Chapter 21 - I Am Still Here

One Year Later

A visit to the dermatologist was required because treatment for AML can increase sensitivity to other cancers, including skin cancer.

The report was clear.

As an added bonus, the doctor agreed to call my spots “mature marks” rather than old-age spots.

Further testing from Juravinski brought more good news:

No measurable residual disease.

Strong donor-cell presence in my blood.

T-cell numbers still developing but moving in the right direction.

I discovered I needed to receive good news without immediately searching for the catch.

July 5, 2026

On the anniversary of entering Juravinski, I began revisiting my journals, posts, updates, and messages.

The journey had begun with a phone call.

A message.

A return call.

A diagnosis.

A sudden admission.

In a matter of hours, life had changed.

Looking back, I saw that the story had become about much more than leukemia.

It was about Leslie.

Family.

Friends.

Doctors.

Nurses.

Researchers.

Blood donors.

A stem cell donor.

Humour.

Small gifts.

Healing in community.

It was about thin spaces, a plastic dinosaur, a rubber chicken, chemotherapy pumps, cards, T-shirts, songs, burgers that tasted like heaven, and ordinary objects that carried enormous meaning.

Ordinary Things Made Sacred

I noticed how many ordinary things had become sacred in hindsight:

A ride to the hospital.

A text at the right moment.

A nurse who remembered something.

A joke that broke the tension.

A walk outside.

A song.

A prayer.

A bag of blood.

A bag of donor stem cells.

None looked enormous by itself.

Together, they formed a trail of mercy through the valley.

I Am Still Here

Early morning bloodwork and meds have stopped, but I still get up early in the morning.

I love the quietness of the day with a fresh cup of coffee and the sun rising.

It is a time to reflect, to ponder, to think about things, such as this journal.

Cancer became part of my story.

It did not become the whole story.

The larger story was about being carried.

It was about people who knew what to do when I did not.

It was about research and protocols developed before anyone knew my name.

It was about grace arriving through medicine, laughter, food, music, creation, and cells given by a stranger.

There are still tests ahead.

Unknowns ahead.

Strength to rebuild.

But there is hope.

There is life to be lived.

And I still believe:

The best is yet to come.

I am still here.

That sentence is simple.

After this year, it carries a great deal of weight.