous system is screaming through it.

We land in Clearwater. Gorgeous day. Easy drive. No traffic. When we walk into the condo, Kara sits on the couch and says: Thank you, Cindy & Frank. I love that she did this unprompted and we are all deeply appreciative that they are hosting us in this gorgeous condo on a property Kara loves. Then she says, “Thank you workers at the airport.” Gratitude overflows from her like it’s coded in her DNA.

And while she’s soaking in the joy of being here… I can feel the demons crawling up my back. This place, the familiarity of it hits me harder than I expected.

The condo has the same layout as last year’s. And something about that sameness pulls me right back into everything I felt during last year’s trip. I wasn’t ready for that.

By bedtime I’m having a crash out.

Heart pounding.

Chest tight.

Nerves on fire.

Regretting that I ever told my doctor I was sleeping okay because sleep feels impossible here.

I lie in bed with my eyes closed but I don’t sleep.

I'm locked into the patterns of Kara breathing.

I monitor every sound, every shift, every sigh, every whimper.

Every time she moves, my eyes bolt open and I sit upright without even realizing it’s happening.

I try box breathing.

I try logic.

I try reminding myself: She was medically cleared. You are prepared. You have support here. Your anxiety is not a warning sign. But what if it's my intuition? God, I hope not.

My brain doesn’t care.

It loops and loops and loops.

Eventually I make a deal with myself: shrink the timeframe of what you're trying to solve. Just make it until morning. Be where your feet are.

Monday is the oncologist appointment. We originally thought we’d still be on Trodelvy right now. Instead, everything about our plan has blown apart.

I sit before the appointment writing questions. Including the one I may never be ready to ask: If we stop treatment… what happens?

Kara hands the doctor a Team Kara wristband, her signature introduction.

The doctor is energetic, deeply engaged, clearly passionate about what he’s doing. He talks about her tumor biology, her HRD status, lists possible treatment paths and says the words I wasn't really expecting: you are not out of options.

Then HER-2 comes up. I tell him she’s 0. He asks about the smear, something no one has asked me before. He explains HER-2 ultra-low, shows me images, describes how Enhertu eligibility has changed, even in the last year. He suggests a liquid biopsy.

I ask what symptoms I should watch for while we’re here. He quickly says: Nothing. Just fever. If she gets one, call me and I'll order her antibiotics.

I want to carve that sentence into my brain.

Fever only. Not every breath. Not every noise. Fever only.

As he’s leaving, he asks where the bracelets are from because he has patients with Down syndrome who love them. I’m floored. After Mayo, after Iowa, after nearly a year of searching for a doctor with experience with adults like Kara, here is someone who simply gets it.

He shakes his head and says: They are often overlooked. Their symptoms don’t present the same way and they won’t complain. They are my favorite patients.

It disarms me, that mix of honesty and empathy. It feels like someone is finally seeing the full picture of who she is. Not once did I sense or did he make me feel like we were doing something wrong with keeping her in the fight.

We leave feeling a rare and cautious type of hope. I was just relieved that someone is approaching her case with depth, attentiveness and no hint of resignation.

Monday night, we're reunited with our friends Mary and Joe. Being on the lanai, watching the sunset, talking about things other than cancer, it was a moment of normalcy I really needed. I sleep a solid 5 hours that night.

Tuesday, Kara wakes up cheerful because Bill is coming. She whispers good morning and asks if I have my glasses on. I think she wants me to look at something but it was just the beginning of her coaching me through my morning tasks. I worked during the day but enjoyed a break for lunch at Captain Curt’s (Kara's favorite!) She goes to bed early, exhausted.

Wednesday she doesn’t leave the couch. I work beside her. She perks up only when Alexa, Alexandra, or Roger call. I tell myself her body is just tired from traveling.

She mentions needing a wheelchair. Minutes later, I'm down the street renting one. I tell her we’ll take it out tomorrow. She doesn’t seem that excited.

That evening, she eats a slice of pizza and the nervous cough begins, the one she does right before nausea. I give her Zofran and half a clonazepam. We get her into bed.

Thursday morning she’s groggy, still coughing. I give her another dose of Zofran and the other half of the clon, hating it because of how drowsy it makes her but knowing we can’t let her ride out queasiness.

She falls back asleep.

Then at 9:30, the vomiting starts and she's crying. My heart breaks when she has tears.

No Sprite, only Gatorade. I pray I’m not ruining a safe drink for her.

She throws up again at 10:30. And I start hunting for a place to rent a recliner, I know I need to get her elevated for this to have a chance to clear.

I text Ashlee. She tells me I can borrow a recliner from her condo. The Expedition proves useful for something other than taking up too much space in the parking lot. I grab Sprite too. Within the hour I'm back at our condo with the furniture acquired.

And when I walk in... she’s vomiting again.

Once it passes, I move her to the recliner and within seconds she settles. Her whole body softens. She even sends her dad on a walk because it’s “the most beautiful day”... she orders him to grab a Pepsi out of the fridge and gives him a wristband for Ray. Even sick and miserable, she’s thinking about other people.

While we were gone, my mom tells me the doctor called.

The liquid biopsy confirms it: she’s still HER-2 negative.

We’re not out of options but it feels like another door closed. Another thing that didn’t shift in our favor.

Now it’s been six hours since the last vomit. Sips of liquid are staying down. Food hasn’t been attempted yet. We’re hanging onto hope that she rallies, that we can still salvage some good days here.

Right now, I’m sitting on the lanai. The ocean is to my left, blue water, white sand, the kind of breeze people write postcards about. And inside, to my right is the entire meaning of my world resting in the recliner.

The contrast is almost too much to hold.

My soul wasn’t ready for how drastically different she is from the last time we were here.

How different I am.

How different our entire life is.

And while I know this barely registers compared to everything else… I still managed to get no-see-um bites without even going near the sand or water. Apparently those tiny terrorists can hike up to the third floor and squeeze through screens. Perfect. Cue the overwhelming urge to itch my skin off... honestly, it’s matching my mental state a little too well.

Per usual, Kara tells me tomorrow will be a better day.

And God, I hope she’s right.

I haven’t given up on rest or peace or even joy, I believe those things still exist here.

But it’s been messy.

More chaotic than we planned.

And actually the more I plan, the more life shifts under my feet.

We can't live in plans anymore.

We live in the moments between them.

Minute by minute.

Day by unpredictable day.

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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 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