Smile Through the Storms

Every morning I open my eyes and, without fail, the first thought hits me: Kara has cancer.

There hasn’t been a morning since her diagnosis that I haven’t been jolted awake by that reminder. I suppose that’s an improvement from December and January, when that thought would wake me up multiple times each night. Some mornings, I’ve been lucky enough to be there when she wakes up, always with a smile. But it's the saddest thing to see her smile fade quickly. She knows something is not right with her body.

Still, we rise. We keep trudging forward.

Today was a small miracle: Kara had enough energy to shower and attend Gram’s visitation. Leaving the house has been rare for her, so this was a big deal. Our biological grandparents passed when we were young, so Joyce and Bill Rowe filled that role for us growing up. Being together as a family to pay our respects meant everything - and Kara was beaming.

Afterwards, we went through the car wash and grabbed Culver’s. She ate her entire lunch. I thank God for every meal she enjoys. The Iowa women got the win today, and Kara cheered for every play.

I did take a break this afternoon, for those keeping tabs on me. I spent a few hours in bed. When I finally get free time, I never know what to do with myself. I felt guilty sleeping when I could have been cleaning or catching up on life—but I knew my body needed rest. I’ve been beyond exhausted lately.

This evening we went to Michelle’s house for our nephew Aaden’s 13th birthday. Alexa and Kaison made the trip from Chicago, and everyone wore their Team Kara gear. Kara lives for family time—she always insists that I record the birthday song, and we’ll be listening to that on repeat. Michelle’s birthday is coming up soon, so she’ll have a couple renditions to choose from.

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The Medical Front

We saw her oncologist again on Tuesday, and I brought a full list of concerns. Here’s how that visit went:

She’s coughing and throwing up phlegm. It’s worse than ever.

→ Doctor says her meds wouldn’t cause that.

She’s crying often, asking for foot rubs, and seems to be in pain. We tried Norco for a couple of days with little relief. Could it be nerve pain?

→ Doctor says the chemo she’s on doesn’t typically cause neuropathy.

So is it the cancer in her bones?

→ Doctor says he doesn’t think she’s in pain.

But she cries every day. We wonder if Clonazepam is helping at all. Her mood swings are extreme.

→ Doctor says the hospital stay was traumatic, compares it to some elderly patients reactions being pulled from their home environments.

We express concerns about continuing chemo. He says the Compazine caused most of the issues and that we won’t give it again. He suggests using Lorazepam on treatment days.

→ We remind him Lorazepam made her worse, especially in the hospital so it's on record. He still blames Compazine.

We ask about a scan. He says he wants at least two more rounds of chemo first.

We ask again about just doing immunotherapy.

→ He says it won’t be as effective alone, but to us, it feels better than doing nothing.

We told him we’d take time to decide as a family. He’s waiting to hear from us.

I left that appointment defeated. I try so hard to advocate for her, but I constantly feel like I’m falling short. Mom wants to weigh pros and cons of continuing treatment, and I just want a break from making hard decisions.

Something still feels wrong. I can’t ignore the daily crying spells and emotional swings. Before we can make another treatment decision, we have to figure out what’s going on with her now.

I asked her nurse, Mary, for a referral to palliative care. In an ideal world, that team could help us manage symptoms, improve her quality of life, and serve as a go-between with her doctor. I felt hopeful taking this approach.

But 24 hours later, we learned palliative care isn’t available in our area. There’s only one provider for the entire QC metro—and we’re outside the boundary. Another dead end. We talked briefly about hospice, but that requires stopping treatment.

So, we’ve scheduled a visit with her primary care doctor for Monday. We’re hoping she can help with some of the unresolved symptoms the oncologist is brushing off. And very soon, we’ll need to make another hard decision about what to do next.

This time, it feels harder than ever. The first time around, we had the luxury of ignorance. Now, we’ve seen just how brutal chemo can be—and we’re scared.

I’ll update more soon. For now, I hope it brings you comfort to know today was a really good day for Kara and our family. Her smile said it all. Thank you for your love, support, and prayers.

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If You're New Here

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

But despite it all, Kara’s light shines so brightly. She’s full of giggles, love, and joyful little sayings that warm every room. This blog is where I share her story—honestly and from the heart.

Thank you for following along and holding us in your thoughts. We need your love now more than ever. 💛 And as always… Go Hawks!