How I navigated cancer 3,000 miles from home, then publicly at home

Oct. 4, 2019

I opened the mailbox and pulled out the large gold envelope that had been crammed in among the bills and junk mail. It was from CHOMP. We had only been home four days. I did not want to think about what happened 10 days earlier. It seemed like a lifetime ago that for only the second time in my life, I had been a hospital patient. The first time was when I gave birth to our daughter, Jordan. That was a happy time, and I left the hospital with flowers, balloons, and a beautiful, healthy baby girl. There was no joy this time, only a disc that contained a diagnosis that would change my life forever.

The inch-thick pile of medical records was an unexpected delivery. I had already read the doctor’s notes and test results online. “I hope they didn’t charge us for these,” I thought. “We didn’t ask for hard copies,” I said to myself.

I thumbed through them anyway, while a technician from Sheppard Security replaced the battery in our home alarm system. He asked a lot of questions, so I stayed nearby, parked at our kitchen island, perusing the records as if I might find something that would negate what I had been told just over a week ago.

“Patient is an incredibly pleasant 51-year-old…,” the report stated.

The last time time I had read someone’s review of me was after my 1997 employee evaluation. The review included notes from my boss about what I did well, highlighting areas for improvement, and the amount of my wage increase.

For the first time in 22 years, I was reading about myself.

“Patient was appropriately shocked and in disbelief…”

I still wonder what expression I had, the words I said, when I learned of the monster inside. All I remember is saying, “Oh my God. No.” It has been said by many that numbers do not tell the whole story, but almost every test result, count and measure was abnormal. My numbers, which measured tumor markers, infection, sepsis, and anemia did not lie.

I was scared, angry and in shock. Hearing the news reminded me of the 3 a.m. phone call of June 3, 2008 from my father in Kentucky to our Williamsburg, Virginia, hotel room. He called to tell us our home was burning. Cell phones made it easy for family members to reach each other in emergencies, so we did not tell our family where we were staying. If they needed to reach us, they could call, except that our phones were charging in another room in our suite. My father was the only person that remembered that we were staying at a Marriott.

Returning to St. Petersburg and seeing the remains of our home was jarring. Two days later, we would mourn the loss of our two Labradors Henry and Maggie, who survived the fire but succumbed to smoke damage to their organs. Life as we knew it before June 3, 2008, no longer existed. We proceeded over the next few weeks in robotic fashion. We mourned, cleaned, and filed our insurance claim.

One month later, Rick was diagnosed with a life-threatening blood disorder. Shocking, yes. Scary, for sure. We were angry at God, ourselves and life in general. We made it through that dark, stressful period. We rebuilt, welcomed new labradors to love, and spleenectomy allowed Rick to recover from idiopathicthrombocytopenia.

Eleven years later, we were again hearing devastating news. As it had in 2008, everything stopped. Life immediately looked different. I had walked into the hospital with what I thought was a virus that would be remedied with antibiotics and left with a life-threatening diagnosis.

No one can say how long the monster had been present, but I now had an answer as to why, as I sat on our sofa that Sunday evening over Labor Day weekend, my stomach was bloated and my shorts were tight.

I finished looking through the records and carefully placed them back in the envelope. They would soon join mounds of paper, bills, and welcome folders from oncologists’ offices. I had seen enough for that day. I had allowed myself to slowly digest each bit of news delivered to me over the last 9 days. It was a delicate balance between the feeling I had when I said, “Fuck this shit” after hearing the news with the replacement of those words with prayers for “strength, faith and positivity.” I would need it, not only to survive the physical battle I was facing, but the emotional one that would soon become public.

September 1, 2019

I remembered sitting on our living room sofa that Sunday evening over Labor Day weekend, my feet on the coffee table, my hands on my stomach. I wondered why I was bloated, but I did not mention it to Rick. I do not remember what we watched on television that evening because I could not focus.

The bloating started under my breasts and continued past my stomach. I was wearing my favorite, most comfortable pair of high-waisted jean shorts. The tan leather belt I often wore with those shorts always fit perfectly with the prong in the fourth hole.

Recently, I had to move the prong to the 3rd hole. The idea that I might be gaining weight bothered me, but I did not think there was anything wrong. I was 51 and decidedly middle age, so I surmised that some weight gain was inevitable. I remembered the statistics about women, age, and weight gain that my personal trainer shared with me when I was 38.

Dan had a degree in sports physiology from University of Florida, had worked with our hometown team, the Tampa Bay Rays, and wrote the training curriculum for the YouFit gyms in our area. I believed him when he told me that women’s metabolism slows as we age. I have never been overweight, but he cautioned me that if I did not increase the calories burned through exercise each year, that I would add 5 pounds every year after age 40.

I exercised most days, alternating between cycling, walking, and lifting weights. I rarely missed my daily glass of red wine with dinner, and I ate a varied diet that did not include many sacrifices, only common sense. By my 50th birthday, the scale confirmed what Dan warned me about more than 10 years ago. I had gained about 10 pounds since my 40th birthday, but I chalked it up to not working as hard to stay fit and the extra calories from my daily red wine.

I also excused my burgeoning belly as perimenopause. That night and for 23 more nights after that, I explained away the bloating with a long list of reasons:

· It was Dixie, the boisterous but loveable 10-month old Labrador we were pup-sitting. She had stepped on my stomach as she walked across the sofa.

· I had strained my abdominal muscles earlier in the day while spreading 20-pound bags of mulch, trimming our backyard palm trees and hauling the brush to the dumpster.

· Pre-menstrual bloating, although my body had never shown this kind of symptom before.

The shortness of breath was also explained away as stress and fatigue, yet I was under no undue stress and I was sleeping fine. The mind was already hard at work creating denial. I just did not know it.

I never considered I could be seriously ill. I probably got sick once a decade. I never caught the many colds Rick had throughout our years together, despite sharing a bed and continuing to kiss good morning, hello and good night. I had never had the flu or even chicken pox. The last time I had a fever was 2012 when I was diagnosed with bronchitis.

I saw my doctor once a year, had yearly mammogram screenings, and took vitamins every day. I even had my first colonoscopy scheduled shortly after I celebrated my 51st birthday.

My discomfort grew over the next 10 days, but instead of going to the doctor, I Googled. I hoped and prayed I would find a diagnosis that was not serious enough to derail our Sept. 23 trip to California.

Unless you are looking up something mundane, like how many miles it is from your home to New York City, or a new recipe, or how to spell a word, do not do it. Especially when it comes to your health. Nine times out of 10 you will find one of two things: a diagnosis that confirms impending death, or an ailment that allows you to believe that your symptoms are not serious.

Sept. 10, 2019

I called Dr. Wojnowich at the City of St. Petersburg Health and Wellness Center. He was not my regular doctor, but because his practice saw only City employees and their family members, I quickly got an appointment versus waiting a month or more to see my regular doctor.

Dr. W. admitted my symptoms were vague. The only thing he felt almost 100% comfortable ruling out was a kidney stone since I had no back pain or other symptoms. We decided to monitor my symptoms and see whether the Sept. 13 colonoscopy turned up anything. Still, no one was hinting at the possibility of cancer, yet I knew that bloating, dull aches, and twinges of pain that traveled from my stomach to my groin and up to my rib cage, was not normal. Neither were the low-grade fevers I began getting around dinnertime each evening that were only remedied with Tylenol.

I was nervous about the colonoscopy, yet I had no reason to be. I did not have any of the symptoms of colon cancer, but I was afraid of the anesthesia. Everyone I knew who has had the procedure described it as the best nap of your life, yet I feared not waking up.

Until 2019, I was proud to only check two boxes when completing medical paperwork: one for thalyssemia, an anemia caused by low hemoglobin, thanks to my Mediterranean heritage, and the other for a heart murmur I had since birth. The section on family history of cancer was short. My father had lung cancer, but that had nothing to do with me, I surmised. I had never smoked cigarettes, and he was a 3-pack-a-day user. Of course, he would get cancer I thought. My mother had uterine cancer, but she was coming up on her five-year survival mark. I thought it was a fluke that she got it, except it was not. After learning about 2nd cousins who had stomach and kidney cancers, I realized that family history is a valid indicator of one’s likelihood of getting cancer no matter what you eat and drink and how much you exercise. The fact that I did not smoke, and my father did and therefore got cancer did not mean that I was immune.

Sept. 13, 2019

Good news! I woke up from anesthesia with the pronouncement that my colonoscopy was clean. “You won the 10-year plan,” the Dr. Glamour told me. I would not need another for a decade. All I had to do was stave off the diverticulosis by adding fiber to my diet. That must have been the reason for my bloating, I thought. Dr. Glamour gave me a piece of paper with about 30 foods to eat and 30 to avoid. Surely if I added the good ones and omitted the bad ones, I would be fine.

My relief was short-lived as my symptoms worsened and were not alleviated by eating more fibrous food. Conversely, not eating helped.

Sept. 17, 2019

I joined Rick in Orlando for the Florida Association of Museums Awards at the Orlando Museum of Art. He was receiving the Outstanding Public Official Award for 2019. We were told there would be dinner. I ate hardly any of the light appetizers that were passed. When we returned home at 10 p.m., I ate yogurt with Grape Nuts. I felt much better. That was it, I thought. I must have needed the probiotics that are found in yogurt.

My stomach continued to swell, and the pain felt like an ulcer. I had an ulcer once during a stressful time in college, so I knew what it felt like. But my Google searches did not lead to ulcer. I continued to search for a diagnosis that explained my symptoms. I wished for something as common as diverticulitis, since the suffix “itis” refers to inflammation and maybe that is what caused my discomfort.

Albert Einstein said, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.” I was insanely trying to find an answer that would tell me that nothing serious was going on, nothing that would affect my ability to travel to California to watch our son play in the First Tee Pure Insurance Golf Tournament.

The next 6 days I drank water by the gallon, hoping to flush out whatever was making me bloated. It did not work. I continued to Google and decided I must have gastritis, an inflammatory infection that was surely causing the evening low-grade fevers.

I desperately wanted to find something that affirm what I had. Something for which I could be given a quick fix, whether it was food elimination, a hernia operation upon our return or an antibiotic for the infection I was sure I had. I refused to consider the possibility that something worse was going on inside of me, something that could prevent me from traveling to California.

The more I Googled, the more diagnoses I acquired. In addition to gastritis and an ulcer, I convinced myself that I had an allergy, a pulled groin muscle, a hernia, a kidney stone. Anything except for what it would turn out to be.

Sept. 22, 2019

I tried to focus on packing a week’s worth of clothes for California. I could not decide whether one outfit per day would suffice, or would I need to change for dinner every evening. We would be walking 18 holes on golf courses for at least four days. Would Birkenstocks suffice, or would my feet be cold? My sneakers were heavy, and repetitive wearing of them bothered my bunions. I had so many questions as I put together my outfits — warm enough for cooler California weather, yet not too heavy in case the sun was strong. I could not answer any of the questions I asked myself. What should have taken no longer than an hour happened in several spurts throughout the day. I would pack a little, then stop and rest.

I was wearing only the clothes that my bloated belly could tolerate. I should have admitted to myself that something was wrong when the day before we left, I went to Dilliard’s to purchase one more pair of pants. Tournament spectators were required to wear pants at Pebble Beach and Poppy Hills, and I wanted to make sure I had plenty for 6 days on the golf courses.

The denial continued, even when for the first time in more than 10 years, I needed a larger size. I told myself, “Tommy Hilfiger pants run small.” That is not true. I quickly paid for them, so I would not have to spend any more time than necessary thinking about how even one size larger was still tight around my stomach. I threw them in the suitcase when I got home, tags still on. I did not want to see the larger size, which was a reminder that something was wrong.

My mind continued to be my strongest ally. For three weeks, I had continued working, cooking, cleaning our house, socializing with friends, and walking our dogs. My mind would not let me believe that it was not normal to have to rest for an hour before cooking dinner, or that around 5 or 6 p.m., I needed to take Tylenol for a fever that sometimes reached 100.5.

Sept. 23, 2019

Since he was five, Samuel dreamed of representing the First Tee of St. Petersburg in this tournament. His impressive 2 handicap alone would not earn him entry, nor would his natural ability. He thoughtfully composed essays in response to 6 prompts, volunteered 100 hours helping younger golfers at our local First Tee, answered interview questions with the director, and completed a college entry-length application.

Samuel’s coach reviewed the application and essay answers, complimenting him on his ability to eloquently express the impact of golf and his First Tee mentors. Rick and I knew his chance of being selected was good, but we remained neutral while we waited for two months for the announcement. On July 2, Samuel’s coach Tom Charlton called to let me know that we might want to make sure we were watching the Golf Channel at 7 a.m. July 3. That was the day that each of the 78 golfers selected to play in the tournament would be announced. They announced each golfer by region, starting with West, followed by Mid-West, Northeast, and Mid-Atlantic. By now it was 8:15 a.m. and Samuel was due at the course for a lesson at 8:30 a.m. He and Rick left, and I nervously watched, hoped, and prayed I would see his name and face on our 65-inch television screen. Finally, “Morning Drive” returned from the commercial break and proceeded to announce the golfers from the Southern region. There he was. Our son. He would represent the First Tee of St. Petersburg, and his city at Pebble Beach in September.

Within days, we booked flights and secured our hotel room. It would be a family reunion. We would be close to my cousin and her family, who lived in Carmel, so her mother (my aunt) decided to come from New Jersey. Jordan had managed to mostly avoid Friday classes throughout college, so she was able to come for the weekend. Rounding out our group was my mom, Ann.

Samuel would practice and play at the Pebble Beach and Poppy Hills Golf Courses with a PGA Professional. Samuel would practice there once before the tournament started, then play on the first day of the tournament. Each junior golfer and his/her PGA Professional partner would play one round at Pebble Beach and one round at Poppy Hills. Those who made the cut would play the final round that Sunday at Pebble Beach.

Our flight from Tampa took us to Washington, D.C., then to San Francisco. We landed in San Francisco at 11:30 p.m. We drove 2 hours that night to Monterey, where we would spend the week watching our son Samuel play in the Pure Insurance First Tee Golf Tournament. He was one of 78 junior golfers that had been selected from hundreds throughout the country to play in the tournament at the Pebble Beach and Poppy Hills golf courses. The two-hour drive along the dark, curvy, remote highway was monotonous. I knew we were surrounded by sand dunes and mountains, but all we could see was the starry sky, and every so often the traffic lights, signaling we were passing through a small town. The Chevrolet rental car, the same one issued to all participants’ families, barely held our 3 suitcases and Samuel’s golf bag. Our bodies were on Eastern time, so we were exhausted by the time we checked in at the Hyatt Regency Monterey.

Monterey is a well-known destination, famous for its for its aquarium. During our 2015 visit, I spent 30 minutes mesmerized as the otters played and showed off their diving skills. I remember this because Samuel was annoyed and pleaded with us to keep moving through the aquarium. Monterey is adjacent to Carmel, famous its fairytale cottages, proximity to Big Sur and Half Moon Bay, and the famous 17-mile picturesque drive that boasts Clint Eastwood’s 22-acre Mission Ranch Hotel.

It is also where my first cousin, Quinn lives. The Jersey girl fell deeper in love with California after meeting her husband Roberto in graduate school at Stanford. A mathematician and research psychologist, they teach at the Naval Post Graduate School in Monterey and raise their daughter Casey and son David in Carmel, a vacationer’s destination. Their home includes a vast backyard with apple trees, berry bushes, herbs, tomatoes, beehives, and a pizza oven direct from Italy. It is an idyllic setting appropriate for its proximity to the picturesque 17-mile drive that ends at Clint Eastwood’s Mission Ranch Hotel and Restaurant.

Carmel is also home to Pebble Beach and Poppy Hills Golf Courses, where our son would spend the next week paired with a PGA professional golfer, competing in the biggest tournament of his life.

Anyone can play the famous Pebble Beach Golf Course — for about $500 a round. It’s a bucket-list experience, and usually just a dream for many golfers, to tee off where the Pacific Ocean meets Carmel Bay and to be just voyeuristic enough to get a peek at the mansions that adorn the course.

Our 16-year-old son would live his bucket list dream before he was an adult. Many opt to settle for a walk around the grounds, maybe a drink in the restaurant and souvenir hat from the gift shop. That was our first Pebble Beach experience in 2015, when we included a visit to Carmel while traveling as a family to the U.S. Conference of Mayors Summer Meeting in San Francisco. Each summer, the non-partisan group of U.S. mayors meets, and often families tag along. Rick’s job as Mayor of St. Petersburg sometimes required him to travel. Usually, he went alone. The kids were in school, and I worked. That summer, we joined him on our first family trip to California. I remember Samuel, as he set foot on those hallowed Pebble Beach grounds, dreaming of returning to play in the same tournament as many of his First Tee peers and mentors.

We were proud of Samuel’s accomplishments, but also excited to have the opportunity to return to this breathtakingly beautiful part of the country. It was no consolation to me that the hospital where I would spend 2 of our 7 days in California had been ranked one of the most beautiful in the country.

Sept. 24, 2019

Tuesday was Samuel’s first practice round at Poppy Hills. Poppy Hills was the antithesis to Pebble Beach. The landscape resembles a thick forest, with occasional steep hills with distant views of the Pacific Ocean and the Santa Cruz Mountains. Pine and Cypress trees stand tall against bright blue skies. I love being outside, and usually walked the course during Samuel’s tournaments, even the ones in 90-degree Florida summers. I loved feeling like I got a good workout in while he golfed, proud when my Garmin pedometer logged 5 to 10 miles in a day.

Following Samuel on the California golf courses would be a welcome respite from Florida heat and give us the best of both worlds: amazing views, ideal weather, and the chance to see our son do what he loved most.

But on our first full day in California, I struggled to follow Samuel as he practiced. The slight inclines on the cart path felt like mountains. The chilly weather was not enjoyable, as I was alternately sweating then cold. I gulped down several bottles of water and was still short of breath. By now, I figured I had a virus that would pass in a day or so. By hole 8, I was exhausted. Rick and I left Samuel to finish his practice round so I could have something to eat.

As we drove to Carmel to find a restaurant, I kept telling myself I was tired from the late night and restless sleep, which is not uncommon for me when staying in hotel rooms. We found a cute restaurant with rooftop seating. I was going through the motions, pretending to enjoy our picturesque surrounding and contemplating a glass of wine with lunch, which we often do when on vacation. But it was in vain. I struggled to do everything, from focusing on what to order to forcing myself to eat ¾ of the tuna melt and salad I ordered.

I knew my body was weakening, but my mind still masked the reality that something serious was wrong. You can convince yourself of anything if the desire to ignore the truth is greater than common sense. I would find clarity only after being hit with the truth that something seriously was wrong. It came two hours later in our hotel room bathroom, as I knelt on the tile floor, held my hair back and vomited violently and repeatedly into the toilet.

Instead of joining Rick and Samuel at the evening meet and greet where he met the PGA professional he would be paired with, I tossed and turned in bed, shivering under the covers, then kicking them off when the sweats began. We decided to wait until morning to go to the walk-in clinic recommended by my cousin, Quinn. Certainly, a doctor would tell me I had gastritis, a kidney stone, or an infection. I would be prescribed antibiotics, feel better within a day and be able to enjoy the rest of our time in California.

Sept. 25, 2019

Samuel had an 8 a.m. tee time for a practice round at Pebble Beach. Practices were the only time the junior golfers could have caddies, so Rick was to caddy for him that day, something they both looked forward to. Instead, Samuel practiced alone, while Rick returned to the hotel with my requested breakfast of oyster crackers. I forced down three crackers followed by an ice-water chaser, then we headed to Doctors on Duty. I was grateful I had packed a loose, flowy dress at the last minute. It was the only piece of clothing that fit my rock-hard protruded stomach. I looked five months pregnant despite hardly eating the day before and vomiting.

By the time we arrived at Doctors on Duty, I looked and waddled like a woman in her last trimester of pregnancy. I could not cross my legs, as I was now bloated well below my stomach. I remembered how I felt 22 years ago, in the last month before I gave birth to our 22-inch long daughter. All 8 pounds, 12 ounces of her took up residence from my sternum down past my bikini line. I remember feeling uncomfortable, but not in pain. Now, I was in pain. Something significant was wrong. I knew it in my heart. Two hours later, it would have a name.

Cancer was the furthest thing from my mind as I watched the doctor feel my abdomen. I tried to read her expression, wondering why her brow was furrowed. The small talk ceased after she mumbled something about a pregnancy test, at which I laughed. I had none of the pregnancy symptoms, but I did have signs that pointed to something else: ascites. Within minutes, the exam was finished, and I was told to head straight to the Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula emergency room.

Traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway was reduced to one lane in each direction. A drive that should have taken 15 minutes took 3 times as long. I Googled “ascites” and learned that it is an abnormal accumulation of fluid within the peritoneal cavity. That is why almost overnight I looked very pregnant. Ascites is caused by cirrhosis of the liver, cancer within the abdomen, congestive heart failure, and tuberculosis. I could not find one favorable outcome for ascites.

Nearly everyone can cite examples of medical crises in their families. Until now, only a torn ACL, broken leg, blood disorder and splenectomy were part of our history. These were not insignificant medical situations, but they also were not cancer. We even found humor in the situations, which we now know were coping strategies. After Rick tore his ACL on our ski trip to Vermont, we remarked, “At least we’re enjoying the food and wine.” That trip carried a black cloud almost from the moment we left Tampa Airport on a non-stop flight to Hartford, Connecticut. A winter storm wreaked havoc on our plans to meet our friends Glenn and Michelle in Hartford before driving to Okemo, Vermont. A rerouted flight to Baltimore resulted in a frantic search for an available hotel room. Our rescheduled flight to Boston was 6 a.m. the next morning, so we needed a good night’s sleep in a bed, not curled up in an airport chair. We booked the last room at the Marriott overlooking Camden Yards, where the Baltiore Orioles play.

The next morning we rushed to catch an early flight and make up for the time spent waiting out the inclement weather. After arriving at Baltimore’s airport, we learned that the weather worsened. Three flight cancellations and hours later, we were finally on our way to Boston. But that was not our last flight that day. New Hampshire was as close to Vermont as we would get that day, and it would be on a 14-seat puddle jumper. I had never feared flying, but that day Rick and I held hands across the aisle, praying while the pilot navigated the swaying plane through White Mountains. I forced myself to look at Rick only, avoiding the temptation to watch the snowstorm outside. We had made it, but our luggage did not. Our luggage full of wet clothes arrived the next day, but that was the least of our problems. Wearing borrowed ski clothes from Glenn, Rick was up early, hoping to salvage the trip with a few good runs on the slopes. The weather had improved, but the black cloud following us from Tampa through Baltimore to Boston, then New Hampshire and Vermont, was still with us. On the very first ride up the mountain, Rick stood up to exit the chair, but wound up on the ground, his legs pinned behind him.

“At least Okemo has great restaurants,” we joked. “And there’s wine.”

There is always a silver lining.

We spent the next decade injury-free, as we welcomed Jordan in 1997 and Samuel in 2002. In 2006, Rick was elected state representative, which meant he would spend 60 days in Tallahassee during March, April and the first week of May. Each year during the legislative session, the firefighter’s union hosted a softball game between Democrats and Republicans.

As the Jimmy Buffet song goes, “I rounded first, never thought of the worst as I studied the shortstop’s position. Crack went my leg like the shell of an egg…” The Parrot Head who has seen Buffett in concert more than 30 times lived that song that evening. A tumble at first base while trying to beat the ball resulted in a broken right tibia, and the acquisition of a shower seat, a wheelchair, and a cast from his upper thigh to his ankle. Six months later, Rick was cast-free and feeling strong.

The broken leg was the most significant medical crisis either one of us had endured since we met in 1991. Until July 2008. Just one month earlier, a fire destroyed our home, taking more than half of our possessions and sadly, the lives of our beloved Labradors Henry and Maggie. We were in the throes of post-tragedy, dealing with insurance companies, finding a home to rent while a new one was built, and replacing lost possessions. It was also the month of my 40th birthday. Rick had a legislative conference the weekend of my birthday in Orlando. We decided a weekend away, just 2 hours from St. Pete, would be a good compromise that would provide a sliver of celebration while we continued to rebuild our life and parent our children through post-traumatic stress. Our first day there, Rick attended morning meetings, then headed to the golf course with colleagues. Jordan, Samuel, and I were enjoying “Muppet Vision 3D” at Hollywood Studios when my phone rang. “You need to come back to the hotel,” Rick said. “But we’re in the middle of a show,” I replied. “The doctor’s office called. You need to come now.”

I pulled the kids out of their seats, found Samuel’s stroller, and pushed the stroller with one hand while holding Jordan’s hand with my other as we race-walked in the mid-afternoon sun to find our car. I was shaken by the sudden need to return quickly, so I did not readily remember that we were parked in Goofy.

We picked Rick up at the hotel and safely sped to the hospital. I drove while Rick listened to his doctor tell him that routine blood work from the previous week revealed a dangerously low platelet count. A normal platelet count is 150–400. His was 5. He was told that if he became injured, his blood would not clot, and he could bleed to death.

Doctors at Florida Hospital in Celebration examined Rick and determined he was healthy enough to return to St. Petersburg, just 90 miles away. We followed up with his physician the next day, who admitted him to St. Anthony’s Hospital, where he underwent tests for a multitude of conditions from leukemia to blood disorders. On the third day, he was diagnosed with Idiopathic Thrombocytopenia Purpura (ITP), an autoimmune disease that kills the platelets, which are important for blood clotting. Treatment included many rounds of high-dose steroids, blood transfusions to improve platelet counts and finally a 6-month course of Rituxin infusions. Rick’s platelets were never plentiful enough. They never reached the minimum 150 mark without transfusions. One doctor surmised that the spleen might see the platelets as foreign and trap them so that they could not remain in the body. The last resort was a splenectomy. The one-hour surgery resulted in a cure. The ITP has remained at bay, and Rick’s platelet count is normal.

Many endure so much more, and each time we faced one of Rick’s health crises, we said, “At least it’s not cancer.” Or, he would say, “At least you and the kids are healthy.”

The emergency room at Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula, or CHOMP as the locals call it, was empty when we arrived around 10 a.m. Three staffers greeted me before I even reached the check-in desk. I had barely signed the registration clipboard when the male nurse asked, “How much do you drink?” Apparently, a distended abdomen is a sign of liver disease.

None of my Googling produced evidence of a problem with my liver, yet I was afraid of liver cancer. Non-smokers can get lung cancer, so I figured moderate drinkers could just as easily get liver cancer. My aunt died of liver cancer in 2008, only 5 months after diagnosis. She did not drink excessively, and she lived a healthy lifestyle. The swift descent of her health haunted me. We watched her die as her body thinned and weakened rapidly. Surgery had not been an option as the tumor pressed on the vena cava, rendering it inoperable. It was large, too, meaning chemotherapy was pointless. I prayed I did not have a tumor or cirrhosis.

Within five minutes I was undressed and fumbling with the tie on the back of the hospital gown and pulling on the oversized hospital-issued non-skid socks. I was thirsty but allowed nothing to drink until enough urine was analyzed, several vials of blood drawn, and an X-ray and CT scan of my abdomen was performed.

Within 30 minutes, Dr. Reb Close returned. The time for Googling was over. I had an answer.

“We found a tumor on your right ovary,” she said. “It’s rather large — 20 cm.”

I said nothing at first. I was, as she described, “appropriately shocked and in disbelief.” How could I have not known that there was something inside of me that was three times the height of a golf tee, or about half as tall as a bowling pin, or 1/10 the height of Shaquille O’Neal?

The vague, dull discomfort I had felt for weeks was nothing compared to the pain I would soon experience.

“We’re going to take you to another room to get some of this fluid out, which should make you more comfortable,” the male nurse said. He wheeled me right three times, then left, then to an elevator and finally into a dark room. I do not remember the doctor’s name, nor his assistant’s. But he was there to aspirate the infected fluid that accumulated in my abdomen, which was the reason for my swollen abdomen and intermittent fevers. His assistant stood behind him and held a clear container the width of a basketball. It had numbers on it, like a measuring cup.

The doctor inserted a 16-guage needle and spent about 15 minutes extracting 500 ml of turbid, yellow liquid from my abdomen. The liquid was so thick that he needed to move the needle around several times to get as much liquid as possible. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing through the pain, as I had done when my epidural failed during labor before Jordan was born.

The doctor probably thought his small-talk questions would help me focus on something other than what was happening. He told me he also had a 16-year-old — a daughter. He asked me where I was from, why we were in California, how old Samuel was, and how long Samuel had played golf. I was turned on my left side while he extracted from my right. In my left ear I heard the hospital gynecologist.

“I just left your amazingly handsome husband,” she said before introducing herself. Dr. Close had asked if we wanted to speak with her, and we agreed. Rick and I thought she might be able to tell us something that would make us feel better.

I believe her intentions were pure, but I immediately regretted agreeing to see her. She wanted to know how many kids we had, how old they were, how many live births I’d had, whether I’d ever taken birth control pills, what I did for a living, why we were in California and other unimportant facts that wouldn’t help her tell me anything more than I already knew.

The only thing that was certain was that I had a large tumor on my right ovary. It would take days to process the blood tests and up to a week to learn whether the cells in the abdominal fluid were malignant. Yet she spoke the hollow, patronizing words that are said when it is impossible to deny a situation.

“There have been many advancements in treatment,” she said. That was code for, “This is a really big tumor and you have fluid in your abdomen, which means it has spread and is likely stage 4.” I later learned that before she visited me, she talked with Rick, handed him reading material on ovarian cancer and left him shaking by himself while I was getting “relief.”

I refused to believe that I would die within the year.

By 7 p.m. I was admitted to a room. Every detail about the décor in this hospital was intentional, from the crisp white walls and sitting area next to a fountain, to the curated art that could almost make you think you were in a trendy gallery in Soho. Except I was not in the mood to listen to the calming water sounds of the fountain or appreciate the art. I had spent the last 8 hours in the emergency room, suppressing words that were inappropriate for an incredibly pleasant mayor’s wife to say in public. Maybe it was the intense thirst or gnawing hunger from being denied food and water that made me say them.

“Fuck this shit,” I said to Rick as I tried to get comfortable in the bed without pulling my I.V. out or twisting the paper-thin hospital gown. The clear square bandage that sealed the hole left by the needle used to extract fluid from my abdomen tugged at my skin every time I moved. It was a constant reminder of what existed within — an uninvited guest that was trying to destroy me.

Dr. Close’s words replayed like an incessant ringing in my ears. There are no rehearsals for how to act when you are told, “You have a 20cm tumor on your right ovary.” I always felt lucky to be one of the ones who signed up for meal trains, made comfort baskets and donated to Go Fund Me accounts when someone I knew got cancer. Would this be my future, I wondered? I wished someone would tell me that someone made a mistake, that my abnormal blood counts were due to something else that could be easily remedied.

I did feel better, but still had a fever. Apparently, I was still acting like a pleasant 51-year-old, as the notes stated, I was in shock and disbelief. And I was mad.

Tumor my ass, I thought. “I’m not ready to die,” I told Rick. I kept asking him ‘Do I look like someone who is going to die?’ Rick always patiently and affirmatively answered, “No, you aren’t going to die,” and “No, you don’t look sick.”

I had been correct all along, mostly. I did have an infection, and I knew it was a gift from God, a warning sign. Ovarian cancer is usually diagnosed in the later stages. I did not know it yet, but the infection is what made me sick enough to be admitted to the hospital, where tests were done that found the tumor. Had I never had the infection I would not have known about the cancer until it was too late.

Without warning, I had been thrust to the other side, to frightening new world and a new column. All I could say was “Fuck this shit!”

We are wired with a desire to control our destiny. We choose our careers, our partners, our homes. Information about any subject can be found by Googling. The vast Internet allows us to search ad nauseum until we find an answer that fits our self-fulfilling prophecy of what we want to believe.

I had been guilty of Googling for 3 weeks, searching for a diagnosis for the bloating, pain, and fever. Now, as I lay cursing out loud, hooked up to I.V. fluids and antibiotics, I had one. What began as bloating on September 1 grew to pain and discomfort until it finally became a potentially life-threatening infection that caused an incurable fever accompanied by chills, causing me to vomit for the first time in 16 years. It was a crescendo of events that peaked when Dr. Close delivered the results of the CT scan.

As I lay in the hospital bed, I could not stop thinking about how Dr. Close spoke the words that carried the worst news I had ever heard. It was as casual as if she told me what she ate for lunch.

“I had a ham sandwich and a cup of soup, and you have a 20cm tumor on your right ovary.” She was that cavalier. It was not her fault, but her words hurt, like weapons intentionally hurled at me. How do you tell someone they likely have advanced cancer? Would I have felt better if she smiled while delivering the news? Would a touch on my knee from her consoling hand helped? There was nothing she could have said to soften the sound of the word, cancer,” which felt like a slap across my face.

How Dr. Close delivered the news was almost as perplexing as the news itself. I wanted to ask: “Is there a class in medical school on how to give bad news? Are you instructed to speak to patients without emotion, no matter what you are saying?”

I wanted to know, “Was it easier for Dr. Close to walk out of the hospital that day and go home to her family if she could remain emotionless with her patients?” The questions would remain forever unanswered. There is no good way to tell someone they have cancer.

We were dealing with my life-threatening diagnosis, nearly 3,000 miles from home, at the biggest event of our son’s golf career. Still, Rick and I plotted our next moves. Soon we would have to face my mom, Jordan, Samuel, Aunt Frances, cousin Quinn, and her family. We hid the truth by telling them I just had a strange infection and would follow up with a doctor when we returned to St. Pete. I was able to project the picture of health the remainder of our time in California. I easily walked each golf course, but pretended to enjoy meals and wine, while hiding the cold sweats that arrived intermittently. I had a suitcase full of clothes but wore the same loose black pants with different tops for the remainder of the trip. They were the only thing that would accommodate a distended abdomen.

I had coasted through life with minimal sickness. I always felt like I was stealing time, fearful that if something ever did happen that it would be more significant than a broken bone or minor surgery. Now, I was faced with a potentially life-threatening disease.

As I sat in the hospital bed sipping beef broth and forcing down Jell-O, I replayed in my mind the last 24 days.

Sept. 26, 2019

My fever still hovered around 99.5, a usually acceptable temperature but not when you are battling an infection, I learned. The nurses continued to draw blood every few hours, and check my lactic acid, which monitors conditions such as heart failure, sepsis, and shock. I overheard the doctors discussing transferring me to Stanford Medical Center if the fever did not decrease.

My blood pressure and heart rate were still elevated. I expected to be released that day and resume our trip, pushing the news of probable cancer to the furthest part of my psyche until we returned to St. Pete Sept. 30.

When Dr. Pham came in to see me, he broke the news that I would be staying at least one more night. My temperature had to return to 98.6, not 99.5 or even 99, before I would be released.

“This is why we’re in California,” I told him, pointing to a television commercial about the tournament. “My son tees off at 7:54 a.m. Friday morning. I need to be out by then.” After Dr. Pham left, the nurses told me I was free to leave on my own volition, but that the hospital would not be responsible should anything happen regarding my health. I never considered leaving without a doctor’s blessing, but I begged God to let me be well enough the next morning to be released.

While I sat in the hospital bed, I watched the antibiotic drip through the clear thin tube into the I.V. in my left forearm. I tried to analyze the red numbers on the vitals machine, the ones that beeped periodically throughout the night, leaving me with only about four hours of sleep. Rick took Samuel back and forth from his practice round at Poppy Hills to the hotel, then to required events. That evening, he drove 2 hours back to San Francisco to pick up Jordan and my mom. He told them I was in the hospital with an infection. The other part of the news would wait. Earlier that day, Aunt Frances had arrived from New Jersey, so she and Quinn visited. I hated lying to them about the “fluky infection,” but there was no reason to dampen the biggest moment of our son’s golf career.

When it was just Rick with me at the hospital, we worked on our game plan. We had quickly decided that I would see Dr. James Lapolla when we returned to St. Pete. He was the gynecological oncologist who treated my mom for uterine cancer five years prior. We also decided that while we were in California we would tell no one about the tumor. Jordan and Samuel, and the rest of our family, could accept that I had been hospitalized for an infection. I told them I would be fine and would follow up with a doctor when we returned to St. Pete.

That Friday, the first day of the tournament, I was up at 6 a.m., making sure to shower, put makeup on and pack my bags. I wanted to be ready when Dr. Pham came, praying for a normal temperature and signed release papers. Quinn picked me up from the hospital around 10 a.m., drove me to Pebble Beach, where I was able to reunite with Samuel and our family on the 10th hole. When I met his PGA professional partner Greg Kraft, he asked where I was for the first nine holes. I felt a little ashamed as I lied to him, telling him, “I had some business to take care.” What else could I say? I couldn’t worry about what this man whom I had never met thought. Surely my physical strength would prove to my family that I was fine. No one would worry, and most of all, Samuel could focus and play well enough to make the cut and play the final day of the tournament at Pebble Beach.

Samuel and Greg ended the first day of the tournament tied for first place, and Samuel gave me his ball from that day for good luck. It is still in my purse. I carry it with me every day.

My mind had been in charge for the last three weeks, allowing me to ignore the sickness that was growing inside of me. And that week in California, it continued to be in charge. The nurses lauded me as brave, when I told them that we had decided not to tell our family about my tumor. Why would we ruin the biggest week of our son’s golf career? I considered telling my mom, but I could not bear the idea of burdening her with the information, requiring her to pretend for the sake of everyone else that all was okay.

I put the bad news in a box, somewhere so far away in the back of my mind that I was able to rarely think about what awaited me back home. I spent the five-hour flight home Sept. 30 enthralled in “Downton Abbey,” which kept my mind off the impending doctor’s appointments, tests, and certain surgery.

Oct. 2, 2019

Our flight home from San Francisco arrived Sept. 30. The next day, I apologized to my mother for lying about the infection that put me in the hospital in California. Two days later, I saw an oncologist, scheduled a hysterectomy and oophorectomy for the following week and prayed.

I prayed for strength, faith, and positivity. The size of the tumor prepared me for the worst. I expected to learn that I had stage 4 ovarian cancer. I only prayed that it would be treatable. I feared finishing the 7-day prescription of oral antibiotics. I did not want the fevers and abdominal pain to return.

I was able to walk 9 holes on the golf course the day I was released from CHOMP, followed by 36 holes over the next two days. I hoped that might be a sign that I was not as sick as that gynecologist from the hospital had indicated. I knew in my heart that the tumor was not likely benign or a fluke of perimenopause. I worried about the ascites, and whether that had anything to do with the tumor.

I looked forward to my appointment with Dr. Lapolla. I was ready to move forward, and fight. Dr. Lapolla saved my mom after she was diagnosed with uterine cancer. My mom was not surprised when I told her about the tumor. She had noticed in California that my abdomen was still distended even after I was released from the hospital. She suspected there was more than an infection.

My mom’s presence with Rick and me at the appointment made everything lighter. She knew every staffer, as she had been a patient for almost five years and had all 6 of her chemotherapy sessions in the same office. She and Connie, Dr. Lapolla’s oncology nurse, embraced when we arrived. Connie hugged me, too. Her voice smiled as she spoke, which calmed me.

I hoped that none of the others in the waiting room recognized Rick. Six years into an 8-year tenure as mayor of the 5th largest city in Florida, he was easily recognized. I was grateful he was there, but that day I wished he were invisible. Instead of worrying about my health and what Dr. Lapolla would say, I was worried about whether the public would learn that the mayor’s wife might be sick. I was afraid someone would tell the press that the mayor was in an oncologist’s office with his wife. I wondered if people would question whether he could perform his duties as mayor if his wife were sick.

Connie called me back quickly, preventing the likelihood that more patients would enter the waiting room and possibly recognize us.

“We’re going to get you all better,” she said, after taking down my history. That felt good. Maybe this is not as big of a deal as the doctors in California made it out to be, I thought.

After taking my history and vitals, she left the room for a few minutes. When she returned with Dr. Lapolla, she was all business, which terrified me.

“Did you go to California like this?” he asked somberly. I felt embarrassed, as if I should have known something was wrong before I boarded the plane on Sept. 23. He did not intend to make me feel bad or ashamed, but his questions demonstrated the level of denial I was in about my health.

“Did you just think you were gaining weight?” he asked. I did. I had not done stomach crunches in months, I told him. I also surmised to myself that my nightly glass of wine and appetite for crunchy snacks was what caused the increased in my girth. Plus, I thought I was in perimenopause. I knew that after age 50 women’s bodies change. I figured my weight gain was a consequence of a less-than-ideal amount of daily exercise, diet choices and my age. I had accepted the extra 10 pounds as an inevitable consequence of aging.

Within 30 minutes, I was scheduled for surgery 8 days later. Dr. Lapolla would remove my ovaries, uterus, lymph nodes and omentum, a useless fatty lining of the stomach. Like ascites, the new word I learned in California, omentum was another foreign word. I was grateful that Dr. Lapolla had the foresight to remove it, as it was the site of the infection of the peritoneal fluid, which had caused the bloating that alerted doctors to the tumor.

Laparoscopy was not an option for me. I would be cut from my naval down to my pubic bone, about 8 inches. If the surgery was a success, I would be cancer-free within three hours, spend four days in the hospital, then six weeks recovering and preparing for four-and-a-half months of chemotherapy followed by five weeks of radiation.

We slowly began to share this news outside of our family, carefully choosing who we told and when. Every time I told a friend, I relived the experience. I was slowly learning to accept my fate, that I was a cancer patient. I was grateful that Dr. Lapolla mentioned chemotherapy and radiation. That meant that my cancer was treatable, the opposite of what I was told in the hospital in California. It was not hard to tell my family, friends, and coworkers, but it was difficult and sad to see their reactions. My job was to stay focused, draw on my faith and positivity that God gave me, but I owed it to family and friends to let them in. I accepted all the love and prayers, as I prepared to have the monster removed.

Oct. 10, 2019

I entered surgery repeating a mantra that Monsignor Robert Gibbons told himself before he went into surgery 11 years prior for stage 4 colon cancer. Monsignor Gibbons is the leader at St. Paul’s Catholic Church, where I grew up. Three generations of my family attended St. Paul’s. My parents attended school there, as did my brother and me. Monsignor was not there when I was a student, but he has been a steady presence for decades.

“I love the Lord, and the Lord loves me” is what he told himself on the way to surgery. I did, too, until I woke up to see Rick at my side.

“You’re a rock star,” he said. I did not immediately understand what he meant. Was that good news? He told me that I did very well during surgery and that Dr. Lapolla was able to remove every trace of cancer he saw. What a relief. I was too groggy to ask what stage it was, but grateful to be awake and one step closer to restored health.

Life changes on a dime. I have lived this cliche. I have always been grateful for my good health, a family, a nice home, a good job, and a great life that has given me many wonderful moments and opportunities. Now, I know that gratitude can be felt on a much higher level. It is the same for empathy. Only one time in my life have we needed to accept the kindness and generosity of friends and even some strangers. That was in 2008, when our home caught fire while we were on vacation. We had homeowner’s insurance, family and friends and we were uninjured. Yet, we still had some needs that were not covered by insurance. I had volunteered in the community, served on non-profit boards, and volunteered at our kids’ schools. I was the giver — until the fire and until now.

Throughout life we are required to accept help. No one goes through life without needing the support and generosity from family and friends. Faith also helps us navigate unexpected challenges and events. I was also grateful that I was able to summon positivity through authentic prayer and conversations with God, which produced unwavering faith. I trusted the process, relied on Rick as my rock and appreciated compassionate nurses and doctors who treated me kindly.

Our loyal family and friends supported me with prayer, friendship, meals, cards, and love. A group of them even joined me at Wig Villa for a party to pick out my new wig. If I were to endure this health crisis, I would strive to be an example for others who might also face a difficult challenge. I was grateful for my mom, who showed up at our home with five new soft, flowy yet stylish dresses to wear that would be comfortable on my healing belly.

As I recovered, I cocooned myself at home. Nutrition was my guiding star, as I fed my body the best food possible to aid in my recovery. I faithfully used the new Nutri-Bullet from my sister-in-law Cheryl, as I drank protein-packed fruit smoothies every day.

Before surgery, Rick disclosed my condition and diagnosis only to a few close friends and only to his deputy mayor and chief of staff. My health secret stayed closely confined to family, several friends and Rick’s immediate team members. We kept our secret close to the breast through October, November and my first chemotherapy session Dec. 5. I was content with our level of disclosure. There were still some friends to be told, but in due time, when I felt like having the conversation and reliving the diagnosis through their shock and sadness.

I wondered whether any of the friends we told might have shared it with others. I wondered if the board members at Creative Clay where I worked would find out about my absence and question my boss. This was my medical information, not to be shared with anyone, but I also knew that eventually others would find out about my condition. I have lived in St. Pete my entire life. I know many people, and we live very public lives. When it would become necessary to wear my wig, people would ask me about my new hairstyle and color. I had chosen a wig that was ash blonde and wavy, a stark contrast to my dark brown, straight hair. I loved it, and it looked great. But there was no mistaking that I looked different. People would inevitably ask, and I could not lie.

Other people would begin to ask questions, too. Rick wanted to accompany me to each chemotherapy treatment, which meant that he would be out of the office for an entire day. Other than vacations and occasional sick days, Rick never took a day off.

The first person to question his absence during the first treatment Dec. 5 was Josh Solomon of the Tampa Bay Times. Rick’s professional calendar is public record and the time that was blocked on that Thursday of my first chemo simply said, “Mayor Out.” However, Solomon was the only member of the media to question Rick’s absence that day, to which his Communications Director Ben Kirby answered, “Family business.”

Two days after my first chemotherapy treatment, we were in Orlando for one of Samuel’s golf tournaments. Over breakfast, Rick broached the subject of crafting a statement about my diagnosis. It felt unfair that my status as a political spouse meant that it was in our best interest for me to share my private medical information. It angered me that this reporter’s questioning of Rick’s absence might elicit good material for an intriguing news story.

I knew that if I did not preempt the news of my diagnosis, that it would soon become someone else’s version of my personal health crisis. This had nothing to do with Rick’s job as mayor, but because he was a public figure who chose to miss work due to my health situation, it could be considered fair game as far as news stories are considered.

I agreed to compose an announcement that would be written only by me, with no input from Rick or his staff. This was not to be a public relations effort, but an announcement of something very private. I would give no interviews where it could be left to chance to be misquoted, possibly skewing the story one way or another.

The media would be welcome to use any or all the story that I would craft for publication first on Facebook. When I began to think about what I would say, I wrote from the heart. I wrote with honesty. My health is my business, but it was also important to Rick and me that if others outside of our family and friends were to learn about my cancer, then it should come from me. I carefully considered which details of my health I would disclose. All cancer is scary and serious, but I did not want to share publicly that I had ovarian cancer, as it is usually discovered late stage with a poor survival rate. I wanted those who read my statement to know that I was lucky, that my cancer was stage 2, highly treatable, and likely curable. I was proud of what I wrote, which made me became comfortable announcing that I had cancer.

Pursuing and choosing a career in public service has many implications, even for the spouse. It is acceptable to believe that as a public figure your spouse will be the subject of news stories, that you will be known to many in the public sphere, and that you are held to a higher standard. But it is also reasonable to expect to be able to enjoy a private life.

I wrote my announcement before my Dec. 12 wig party. I intentionally had a group photo taken of the friends and family that came to help me pick out a wig. We laughed at the silly styles I tried on and toasted to my health. My family and friends made an awkward situation palatable. Around 8:30 a.m. Friday, Dec. 13, I uploaded the announcement and photo to Facebook and hit, “post.” I felt as If I had jumped off a cliff. I took my phone with me as I went for my 3-mile morning walk. As they say in the media, my post blew up. My phone buzzed throughout the day with hundreds of comments and likes. I had been afraid to share my diagnosis, preferring to keep it close, as if it would be easier to navigate surgery, treatment, and recovery.

I did not expect to feel love, compassion, and positivity from so many. The abundance of good wishes and prayers was overwhelming, so I decided to “pray it forward” for others who were enduring struggles, but who didn’t have the large network of well-wishers that 20 years of political life afforded our family.

Admittedly, I am a glass-half-empty person. When it comes to others, I have the highest of hopes and am resolute that only the best outcomes will be achieved. But for me, it was a different story. I do not always believe in the best outcomes for myself. This time was different.

Throughout my recovery, I remembered Connie’s words as she handed me the surgical instructions. “I feel like you’re going to be just fine,” she said. “Really? Or do you just say that to everyone?” I asked. She told me no, which my mom confirmed. “Connie wouldn’t tell you that if she didn’t believe it,” Mom said.

Political spouses have an opportunity to utilize a platform afforded to them by access, notoriety, and their spouse’s position. For 21 years, I have been a supportive, enthusiastic political spouse to Rick, but I have never used my position for a platform.

I had approached surgery and treatment with positivity and strength. The announcement that I had cancer would be no different. I wanted to be an example for others who faced similar challenges. My hope was that my words would not only inform, but calm. Surely there were others facing challenges such as mine, even worse. If I needed to go public with something so personal as my health, then I wanted it to make a positive impact on others.

Dec. 13, 2019

Here is what I told our community:

There is nothing like having the support of family and friends, as I embark on a new chapter of life…

It has been said that political campaigns are like marathons. They are long, with slow starts that quickly ramp up, requiring candidates to endure long days that sap their energy and threaten to deplete their resources. Whether campaigns last 3 months or longer than a year, no one will deny that reservoirs of energy, passion, persistence, tenacity, and faith must be tapped and replenished regularly, as one would when running a marathon.

I have supported Rick through 8 political campaigns. He was the candidate, but I have endured the marathons right by his side, as his wife, friend, and advisor.

Now it is my turn to run my own type of marathon, and his turn to be by my side.

In September, we traveled to California to accompany Samuel to the biggest competition of his golf career, The Pure Insurance Championship Benefitting the First Tee. Mild discomfort that began earlier that month came to a head on our second day in Monterey. A visit to the emergency room, along with a series of tests and scans revealed an infection that required me to be given I.V. antibiotics and hospitalized for two days. Thankfully, I responded to the antibiotic in time to be released the morning of the first day of the tournament. I was able to make it to the course, just as Samuel finished the first 9 holes on the Pebble Beach Golf Course. He gave me his ball from that day, which he finished tied for first place. I carry it with me every day.

But that was not all those scans and tests revealed.

They also revealed cancer.

Rick and I held onto our secret from those tests that week, as this was an important week for Samuel, and we were visiting family who lived in Carmel, and had my mom, Jordan and aunt with us, too.

The week of our return to St. Pete, I met with a doctor who, after reviewing my medical records from California, scheduled surgery the following week. The surgery was successful, and I am grateful for a good prognosis, that the cancer was caught early.

We still do not know the source of the infection, but by the grace of God, it alerted physicians to what was going on inside of me. Had I not become ill in California my prognosis could have been much different.

Cancer has a way of providing clarity. The gratefulness I thought I felt daily and overall, prior to my diagnosis pales in comparison to how I feel now. Cancer challenges you to confront fears, and it tests your faith. It brings amazing gifts from people all around you. I do not believe that one needs to have cancer to be grateful, but if one is to endure something so challenging, then we must be able to learn and grow in the process. I am grateful for an easy recovery from surgery, and overall good health, which I know will get me through this marathon. My situation is not unique, but the fact that I am the wife of a public figure has encouraged me to share this journey publicly.

I am proud to say that I have completed round 1 of six rounds of chemotherapy, but that is not all I want to share. I am grateful for the love and support of my husband, Rick, and our children, Jordan, and Samuel. My mom has been a rock of support, as she successfully fought cancer five years ago. My family, friends and co-workers at Creative Clay have been compassionate, understanding and loving. I could not ask for more, except if you are so inclined, prayers of health, healing, and strength. Here is to what I know will be an amazing 2020; watch for me in an upcoming half marathon. I may be running, walking, or a little of both, but once this marathon is over, there is no stopping me!