Stop Writing the Ending

August 5, 2025

Today was a big day.

Kinley and I showed up at the hospital at 7:15 that morning and immediately started making the rounds.

Clinic. Bloodwork. Re-access her port. Ultrasound. CT scan. Cardiology. EKG. Another ultrasound around her heart.

By the time we finished all of that, Kinley was finally released to eat. She had been fasting and requested ramen, so we snuck over to Perkins Rowe and found a really good restaurant.

She didn’t eat much, but we got out of the hospital for a little while. We walked around a bit, and on the drive back she passed out asleep in the truck.

I remember looking over at her.

This could have easily been one of those moments I took for granted.

Lunch with my daughter.

Driving around Baton Rouge.

Her asleep beside me.

Nothing spectacular.

Except now it was.

Cancer has changed my definition of a good day.

I never want to take those little moments for granted again.

“Do We Need to Call Anyone?”

Shortly after we checked back in, Kinley’s main doctor found us in the clinic and asked if we could talk.

I don’t care how much faith you have. I don’t care how many times you’ve prayed. I don’t care how many mosquitoes have bitten you while you’re singing Nothing but the Blood of Jesus.

When your child’s oncologist walks up and says,

“Do we need to call anyone and put them on speakerphone?”

Your stomach drops.

I told him no.

Megan was bringing Cohen to his school orientation, and I figured I would call her afterward.

Then he started explaining the scans.

They could see a sheet of tissue in Kinley’s abdomen.

Then he told me the tumors they could see were…

shrinking.

“Hell yeah,” I whispered under my breath.

Probably not my most theological response.

But it was sincere.

For once, I was going to get to call Megan with good news instead of doom and gloom.

There was still a lot they couldn’t see. Kinley continued to have a tremendous amount of fluid built up in her abdomen, and it wasn’t really liquid anymore. It had become thick and gelatinous, which was the same problem they encountered during the previous surgery.

But the doctor explained that there was no reason to believe the tumors they couldn’t see weren’t responding similarly to the tumors they could see.

When we started this treatment, the message was pretty simple:

If the cancer doesn’t grow or spread, that’s good.

Now the tumors were actually shrinking.

That’s great.

God is still in the miracle business.

A Few Days Later

Kinley was cleared to begin another round of chemotherapy.

Megan and Cohen came to spend the day with us, and Megan planned on tagging me out so I could get back on the road and meet with customers.

I am completely comfortable being at the hospital alone with Kinley.

But I’ll admit something.

Sometimes the doctors and nurses start talking and I feel like they switch languages halfway through the conversation.

I say, “Kinley is taking chemo.”

Megan says, “Kinley is taking Ifos…” and then proceeds to rattle off every chemotherapy drug, supplement, nausea medication and supporting medication she’s taking.

Megan has also lived through cancer herself.

There is a knowledge there that I simply don’t have.

When she isn’t at the hospital, she’ll put Kinley’s pills into little cups, label everything and basically leave instructions simple enough that Dad can’t screw them up.

It’s one of a thousand little ways she takes care of all of us.

Treatment started, and we actually had a really good day.

We played games. With Megan there, I got a little work done. Later that evening, Cohen and I headed home.

The next day, I loaded Cohen into the truck and took him with me to make sales calls.

I remember being a kid and doing the same thing with my parents, especially riding around with my dad while he made sales calls.

Now I was doing it with my son.

Another little piece of normal life tucked inside something very abnormal.

Then Megan called.

The doctors were talking seriously about surgery again.

“Roger That”

They believed they might finally have a way to remove some of the gelatinous fluid from Kinley’s abdomen and give her some relief.

There were still plenty of concerns.

She was receiving chemotherapy. Her blood counts went up and down. Her body needed to be strong enough. Timing mattered.

Everything with Kinley seemed to require a dozen pieces to line up at exactly the right time.

Later that day, Cohen and I stopped for a late lunch.

Megan called again.

They had decided to do the surgery the next morning.

Everything had lined up, and the doctors felt good about moving forward.

“Roger that,” I said.

I paid the bill and Cohen and I started walking out.

On the way, I saw a friend sitting with some colleagues and stopped to say hello.

One of the women there, whom I didn’t know, asked if she could pray for us.

Absolutely.

Right there she started:

“By the blood of Jesus, watch over this family…”

And then she took off praying like a Southern Baptist preacher.

Call me crazy, but I love a spontaneous prayer from a stranger.

Especially when I’m scared.

When Somebody You Love Needs You

I had been debating whether Cohen and I should head straight back to the hospital or wait until morning.

Then Megan told me Kinley had been having an awesome day until surgery became real.

Understandably, her mood changed.

She was scared.

She was grumpy.

She didn’t want to do this again.

That settled it.

I told Cohen to pack his stuff. We were going back to the hospital.

“Yes sir.”

That was it.

He grabbed a backpack and started packing.

This kid was ten years old and had already learned something adults sometimes struggle with:

When somebody you love needs you, you show up.

We made it back and managed to cheer Kinley up a little.

At this point, I would drive every mile and spend every minute necessary for one little smile from that girl.

That night, Kinley wanted Megan to stay with her, so Cohen and I went to my mom’s house to sleep.

The next morning, we stopped for some proper South Louisiana hospital breakfast on the way back.

Boudin balls.

An egg roll.

A sausage, egg and cheese biscuit.

A meat pie.

When we arrived, Megan asked what we’d eaten.

Then she asked the much more dangerous question.

“What did you bring me?”

I reminded her that I had specifically asked if she wanted anything and she told me no.

She looked at me.

“After 14 years of marriage, you still don’t know to bring me food no matter what I say?”

At that moment, I think I was more scared than Kinley.

Back Through Those Doors

They took Kinley back to surgery prep.

People still remembered her from the last time she came out of anesthesia convinced everyone was an animal.

Unfortunately, she provided no sequel this time.

The surgery lasted about an hour and a half.

Oddly enough, that gave us some comfort.

The previous attempt had ended quickly because they weren’t able to successfully remove the thick fluid.

This time, they were in there working.

They made a small opening through her belly button, filled the abdomen with air and used a substance to help liquefy the gelatinized material so it could be removed.

Eventually, the surgeon called us back.

Fear struck.

I knew that room.

I remembered being brought into that room before and receiving horrible news.

Then I noticed pictures sitting on the table.

Fear elevated.

Our surgeon, who has about the same bedside enthusiasm as a camel’s hoof, started talking.

Everything had gone well.

Really well.

They had removed roughly two and a half gallons of material from Kinley’s abdomen.

Gallons.

From my little girl.

I still have a hard time wrapping my head around that.

The doctors had gone into surgery hoping they could remove enough to simply give her some relief.

Instead, they removed just under three gallons.

It seemed like everyone who heard the report was amazed.

And suddenly it made sense why this little girl had been carrying so much discomfort around inside her body.

But then there were those pictures.

The Spiderwebs

The pictures looked like something from a haunted house.

There were web-like structures everywhere.

The surgeon explained that when your body fights against something that isn’t supposed to be there, it creates a response. On a micro level, it can look almost like a spiderweb.

He said it could be inflammation caused by chemotherapy and everything her body had been through.

Or it could be related to the disease.

Then he said it could potentially mean things were worse than we thought.

There went the air again.

Just like that.

Good news.

Then fear.

Megan asked if they could remove the web-like material.

No.

Trying to do that could cause internal bleeding, and there was no reason to attempt it.

The surgeon ultimately told us the important thing:

The surgery was a success.

Still, those pictures stayed in my head.

A Doctor Who Couldn’t Wait

Kinley came out of anesthesia without believing anyone was a farm animal, so unfortunately the comic relief portion of the day was canceled.

The plan was pretty simple.

Eat.

Use the bathroom.

Stand up.

Then hopefully go home.

A couple of hours later, Megan and I decided Cohen and I would head home and get the house ready. Megan would bring Kinley once she was cleared.

On the drive home, Megan called.

One of Kinley’s main doctors had just come into the room.

She was excited.

When the doctors ordered the surgery, they were hoping they could remove enough material to give Kinley some relief.

What they actually removed stunned them.

The doctor told Megan she had read the report over and over because she couldn’t believe it.

She immediately tried to message Kinley’s head doctor with the news.

His phone was on Do Not Disturb.

She didn’t care.

He needed to hear this.

That makes me laugh every time I think about it.

Apparently removing gallons of material from a kid earns you an exemption from Do Not Disturb.

Then Megan asked about the scary spiderweb pictures.

The doctor’s reaction was completely different from ours.

She wasn’t surprised.

Considering everything happening inside Kinley’s body, she said it looked like what she would expect to see.

Relief.

Again.

Praise God.

More Than We Asked For

I’ve thought a lot about this verse:

“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine…”
Ephesians 3:20

I’m careful with verses like this now.

I don’t believe it means that if we pray hard enough, God owes us the outcome we want.

I’ve spent too much time in children’s hospitals to believe faith works like a vending machine.

Put enough prayer in.

Push the right button.

Get your miracle out.

That’s not what this journey has taught me about God.

Sometimes we pray and receive exactly what we desperately wanted.

Sometimes we pray and the answer hurts.

Sometimes we pray and wait.

Sometimes we don’t understand the answer at all.

But this particular week, we walked into several situations hoping for one thing and walked away with more than we expected.

We hoped the tumors simply hadn’t grown.

They were shrinking.

We hoped the surgeons might remove enough material to give Kinley some relief.

They removed gallons.

We saw frightening pictures and immediately feared the worst.

Another doctor told us it looked like what she expected.

We kept bracing ourselves for the next piece of bad news.

And good news kept showing up.

Stop Writing the Ending

I think cancer trains you to distrust good news.

A scan looks better…

but.

A number improves…

but.

A surgery goes well…

but.

You become conditioned to wait for the next sentence.

Maybe that’s why the doctor’s question earlier that week hit me so hard:

“Do we need to call anyone?”

My mind immediately started writing the ending.

Something is wrong.

Something has gotten worse.

We’re about to hear bad news.

Instead:

The tumors are shrinking.

Then we went into surgery afraid they wouldn’t be able to remove the fluid.

Instead:

They removed more than anyone expected.

Then I saw those horrible pictures and immediately started writing another ending.

Instead:

The doctors weren’t alarmed.

Maybe that’s what God was teaching me that week.

Stop writing the ending before He does.

That doesn’t mean pretending scary things aren’t scary.

Faith doesn’t mean my stomach stops dropping when an oncologist asks to speak privately.

It doesn’t mean I stop worrying about my daughter.

It doesn’t mean every story is going to end the way I want.

Maybe faith, at least for me right now, is simply leaving enough room for God to finish the sentence.

We started this treatment hoping the cancer wouldn’t grow.

The tumors are shrinking.

We went into surgery hoping they could remove enough material to make Kinley a little more comfortable.

They removed gallons.

And now we’re heading home.

Healthier.

A whole lot lighter.

And carrying more hope than we walked in with.

Sometimes good news is followed by a “but.”

Today, I’m choosing to stop before the “but.”

Praise be to God.