In the Clear

Happiness is…

As I’m writing this, I’m so incredibly grateful to share that I had my MRI today, and the news couldn’t have been better.

No growth. Stable. Contained.

Those are the words every brain tumor patient hopes to hear, and today, I got to hear them.

My surgeon looked at me and said, “You’re in the clear for another year.”

Those words will never get old.

My amazing husband, Jack, was by my side all day, holding my hand and staying strong because years ago I told him that if I was going to be strong, he had to be strong with me. He accepted the assignment without hesitation, and I couldn’t be luckier to have him in my corner.

If you read my last post about scanxiety, everything I wrote still stands true (including the chaotic NYU waiting room). The nerves, the waiting, the uncertainty…they all came rushing back the moment I walked into NYU that morning.

Then came the waiting.

I sat alone in my dressing room staring at the ceiling for what felt like forever before eventually making my way to the MRI suite. Even after I got there, I spent another 30 minutes lying on the table in a gown waiting my turn. Also, something about staring at hospital lights triggers trauma. When you’re forced to be still for that long, your mind has a funny way of filling the silence.

I found myself thinking about every possible outcome…

If I needed another brain surgery this year, I’d be disappointed. Really disappointed. Not because I don’t think I could handle it—I know I could—but because I’ve worked so hard to get back to living this chapter of my life. I want to run my marathons. I want to travel. I want to keep making memories with the people I love.

Then my mind would swing to the other side.

What if I got to leave the hospital exactly the way I walked in?

I’d be the happiest damn person in the world.

One thing about me is that I’ve never gone through hard things quietly. I tell people how I’m feeling. I ask for support when I need it. And I share these moments because I know there are hundreds of fellow brain tumor survivors and followers who understand exactly what scan day feels like.

But something else really struck me while I was waiting.

As much as I cherish the survivor community, I was reminded how blessed I am to have another one standing beside me.

My family. My friends.

The people who text before every scan.

The people who check in afterward.

The people who celebrate every piece of good news as if it were their own.

This week, one message kept showing up over and over again:

“We’ve got this.” “We’ll get through it.”

Not you.We. Such a small word, but carries so much strength.

Whether today’s scan brought good news or bad, I knew I wasn’t walking into it alone. There is something profoundly comforting about knowing other people are willing to carry a little bit of the weight with you. Their faith gave me strength, and their love reminded me that no matter what happened, we would face it together.

After my MRI, I sat down with my surgeon, Dr. Golfinos, and asked him what I thought was a pretty fair question.

“So…what does the future look like?”

He smiled, laughed, and answered with three simple words.

“I don’t know.”

I laughed too. Because he’s right. But I’ll take it for now.

None of us knows. My MRI just reminds me of that a little more often than most.

It changes the way you think about time. You stop worrying so much about what life might look like a year from now and start appreciating what’s right in front of you.

As Jack and I hugged, cried, and celebrated in the lobby at NYU, I realized I wasn’t just feeling relief.

I was feeling gratitude. Gratitude that I get to keep making plans.

That I get to train for two marathons this year.

And that I get to keep living this wonderfully full, messy, beautiful life I’ve worked so hard to get back to.

None of us knows what the next 12 months will bring.

And honestly, I think there’s something beautiful about that.

It reminds us not to postpone joy.

To call the people we love.

To book the trip.

To sign up for the race.

To say, “I love you.”

To be fully present in the life that’s happening right now instead of waiting for the “perfect” time.

Today reminded me that life isn’t measured by what’s waiting for us in the future.

It’s measured by how fully we live in between.

So today, I’m celebrating.

Not because everything is certain.

But because, for now, I’m in the clear.

And that’s more than enough. ♥️

Love,

Nicky