Read July 24, 2025 to celebrate Keith on his first drug-free, post-cancer-treatment day since his diagnosis on October 14, 2022. You did it, my love.

Your New Day

You’ve come a long way since that night in October,

And though you would NOT want to do it all over,

I’m telling you square that we learned some good lessons,

And saw silver linings, and felt some rich blessins.

Let’s recap a few of the highlights and lows

Of the last several years since your long bloody nose,

When your arm wouldn’t heal and your energy failed

And your legs got all dotted and stamina bailed.

The doctor took blood and you heard what he said,

“Keith, you’re just fine, it must be in your head.”

You told him, “Um, no, I’m not fine; please look more.”

Then the CBC said hemoglobin was four.

The emergency room was our next destination

With hopes of receiving a good explanation.

They took lots of blood and they ran several tests

And they said a transfusion was warranted next.

Then on turned a screen in the hospital room

With a doctor at ready to tell us your doom.

We weren’t expecting to hear what we heard.

That leukemia loomed in your bones seemed absurd.

In a fog of red eyes with our hearts being crushed

We drove straight to the hospital, feeling quite rushed—

No stopping, no takeout, no bags packed, no warning,

The bone marrow biopsy scheduled for morning.

We check in to St Luke’s Oncology floor

Feeling angst and defeat as we walked through the door.

With minds full of questions and hearts full of sorrow

We suddenly couldn’t quite see past tomorrow.

You stayed for three weeks, your life flipped upside down

While I managed the regular drive across town.

We chatted, played cards, watched Ted Lasso, ate dinner,

But daily your tolerant spirit grew thinner.

With chemo full force, side effects from the meds

Meant the clippers came out to create some bald heads.

First Charlie, then you, and then Kade joined right in

To chuck remnants of hair in the waste paper bin.

Once walking down Bannock, just having some fun

With your pole full of chemo, embracing the sun,

We learned that the nurses on fourth south don’t play

When they caught you and stripped strolling privilege away.

Attempting kind words to the hospital staff

Was not your best strength, though you did make them laugh

When you told them your plan was to leave there forever

And never return, because “probly, you’re better.”

You wore a full fanny packed daily with meds

Which pumped straight to your picc line so stealthy and stead-ily

Streaming until the white cap came undone

And I promptly freaked out seeing blood on the run.

Where meds once went in, blood was now flowing out,

So “Let’s go see a DOCTOR,” I started to shout.

But that’s not your style, my idea got rejected

And you called the nurse, staying cool and collected.

You learned to fix pumps and stall beeps and take pills,

And when energy waned, you kept climbing new hills,

Making friends at the gym, taking rides on your bike,

Eating lentils and kale and those beans that you like.

When chemo concluded, your picc line could go,

And they pulled out that sucker with one exhaled blow.

Then you jumped in the pool without worry of harm,

And could shower without plastic sleeves on your arm.

Your cell counts climbed up and your mood lifted too

And it seemed like the hardest of hards were all through.

But in went the chest port, the story’s not done;

More battles to come before this war gets won.

Now on to the maintenance phase, “It’s no big deal,”

So they said, but they don’t know how steroids can feel.

All juicy and wired, day after day,

Then crashing and weak, feeling constant dismay.

Then finally the light toward the end of four weeks,

When energy, cell counts, and moods hit their peaks,

When life would feel normal and pleasant, just then,

It was time for another infusion again.

Taking Dex and Vincristine and methotrexate

Meant your pill case was bursting and hard to keep straight.

But you took all the drugs and kept track of your labs

And had 24 cycles of port needle jabs.

But today is the day, there will be no more poking.

Your chest port is out and the doctors aren’t joking.

They think that your bone marrow’s figured it out

And stopped making dumb cells that go mucking about.

Today is the day, you’re all done taking drugs.

To leukemia cells we say, “Suck it, you thugs.”

Now on to convince all those FAA guys

That you’re healthy and ready to fly in the skies. 

Today is the day, and we’re all so impressed

That when life felt unfair you still managed your best.

You finished all treatment, you rang the big bell,

You told all the cancer to go straight to hell.

Today is the day, there’s a new norm at play,

And while showing emotion is not your forte,

I hope you will hear and believe what I say:

You did it. You’re healed. Today’s your new day.