Author: Hschichie

Hey! So here I am, bruised, battered, teary but smiling. Life has brought us a poop load of loss and this is how we get through it
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Next Steps

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Happy Friday, dear Tribe!

Please forgive another quick update, but I wanted to put everyone’s minds at ease so you can go enjoy the weekend. ❤️

We got good news today.

The surgical consult went well, and Cynde’s team is happy and optimistic about how she has responded to this first round of chemo. Most importantly, they feel good about moving forward with surgery.

Surgery is scheduled for Aug. 27 at 7:30 a.m. at Anschutz Medical Center in Aurora. It is expected to take six to seven hours, depending on what the surgical team finds. The current plan includes a full hysterectomy, with the possibility of removing additional intestinal tissue if necessary.

After surgery, Cynde will spend some time in a higher level of care — somewhere between a traditional hospital room and the ICU — so they can keep a close eye on her. Her total hospital stay is expected to be about four to seven days.

Recovery will take some time. She won’t be able to drive for at least a couple of weeks, depending on how she is healing and whether she is still taking pain medication. We are also hopeful that surgery will allow her to begin transitioning back to a regular diet.

In September, she’ll begin three more rounds of chemo.

If that sounds like a lot, it is.

But here is the part we are holding onto: Her team is very optimistic. This is the path they hoped she would be able to take, and they believe this is the best treatment plan moving forward.

So tonight, we are grateful. Grateful the chemo did its job. Grateful there is a plan. Grateful for an incredible medical team. And incredibly grateful for all of you who continue to surround Cynde and Pops with so much love.

One step at a time.

And remember…

We can do hard things.

Much love ❤️

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Waiting for Answers

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Good morning, Lovely Tribe —

This post will be a little short.

The last round of this first series of chemo went well. Cynde is feeling a little weak, but she is in great spirits and continues her mantra: “I can do hard things.”

She had a CT scan on Wednesday to see how the cancer has responded to chemo and help determine what comes next. She and Pops meet with the oncologist today (Friday), and I’ll update this page as soon as we know more.

For now, she has both a surgery date and another chemo appointment on the calendar. Which direction they go will depend on what the scan shows and what her oncologist recommends today.

All is good. Pops is fed. And we continue to live by the saying, “No news is good news.”

So, for now, we wait.

Fingers crossed for a positive report today. ❤️

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Sometimes You Need an Ugly Cry

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Sometimes you need a good cry.

Not a tear or two that you quickly wipe away, but the kind that steals your breath. The down-and-out, ugly cry.

I’m a big advocate of the ugly cry.

Because life doesn’t stop. Laundry still needs to be done. Meals still need to be made. Bills still need to be paid. The dog still needs to be walked.

Meanwhile, grief waits patiently.

It has a funny way of showing up when you least expect it.

Lately, I’ve been walking my brother’s service dog. I love that dog and all of his opinionated little ways. He’s the slowest walker on the planet, stopping at every mailbox, light pole, stubby tree and random rock to investigate which dog came before him. Every stop requires careful consideration and, naturally, a signature mark of his own.

It can make for a very slow walk.

So I listen to music.

And sometimes, I cry.

Spotify has an uncanny ability to notice the one song that hits you right in the heart, then fill your playlist with ten more just like it.

Lately, that song has been Pink Skies by Zach Bryan.

There’s one line that undoes me every single time:

“If you could see ’em now, you’d be so proud.”

Most days it brings a tear or two.

The last few days…

It’s brought the ugly cry.

Because those words make me think of Ryan.

Last weekend, two of the Phews attended Camp Erin, a weekend camp for children and teens who have experienced the death of someone they love.

I’ll be honest—I have struggled with grief groups over the years. I wanted this weekend to be different for them. I wanted them to feel seen, understood and maybe even find a little joy in the middle of something so hard.

In true Phew fashion, they did exactly that.

They connected with their counselors. They played a lot of basketball. They drummed until their arms were tired. They laughed. They made friends. They were even interviewed by Jeremy Hubbard from FOX31. Bereavement camp hosts more than 50 Colorado kids to help them cope with grief

Watching the clips and hearing about their weekend filled my heart in a way I wasn’t expecting.

Because they are growing up.

They’re becoming remarkable young men.

Kind.

Funny.

Thoughtful.

Resilient.

If you could see them now…

You’d be so proud.

Nice job, brother.

You can find out more at: Shimmering Wings – Shimmering Wings Camp Erin-Denver

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Forward

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Franklin D. Roosevelt once said, “There are many ways of moving forward, but only one way of standing still.”

Forward looks different these days.

Sometimes it’s healing. Sometimes it’s better lab results. Sometimes it’s walking the dog or having lunch with friends.

Forward isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s simply finding a little more normal in the middle of the storm.

On Monday, Cynde will complete her third and final round in this first set of chemotherapy. The second treatment went really well, and we are incredibly grateful for anti-nausea medications and TPN, which continues to give her stomach the chance to rest and heal.

The nutrition pump is giving us good news, too. Her infusion time has been reduced from 18 hours a day to just 12, and her team adjusted the formula to provide a little more protein and calories.

The pump still has a personality of its own. It can be a bit persnickety, demanding attention with the occasional beep that always seems to happen at the least convenient time. But we are so thankful for what it makes possible. Without TPN, this journey would look very different.

Forward.

After this round of chemo, Cynde will have another CT scan so her medical team can see how well the treatments have worked. From there, they’ll begin planning surgery, with the extent of the procedure depending on what the scan reveals.

At her last oncology appointment, the doctors shared that her blood work looks really good and the chemotherapy is doing exactly what they hoped it would.

Nice work, Chemo.

Life, thankfully, continues alongside doctor’s appointments and infusion pumps.

Both Pops and Cynde have been reconnecting with friends. The photo above was taken during a lunch outing where Cynde was able to enjoy real food—a milestone that felt worth celebrating. She has also embraced a new hairdo thanks to a good wig and a great stylist.

Forward also meant taking Ryan’s service dog, Coulie, out for a walk. As soon as Coulie saw the walker, something clicked. He slipped right back into service dog mode, as if no time had passed at all.

Dogs remember.

The rest of us are moving forward, too.

The Phews are making the most of what’s left of summer, although it’s hard to believe school starts in just a couple of weeks. Nothing says “moving forward” quite like watching a passel of teenage boys wrestle in the pool, consume second and third breakfasts, or argue over the best NFL team. Looking back at where this summer began and where we are today is almost mind-blowing.

We know there is still surgery ahead. There are still unknowns.

But today, we celebrate forward.

Because forward doesn’t always mean you’ve reached the finish line.

Sometimes it simply means you’re still moving.

And right now, that’s more than enough.

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To Courage:

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This weekend we finished our 17th year riding in the Courage Classic. For those just tuning in to our journey, the Courage Classic is a two-day bike ride benefiting Children’s Hospital Colorado. We started riding when Samantha was 3 years old, and Children’s Hospital Colorado became our second home. The doctors there never stopped fighting for her. They later cared for Ryan, and today they continue to care for families living with mitochondrial disease. Every mile we ride is our way of saying thank you. The team grew into a consistent top-ten fundraiser and to date, we have donated over $1.5MM to the mitochondrial clinic through this ride.

The ride is not for the faint of heart! The first day is 80 miles through the Colorado Rockies and climbing three passes. It’s a beautiful, emotional ride that I did not train for this year…..at all.

In fact, I decided to sign up three weeks ago. On Friday, I dusted off my bike, removed the Courage Classic tags from last year, and headed up to Copper Mountain for the ride. I had no expectations and made the comment that we were kind of ‘limping’ through this year’s ride.

If I’m honest, our whole family has been limping through this year.

I was greeted in Copper by dear friends who surprised me for the weekend. As I was navigating through the parking garage, there they were, in full force, in full support, in full surprise. Me? Shocked and Grateful…..good friends are the best.

Saturday was a charged day. It was Samantha’s birthday; the climb was up Vail Pass. Did I mention that I hadn’t trained? Suddenly my lack of expectations turned into anxiety over whether I could still ride a bike.

And I started off. I listened to the U2, Joshua Tree playlist as I climbed, one of Ryan’s favorites. Despite the fires in the area, the morning was clear, the mountains enveloping, and the wildflowers were beautiful, and I was reminded once again how lucky I am for this time on this earth.

I thought of Ryan and his love of this area, Copper, Vail, Vail Pass, the Gore Mountain Range. I thought of Samantha and who she would have been at 20 years old. And I thought of Cynde, fighting her fight. I reminded my legs to stop complaining. My lungs to settle down and just breathe. There are harder climbs in life than Vail Pass.  

I kept riding, down Vail Pass, into Vail and onto Minturn. Mom and Jim met me back in Vail for a much needed, much appreciated SAG wagon back to Copper.

Later that afternoon, Dad, Cynde and Hubs joined us in Copper. We sat together in the sunshine talking about exactly the kinds of things families never imagine they’ll discuss over a post-ride beer: cancer, the death of a son, Samantha’s birthday, what she might have been like at 20, and Jim’s knee replacement.

I looked at these amazing people I call family, who joined me for the Courage Classic, and the resounding word I came up with for this group is appropriately…….

Courage.

For all that we have done.

It takes courage to shave your head.

It takes courage to bury a child.

It takes courage to get up the next day and face the world.

And to face the world with a sense of positivity, clean underwear, and teeth that are brushed.

It takes courage to be present. To laugh. To be vulnerable. To embrace others. To ask for help.

My friends joined us and remarked that this was a group that had divorced, forgave, embraced each other, and were now sitting around laughing and drinking Aperol Spritzes.

I remarked that the Aperol Spritz is the most welcoming of summertime cocktails and, of course, everyone should be friendly when an Aperol Spritz is in your hand.

But really it is more than that.

That at the end of the day, it was about Jack, it was about Samantha, it was about Ryan, and somewhere among all of this tragedy, it is about hope and Cynde and this terrible diagnosis.

And that is what we do. And it does take courage. And yes, this weekend was better, so much better than I ever thought it could be. We even got a great shout out from the Children’s Hospital Foundation:

Thank you, dear tribe.

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Break Out

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Happy Sunday, dear tribe!

I apologize for the late update. I escaped to Grand Junction this weekend with my sister-in-law and my Phews. Colorado has been hot and smoky, so we escaped to dear friends with a pool, a movie room, and what may be the world’s most powerful air conditioner.

Little did I know that while I was breaking out for the weekend, Cynde and Pops were planning their own jailbreak.

The weekend got off to a rather exciting start.

On Thursday morning I got a voicemail:

“Call us! We’ve had an exciting morning!”

I reminded them that details are important. Given the “excitement” we’ve had over the past month, I now end every conversation with, “May this appointment be really boring and uneventful.”

Excitement is a tad loaded for me. 😊

Thursday’s plan was simple. Cynde was scheduled to have a chemo port placed. It’s a fairly routine procedure that takes about an hour and makes future chemotherapy treatments much easier.

Except…

The night before, her TPN pump decided to go on strike. It stopped delivering the nutrition and hydration her body depends on. Since her nutrition is infused over an 18-hour period, missing eight hours is a pretty big deal. It throws everything off, including blood pressure and lab work.

Sure enough, when they arrived, Cynde’s blood pressure was too low to safely do the procedure.

Now what?

Chemo was scheduled for Friday, and without a port everyone assumed that plan was about to change.

While the doctors and nurses discussed their options, Pops asked a simple question.

“If she already has a central line, why can’t the chemo go through that?”

The room got quiet.

Great question, Pops.

After a few minutes of discussion, the team agreed. There really wasn’t a reason to place another line right now.

Victory!

One less procedure. One less opportunity for infection. And chemo could stay on schedule.

Cynde and Pops headed happily toward the parking lot.

They were halfway there when both of their phones started buzzing.

“Come back.”

“Your blood pressure is too low.”

“Please report to the emergency department.”

Fiddlesticks.

They dutifully headed to the ER and began the process of getting checked in.

Except…they really didn’t need another hospital admission.

What Cynde needed was a little nutrition, a working TPN pump, and some time for her body to catch up.

So they made an executive decision.

They broke out of the emergency room and went for an ice cream cone.

To be fair, “breaking out” was really more like:

“We don’t think we need to be here. We’re going to get an ice cream cone.”

Rebels.

The good news is that Friday’s chemo went much better than the first round, and for that we are incredibly grateful.

The chemo cocktail includes dexamethasone, a steroid that helps reduce nausea while providing a little extra energy and appetite. She may feel pretty good for a couple of days before the fatigue catches up.

But that’s tomorrow. Don’t borrow trouble from tomorrow.

Celebrate today.

If today is a day for an ice cream cone, eat the ice cream cone.

Tomorrow will take care of itself.

Today, we’re simply grateful.

Rebels.

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Gettin’ Wiggy With It

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There is a quote that floats around the internet that says something like, “Losing my hair didn’t make me feel beautiful. It made me feel like a cancer patient.” I imagine that’s true for many people. Hair loss isn’t just about hair. It’s another reminder that cancer has arrived, and it announces itself to the world before you’re ready.

So here we go…..

This is a busy week for Cynde and Pops. On Thursday she’ll have her chemo port placed, and on Friday she’ll head back for another round of chemotherapy. Nurses continue to come and go, monitoring blood sugar, TPN, and her central line, but everything is moving in the right direction, the direction that gives her body the best chance to be as healthy and as strong as possible for treatment.

Tomorrow, Cynde meets with her hair stylist to talk about what comes next.

She’s always said she doesn’t want a wig.

But I also think we have an opportunity to have a little fun with this, because, Lordy…we could all use a little fun.

So we decided to imagine a few possibilities.

The Basics

What if we just embraced it? No wig. No pretending. Just Cynde- beautiful, striking, and strong. Add a colorful scarf, a cute hat, some fabulous earrings, and let her smile do the rest.

Then We Got a Little Creative…

#1 Soft Pixie #2 Sleek Bob

#3 Textured Pixie #4 Soft Layered Bob

And Then…Well…Things Got a Little Crazy.

The best part?

When you’re getting a little “wiggy with it,” you can be whoever you want to be. Cher one day. Meg Ryan the next. Maybe even Dolly Parton if the mood strikes. Whatever makes you laugh. Whatever makes you feel fabulous. Whatever helps you forget, even for a moment, why you’re wearing it in the first place.

This week is another big step in this journey. We’d love your healing thoughts, prayers, good vibes, and positive energy as Cynde heads into another round of chemo.

And if you have a favorite look from our little fashion show…feel free to vote.

Thanks, dear Tribe. ❤️

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Happy Independence Day, Dear Tribe!

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We wish you a safe, joyful, and festive Fourth of July.

The word independence is a funny one, isn’t it?

Its meaning changes as we grow and as life changes around us. Over the last fourteen years, I’ve watched my Phews become more independent—venturing farther from home, trying new things, and seeing the world through their own eyes. Their independence is exciting, and every day they stretch its boundaries just a little farther.

This past week, independence looked very different.

It looked like coming home.

It looked like sleeping in your own bed, hearing the sounds of your own house instead of the constant buzz of monitors, nurses, and doctors coming and going. It looked like reclaiming a little piece of normal after weeks of uncertainty.

Sometimes independence isn’t about doing more. Sometimes it’s about simply being where your heart wants to be.

Cynde is finally home, carrying a blue backpack that delivers eighteen hours of nutrition each day through her central line. Funny how backpacks are with us through so many seasons of life and through independence. Backpacks take us to school, on adventures around the world, and, in this case, they brought her home.

Of course, no blue backpack of such importance could remain unnamed for long. The Phews and their cousins immediately got to work. Current favorites include:

• Violet Beauregard
• Smurfette
• Bluey McBlueface
• R2-Blue
• Marvin
• Mr. Drippy
• Percy the Pump

The debate continues, so if you’ve got a great name, we’d love to hear it!

Meanwhile, Jim, also known as Papa and my stepdad, celebrated a little independence of his own this week with a brand-new knee. Sometimes we have to take one step back so we can take many more steps forward; this time without pain.

Our bodies are incredible. And so is the medical science that helps us keep living the lives we want to live for as long as we can.

So today we’re celebrating many kinds of independence: a new knee, a blue backpack, the comfort of home, and the hope that tomorrow brings just a little more freedom than yesterday.

Happy Independence Day, everyone. ❤️🤍💙

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HOME

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I have thought about writing this post a lot; in anticipation of when we get to go home.

As our family has navigated chronic disease over the years, we have learned something that can’t be measured in lab values or scans: there is incredible healing in simply being home.

No matter how sick my brother Ryan was, he wanted to be home. For Samantha, home meant routine. It meant familiar sounds, familiar smells, her own bed, and our family together. We were always at our best when we were home.

So today, I am incredibly happy to write these four simple words:

Cynde is home.

That doesn’t mean home is without its challenges.

Cynde came home on TPN (Total Parenteral Nutrition), which provides all of her nutrition intravenously because cancer has made it impossible for her digestive system to absorb what she needs. TPN bypasses the gastrointestinal tract completely, but it isn’t as simple as hanging a bag of fluids. It requires careful monitoring of blood sugar, electrolytes, liver function, and signs of infection.

Because her digestive system isn’t reliably absorbing medications either, treatments like blood thinners have to be given by injection instead of by mouth. Hence, Pops is giving Cynde a shot 2x a day.

But they are home.

The view outside their windows is beautiful. The sheets are soft. There are no IV pumps chiming every few minutes and no monitors beeping through the night. Home looks different than it did a month ago, but home has a remarkable way of making room for life’s changes.

Pops sent me a picture tonight. Cynde is calm. She’s smiling. She looks comfortable. And right now, comfort feels like the very best medicine.

I also have to give a heartfelt shout-out to their incredible neighbors.

Neighbors showed up last night with a perfectly cooked ribeye steak, mashed potatoes, and several homemade meals—all carefully labeled and prepared with love. It should surprise no one that the ribeye and mashed potatoes disappeared first.

Later, Pops sent a text that perfectly captured the moment:

“I am so happy. I had a great meal from a lovely, unexpected source. Sometimes these times bring out the best in everyone.”

He’s right.

As the daughter, I don’t have the words to thank everyone who has reached out, sent prayers, delivered meals, checked in, or simply loved our family through this.

This diagnosis hit us like a wrecking ball.

To be perfectly honest, we are still grieving the loss of my brother, Ryan. Before we could even catch our breath, ovarian cancer entered our lives. The timing has been overwhelming, and there have been days when it has felt like the ground beneath us disappeared.

But then something beautiful happened…..and continuous to happen….

Our family, our friends, our neighbors, and our community stepped in. Again.

You have shown up with love, phone calls, hugs, prayers, and countless acts of kindness. You have cared not only for Cynde but for Pops, making sure he remembers to eat while he spends every waking moment caring for the woman he loves.

We will get through this. We know we can do hard things.

But it is so much easier when someone is walking beside you, holding your hand along the way.

Thank you doesn’t feel like enough.

But from the bottom of our hearts…

Thank you.

And to home.

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A Week Ago

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I woke up this morning thinking about where we were just one week ago and how far we’ve come in seven days.

Last Saturday, Cynde was incredibly sick after Friday’s chemo treatment. She couldn’t keep anything down, so she and Pops spent the day in the Emergency Room searching for answers.

There really weren’t any answers that day, just an overzealous doctor who insisted she eat a Saltine cracker. Around midnight, after a frustrating standoff over that poor little cracker, they left exhausted, discouraged, and wondering what came next.

Sometimes these medical journeys have to get worse before they can get better.

Cynde’s angry Tum finally demanded the attention of exactly the right specialists, and that’s what it got. Aside from a couple of bumps along the way, her care has been exceptional. Every day has brought a little more progress, and right now, that’s exactly what we’re celebrating.

I also owe everyone an apology for disappearing after Wednesday’s update. I’m hoping we can all agree that when you don’t hear from me, it’s usually because things are quietly moving in the right direction.

So where are we today?

Cynde is getting stronger.

The TPN has allowed her digestive system to rest, and it seems to be making a real difference. The body wants to heal when we give it the chance.

And sometimes the biggest victories are the simplest ones.

She took a shower.

She’s walking the halls.

She’s sipping tea.

Then this morning they casually told me they were having breakfast together. Naturally, I assumed that meant Pops was enjoying pancakes while Cynde continued her gourmet TPN through her central line.

Nope.

She had scrambled eggs…and an English muffin.

Last weekend, one little cracker seemed impossible.

Today it was eggs and an English muffin.

All of this is about getting her strong enough for the next round of chemo because, in the end, it’s this stubborn cancer that’s causing all of these roadblocks. Her port will be placed on July 9, and chemo is scheduled to begin again on July 10.

I know this all sounds overwhelming, but her medical team continues to reassure us that, as difficult as this has been, none of it is unexpected with this type of cancer.

When I talked with Cynde yesterday, she said something that has stayed with me.

“We can do hard things.”

That’s what she wants everyone to know.

This is hard. And she can do hard things.

So we’re looking ahead to a possible Monday discharge. Home. Healing. One step at a time.

Thank you, as always, for your prayers, your messages, your encouragement, and for walking this road with us.

Happy weekend, dear tribe. ❤️