May 19th, 2025 Our first full day in Baton Rouge in the St. Jude Network
Today was exploratory biopsy day. Because there was so much fluid built up they had a hard time seeing exactly what they were looking at. So they decided to go in and take a look.
While they were in there, the plan was also to drain the fluid that had built up in Kinley’s abdomen.
But nothing could prepare us for what we’d learn.
This picture was taken right before she was taken back for surgery. I was trying to get a smile from Kinley but settled for a thumbs up. I think Megan’s face reflected how we all felt.
This wasn’t just the day our world turned upside down.
It was the day it felt like our hearts were ripped out and smashed.
After the procedure, Megan and I were ushered into a consultation room. In walked Dr. Wood—apparently a big deal around here. Calm, confident, and methodical, he sat down with a stack of photos in hand.
He started with the basics.
“The procedure went well,” he said. “We removed 7.5 pints of fluid and blood.”
That’s almost two gallons.
Imagine removing two gallons of milk from your child’s body.
Now imagine that same body playing soccer just weeks before. Now imagine telling her to hustle when she said she was tired.
(We’ll talk about the dad guilt later.)
Dr. Wood began laying out the images from the tiny camera used during surgery.
“This is her stomach,” he said. “Do you see those dark clusters? That’s cancer.”
He moved to another image.
“This is her bladder. Same thing—clusters. That’s cancer too.”
And then another.
“These are her ovaries. More clusters. More cancer.”
He walked us organ by organ, photo by photo, showing how cancer wasn’t isolated. It wasn’t a single mass. It wasn’t one bad spot we could point at and fight.
It was everywhere.
In that moment, all the oxygen left the room. Hope felt far away. The future suddenly went dark.
Megan cried. And at the same time, she showed a kind of strength I’ve only seen in a mother loving her child through hell. It wasn’t confidence. It wasn’t peace. It was just love refusing to leave the room.
And then we had to do the hardest thing in the world:
Walk back into that recovery room.
Put our pain on hold.
Pretend—for Kinley’s sake—that we were okay enough to still be her parents.
She was scared.
So were we.
I knew God was there. I never doubted His presence. But I had a hard time talking to Him.
I wasn’t full of faith in that moment.
I was angry.
And that’s where the day ended.
Not with answers.
Not with clarity or peace.
But with fear.
With love.
And with a God who stayed close—even when I didn’t know what to say.