Not Dead Yet

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Happy Birthday Penny Lane

It’s a drag when you show up to vacation sad and scared, but Emily’s not fazed. She’s been one of my best people since I was 12, and we’ve popped in and out of each other’s lives through the wonderful and the seriously worrisome.

When she tells me she’s booked us tickets to see the Soul Rebels — a 9PM show — I do everything I can to store up enough energy to stay awake. That includes vegging out all day and ordering a coffee at the end of dinner… at 8:45PM.

I’m not drinking, so the let ‘s-keep-this-party-going vibe can be harder for me to catch — and keep — until we walk into the legendary New Orleans dance hall, Tipitina’s.

The opener, SaxKixAve, kicks my ass in all the right ways. They’re lively, funny, funky, and fun. It’s clear this duo shows up with authentic joy — and I need it — so I let it all in. I dance. I sing. I laugh. And for a while, I stop feeling like a person living with a terrible diagnosis… and more like a person living in a terrible and beautiful world.

I’m transported to another version of my life — the one where I helped produce big shows in the heart of Boston with Eva Rosenberg, Jake Messier, Edgar Herwick, and Brian O’Donovan. The one where I handed Boston’s Mayor Menino the line: “Let’s see what happens when we bring Bourbon Street to Boylston.” (And a packed crowd at Copley Square erupted.)

By the time Soul Rebels take the stage, I’m warm — good and ready. For about two hours, I don’t have cancer. I’m not tired. I’m just a girl who loves live music, dancing beside her ride-or-die since middle school.

When we finally leave — after midnight — I’m still buzzing. We order late-night pizza and mozzarella sticks, and settle in to watch Almost Famous for the 9,000th time. Emily and I know every word. Every beat.

Until… a few words and scenes don’t line up. And we’re seriously (seriously) dazed and confused. (See that I did there?)

“Wait, what is happening?” I ask. “Do we have some different version or something? How is this possible — I’ve never seen this.”

“Okay, so you’re seeing this too,” Emily says. “Is this fucking with you? This is the same version I’ve always owned — I don’t know what’s going on.”

We stopped the stream and dug a little deeper. It turns out Prime had somehow switched to Filmmaker Mode—the original, unedited version.

It’s impossible to describe how unbelievable this moment is for us.
In each of our lowest and highest seasons, we’ve returned to this semi-autobiographical Cameron Crowe film — with much of the music composed by Crowe’s wife, Heart’s own Nancy Wilson.

Personally, I watched this movie nearly every night during the second half of my sophomore year in college, living in Luxembourg. And because I’m not exactly young, I obviously watched it on DVD — on my laptop.

I wore that DVD out — watched every single extra: the interviews with Crowe, Wilson, and half the cast. I remember this so clearly because Almost Famous was coming to Luxembourg theaters while I was living there, and I went on a date with a man too old for me, named Jake — a film director in town working on The Musketeer. Inspired by Penny Lane, I said yes to his invitation to the film’s wrap party. (I didn’t come home from that party. That’s another story, one with less gratitude, more regret — and probably the right amount of both.)

The fact that I devoured that DVD and its extras… and these scenes weren’t there? That Emily and I both own this movie on Prime and have streamed it for years, and the “silly machinery” (“silly machinery”) never once served us this version — not until now, in our 40s — feels like something more than coincidence.

Especially here, in her shotgun house in New Orleans, on my first trip here.
Especially now, when she’s reckoning with choices, and I’m reckoning with cancer, and we’re both trying to figure out what comes next.

And I’m reminded:
Even when I’m certain I know all the things that I’ve gathered every piece, that I’ve heard the record, even worn it out, there can still be more. There can still be magic.

And it can still be great.

Emily and I agreed that all of the edits made the movie stronger–except Penny’s Birthday. For those who love this movie as much as we do, but have never seen this scene, it’s so lovingly brutal.

Again with the Brain

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And the waiting

The brain MRI on Monday confirmed that there’s a spot back in the cavity where the surgery took place. It’s a tiny spot — but a spot nonetheless.

So, now I wait.

I wait for a PET scan on May 7 to rule out any spots elsewhere.
If there are spots anywhere else, I’ll go back on immunotherapy.
If the brain spot is the only spot, I’ll do spot radiation.

Intellectually, I knew going back on treatment was the most probable outcome.
But I had hoped to be the exception of exceptions.

This time, I’m not.

I’m grateful that my medical team knows what they’re doing — and how to manage this diagnosis.
I’m grateful the findings didn’t mean I had to cancel my plans to visit my friend Emily in New Orleans. (I’m writing this on her couch right now.)

I’m scared and tired.
And I’m here.

The headdress/crown that my friend made for me wear for Easter festivities here in the Big Easy.

What did we do before Zara?

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The impossibility of shared unconditional love

Because I was older—10 and then 14—when my last two sisters, Maria and Teresa, were born, I have very clear memories of cooing over them with my mom. We’d marvel at their tiny-ness and say things like:

“Can you even believe she used to not be here?”

We’d share in our version of loving nos.

As an only child, Briggs didn’t have any of that. Or hadn’t, until we brought Zara into our family three years ago this December.

Just this morning, his stomach hurting, none of us too quick to get out of bed and into the unseasonably wintery spring, he said: 

“Can you believe there was a time before Zara Dew? What did we even do without her?”

Then we both melted into full weekend puppy cuddles.

Zara is not an easy-going dog. She’s a reactive rescue with strong preferences for people and creatures. Thankfully, she adores those who primarily care for her—me, Briggs, Todd, Briggs’s dad (Ken), and my mom (Omi). She’s also wild for my neighbors Tom and Michelle, their son Gavin, and their dog, Mac.

For the past six months, a friend of Todd’s—another chef named Isaac—has been staying at his house with his yellow lab, Marco. At first, Zara wasn’t sure how she felt about either. But now, when we’re there, she does her best to nap with Marco and keep an eye on Isaac.

Still, there’s no doubting her preference for me.

Briggs can hardly walk past us without commenting: 

“Mumma, that puppy LOVES you. I mean LOVES you.”

He’s not wrong.

When she has it her way, I’m next to her—napping, writing, taking a meeting, or catching up with someone I love. She doesn’t mind the laptop on my lap, but she definitely prefers it quiet—just the sound of keys, not voices.

Lately, it’s felt harder to believe in my own value.

For most of my life, my work defined me. It gave me identity. And over the past few years, that identity has been slowly eroded—until now, I’m left trying to reshape something that feels… solid. In the past, when I felt low, I’d think of myself at 10 years old and feel proud of who I became. These days, it’s more like she’d shrug and say something clever, like, “Figures.”

Maybe it’s not a coincidence that all of this started around the time Zara came home.

My connection with neighbors. Daily walks outside. The small, unmissable proof that I still show up: keeping her safe, warm, fed, hydrated, and engaged. Staying present with Briggs as he figures out his way through adolescence.

Zara sees me. And Briggs. And somehow, Briggs and I—on our best days—see each other too. No, love isn’t enough to make it through everything. But it is something. And it’s a remarkable place to begin again.

Zara snuggling with Briggs’s favorite blanket this week, while he was at school.

Coffee & Friends

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Not just for the 90s (hehe)

When a friend of mine read about the cancer journey I’m on, she texted to ask what she could do. Throughout this ordeal, I’ve tried, when people ask that question, to be as specific and practical as possible—I figure that’s best for everyone involved.

At the moment she texted me, I happened to be feeling disappointed because I was out of coffee.

When I first came home from surgery and started immunotherapy, I lost my taste for coffee, which made me sad. There’s a ritual piece to making coffee each morning that I really enjoy. But for a while, I couldn’t tolerate hot or warm beverages—I craved cold, sweet things with ample amounts of ice. I got out of the habit of picking up coffee when grocery shopping, and when I did crave it again, I’d find I often didn’t have any at home.

In a far more succinct way, I texted my friend about my coffee conundrum and asked if she wanted to help me remember to keep coffee on hand.

“I can do that,” she texted back.

And she did.

A little while later, I received an email from a coffee mail service asking for my preferences. It was nice—fun, even—to complete a survey that had nothing to do with my health or well-being. Shortly after that, coffees from around the world—roasted to my specifications—began arriving in the mail.

It’s nice, getting presents (other than bills and scary notices) in the mail. When I make coffee in the morning, I think of my friend Eva and all the incredible productions we’ve worked on together, the meals we’ve shared, and the life lessons we’ve swapped. It makes me happy, even if just for a few moments.

For me, the most challenging part about all this cancer stuff has been the abruptness with which it’s changed how I think about my time and abilities. I’ve always considered myself remarkably resilient, hard-working, and creative—someone with a tenacity to perpetually figure it out.

Lately, that’s felt less true.

Maybe that’s why my Eva coffee felt even more important this morning than usual—and why my upcoming trip to see Emily for Easter feels necessary, too.

Another lifetime when Eva and I worked on Ted Cutler’s “Outside the Box” festival in Boston.

Again with the Eyes

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What it takes to see

I’m dealing with a recurrence of inflammation in my eyes from treatment — even though I haven’t had an infusion since December 26. I’m learning that stuff stays with you — and in you — much longer than I thought. Maybe that’s not just medicine, but nearly every part of life.

The solution is to return to steroid eye drops six times a day — which isn’t so bad, comparatively — but I do struggle to remember each dose (thanks, AI). The drops I take at the start and end of each day sting, though. Obviously far better than going untreated and risking devastating consequences for my vision.

Whenever my eyes are impacted, the headaches usually return. Minor, really, in the grand scheme of things — but painful and distracting nonetheless.

Since the trouble with my eyes began, I’ve been spending more time than ever taking my glasses off. For context, I’ve been wearing glasses since I was nine. If I’m leaning back in an office chair and facing a computer screen (whether my laptop or a large desktop monitor), I can’t see much unless I sit within a few inches of the screen or blow the font up into triple digits.

Sometimes, my eyes just need a break — but I’m not ready to close them.

I’ve read and heard from people who experience hearing loss that taking out their hearing devices can bring tremendous relief. There’s something remarkably peaceful about removing the thing that helps you — and, in doing so, releasing the expectations of what you “should” be able to do (not so much from others, but from yourself). At least, that’s how it feels for me.

It’s one of the most literal ways I can give myself a break. Find some relief. Let it go… until I’m ready — or at least willing — to try, to see, and to go again.

Maybe that’s why the glasses had so much power for Clark Kent and Superman. With them, Clark could see — and carry the weight of relationship, responsibility, clarity, consequence. Without them, Superman could push through with brute force and save the day — until, ultimately, he couldn’t.

In my universe, maybe putting on my glasses — having the courage to go again, to face the world with as much clarity as possible (even when it stings a little, or a lot) — gives me my own kind of superpower.

Or maybe that’s just what I need to believe.
And maybe that’s exactly what makes it real.

Me – in glasses – before the Cancer started…or before I had a clue about it…hard to say which is which. When the photo was taken, I thought I looked “thick.” All I can see now is health and beauty. Funny how that works.

Recovery Isn’t the Solve

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Even when it’s the most important piece

I can’t remember exactly what it was, but years ago I read a piece by someone who had chosen to stop drinking. She wrote about how, when she first started her no-drinking journey, she expected the elimination of alcohol to solve the rest of her issues.

If she wasn’t drinking, she figured, she wouldn’t be as tired or foggy. She’d stick to a schedule, work out, eat right, make better decisions, succeed professionally, and be smarter with money.

And while some of those things did happen, they didn’t happen all at once—and certainly not in the way she had imagined would bring lasting peace.
In short: eliminating alcohol didn’t eliminate the struggle.
Even if it did make life a whole lot lovelier.

I can already feel myself getting into trouble—or causing someone else some unease—by drawing any comparison between a late-stage cancer journey and alcohol use.
That’s not my intention.
I’m not here to trigger or minimize anyone else’s experience.

I’m just here to share a few truths.
Truths from someone who has both chosen to live alcohol-free and who carries a Stage IV Melanoma diagnosis.

Alcohol left my life—or rather, I let it go—long before cancer entered the picture.
Years before.

By the time I reached my early 40s, it was clear (to me) that alcohol wasn’t doing anything positive for my life.
What started as a “dry season,” a challenge to myself, became a lifestyle.
And it turns out, I like it.

Yes, giving up alcohol eliminated hangovers and hangxiety.
But I hadn’t set out expecting it to magically fix my financial, emotional, physical, or spiritual struggles.

(Okay—maybe that’s not entirely true.
I did have this small, persistent hope that it would at least contribute something positive to my physical health.)

This is part of why, when I found myself awaiting emergency brain surgery—and a Stage IV Melanoma diagnosis that had spread to my lungs, liver, lymph nodes, and brain—after three years without alcohol and no visible signs of disease, I was furious.

The brain surgery couldn’t have gone better.
The double high-dose immunotherapy that followed was crushing on my system.
Still, after three months of treatment, my scans showed only evidence of healing in my brain and what looks like scar tissue in my lungs and liver.
No evidence of disease in my lymph nodes.

I have a thirteen-year-old son.
All of my parents are still alive.
I’m the oldest of four sisters.
I’m blessed with an ex-husband who will always be family—and a boyfriend who treats me like a unicorn (that is to say, magical and rare).I have a gaggle of colleagues, teachers, mentors, and friends—some brand new, met only because of cancer—who have become treasured family.

And when I think about all of these extraordinary people and all the remarkable experiences of knowing and loving them, it fills me with gratitude.
But it also creates a kind of longing—a feeling that can slip into sadness, confusion, and a fear that isn’t always as… inspiring as I wish it would be.

I get scared about how to spend my time.
Scared that it might still be so limited.
Scared that wrong decisions might not come with the chance to reverse or reconcile.

On those days, I do my best to focus on smaller things:
Another load of laundry.
Whether I’ve eaten anything.
Whether I’ve written a few words, walked a few steps.

I do those things with whatever peace I can muster.
And some days—especially the rainy ones, the ones that feel like it’s been raining forever—peace feels a little more elusive.

So, while I am deeply grateful not to be currently undergoing treatment, I still find it difficult, sometimes, to do much more than go through the motions.

At My Heaviest

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Recovery, I’ve found, is full of strange surprises.

Yesterday, for the first time in a while, I experienced floaters—those tiny, translucent shapes breakdancing in front of my eyes for most of the day. Later, the sliced mango from Market Basket and even the dogs’ food appeared to have white stripes running through them (which I knew wasn’t the case).

This morning, the floaters and stripes are gone.

I’ll call my ophthalmologist, oncologist, and endocrinologist on Monday to leave updated messages. This is now my normal: sharing every unusual or shifting physical sensation with my medical teams and treating each as evidence of something that might be happening, returning, building, or leaving. Sometimes it’s comforting, sometimes it’s crazy-making, and often, it’s both.

These observations and feelings seem to ping-pong alongside my yo-yoing weight. I’ve fluctuated by 27 pounds in the last four months, sometimes rising or dropping as much as 10 pounds within a week. Right now, I’m up—something that doesn’t feel fantastic—but I’ve learned to pause, breathe, and see how things shift over days and weeks.

I’m also finally on the lowest dose of steroids I’ve had since October, and my body is back to craving fruits, vegetables, and lots of movement. Lately, that’s meant at-home Pilates, sessions with my trainer once a week, and long walks with Zara.

I’m still working on fully accepting and loving every iteration of my body. I look back at photos taken just before brain surgery and immunotherapy, and I’m stunned by how healthy and lovely I looked—and by how, at that moment, I also remember wishing that I looked different.

I wish cancer had evolved me past vanity, that gratitude for being alive would supersede superficial desires for a defined jawline, toned abs, or my old thigh gap…but it hasn’t.

Sadly, I’ve come to accept that I can be both grateful and shallow, all in the same breath. Perhaps recognizing this contradiction openly is its own kind of growth, a small step toward making peace with my beautifully imperfect self.

When I’m not so keen on staying positive about my body image, I do my best to focus on the good parts—like the peace of waking up at home (and not in a hospital), the love of so many good people, and the dogs, who honestly provide the most unconditional support I’ve ever known. Life is good even when I feel a bit out of my body.

5 & Alive

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So, there’s a lot I haven’t done, and up until Sunday, participating in a 5k was one of those things. Given that my birthday was Monday, I had the inclination at the last minute to see if any local 5ks were around for St. Patty’s Day. Given my proximity to Boston, I figured there was a high chance.

A very quick online search found The Patrick Cumming Memorial St. Patrick’s Day 5k.

Without hesitation, I registered Briggs and me for the race and added a modest contribution to the cause (an EMT scholarship in Patrick’s name).

I didn’t know Patrick, but it was clear from the page that he was deeply engrained in the Princeton Fire and first responder communities and that his life was cut tragically short. This race was the first anniversary of his passing.

It was all I needed to know to inspire me to finally try one more thing in my single precious life.

Ultimately, Briggs didn’t run with me because I got confused and thought the race was Saturday, but it was Sunday (I want to blame the brain surgery for things like this, but honestly, I was this way BS – before surgery (sadly that’s no BS).) Briggs had baseball practice early Sunday morning, so my Mom took him to practice so I could still make the race.

I went to the race by myself to honor a young man I’d never met and do something I’d never done. Surprisingly, I wasn’t anxious or awkward…maybe because even though I am far from my best shape, I know I am able-bodied. I know that I am fortunate to have the means and energy to be upright, in motion, and here. So, my time or place wasn’t a marker of winning or success. My goals were far simpler 1) Show up 2) Thank the organizers 3) Finish (in that order),

And I met my goals.

Before starting the race, I met Patrick’s Aunt, who told me more about her nephew and described her sister, Patrick’s Mom, so I could find her before I left.

After completing the 5k in 43 minutes, I found Patrick’s Mom. I thanked her for the opportunity to help the community, honor her son, and be a part of something so beautiful the day before my 44th, especially given my challenges over the last six months.

Then we hugged, and I drove home to ask my son how practice went and take a nap.

Life is brutal and unfair and undeniably good and beautiful.

My runner’s red. 🙂 If you want to fact-check my time on the site, my bib number was 126. 🙂

Defense

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Raising teens and Building Community is Not for the Weak.

According to my psychiatrist, the fact that my son, Briggs (13), still acts like a typical teenager — resisting school, avoiding chores, and showing zero interest in leaving the house unless PS5 comes along — is actually a good thing. It means that even in the chaos of a late-stage cancer diagnosis, his Dad, me, and the entire community of family, friends, and loved ones we lean on have managed to create a space where he feels safe enough to be… himself.

I’ll take the compliment — but honestly, I’d love a little less pushback whenever I suggest doing anything. Unless that “anything” is video games, it’s a full-blown negotiation. It’s typical, it’s concerning — and it drives me up a wall because I get bored easily. Also, I’m not dying, I’m living. So, we live.

That’s why, when I caught WBZ News talking with Harvard Women’s Basketball Coach, Carrie Moore and their Cancer Awareness Night during their game against Princeton, I jumped at the chance. Friday, February 28 — I grabbed tickets for Briggs and me without a second thought.

I didn’t tell him where we were going until we were almost out the door. These days, even a trip to the grocery store is a fight, so I wasn’t expecting an easy ride into the city. Sure enough, the car ride was filled with all the reasons we should just stay home — wanting to hang with Zara (though let’s be real, he’s not the one walking her), and generally not wanting to do anything that isn’t his idea.

I let him vent. I silently judged. And I made a deal: if it was truly awful, we could leave at halftime. The only condition? Once we got there and met up with Mike — a new friend I met through our neurosurgeon, who had just wrapped up radiation treatment — Briggs had to hold it together. This night was not just about us.

The second we stepped inside, I saw it happen — the shift. The first thing that caught his eye? Free jersey giveaway. Instant win. And from the moment the game started, the Harvard women were on fire. The energy, the crowd — it was impossible not to get caught up in it.

Then came the moment that stuck with me the most. At one point, they asked everyone in the crowd to turn on their phone flashlights if they were fighting cancer. Briggs and I lit up my phone (yeah, it took both of us because typically I’m in bed by 8P), and as I looked around at the sea of lights, I could feel it — connection, community, a reminder that none of us are in this alone.

Mike joined us partway through the first quarter, and I was proud — of Briggs, of myself, of the fact that, despite his protests, we were here. Together. And not once did Briggs complain, check out, or ask to leave.

The game was electric, and halftime brought a performance from Prove Them Wrong (PTW) athletes that left the whole arena buzzing. And then, because life has a way of giving you little bonuses when you least expect it, we spotted Governor Maura Healey in the crowd. Not campaigning, not giving speeches — just there, fully present, supporting the players, the cause, and the belief that community and care matter.

The only thing that didn’t go our way? The final score. Harvard didn’t come away with the win — but this cancer-fighting Mumma sure did.

At a time when national news ties my stomach in knots, and I have to be careful how much I consume to protect my health, I’m endlessly grateful for local news, local teams, and everyone on #TeamMA who shows up—even when it’s hard—and chooses connection over isolation, truth over fear, and community over division.

No. Matter. What.

Go Team Go.

My kiddo is wicked smart.

Evidence of Disease

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Finding my way as a Stage IV Cancer Patient

So, last week—after serious delays from norovirus and a respiratory infection—I finally had my follow-up brain MRI and PET scan to see what the cancer looks like now.

To level set: At this stage, doctors don’t talk in terms of remission or cure because the likelihood of cancer returning remains high. What Stage IV patients aim for is “no evidence of disease”—meaning periods of time when no visible cancer appears in the body. During these stretches, patients can step back from grueling treatments, sometimes even taking a break entirely.

The results from the brain MRI came in while I was with my neuro team, so I got to learn the same day as the scans that my brain is beautiful. The MRI continues to show only signs of healing. Even better, the damage to my pituitary gland has reversed enough that it can now be treated with oral medication. At this time, I am not a candidate for another brain surgery—a huge relief.

The PET scan results took a little longer. They were posted to my electronic medical records a few hours before Todd and I headed into Boston to meet with my oncology team. I didn’t linger on the details, but I was disappointed not to see the magic phrase, “no evidence of disease.” I prepared myself for what I was sure would be a discussion about my next round of immunotherapy.

Still, I held onto one bright spot: The word “partial” showed up a zillion times, and I knew enough to recognize that meant all instances of cancer throughout my body had been at least partially attacked and defeated. That alone was a win—far better than seeing signs of new growth.

Then, I sat down with my melanoma specialists—and it turns out, I was wrong. 🙂

When my doctor showed us my scans side by side—the one from before treatment and the one from last week—the differences were undeniable. Before treatment, my lymph nodes, liver, and lungs lit up with active cancer cells, sparking around my organs like toxic fireworks. Now? Well, there is actually no evidence of cancer in my lymph nodes. And everywhere else—there are just these still, dull dots.

My doctor explained that while it’s impossible to say for sure without surgery (and I have no interest in an investigatory operation), what they’ve learned over the years is that scans like mine—with just these dull, still dots—technically show “evidence” of something, but that evidence suggests inactive, “dead” cancer cells. Like scar tissue. Or battle wounds. (My words, not the doctor’s.)

When scans look like mine do today, there’s no data suggesting that more treatment—like immunotherapy—would prevent cancer from returning. The best course of action now? Monitoring. Brain MRIs every two months. PET scans every three months. If anything changes, I’ll restart treatment.

This is, by far, the most grateful I have ever been for a break.

Thank you to everyone who has prayed, sent well wishes, lit candles, and kept my best and highest self in your thoughts. I am deeply grateful for all of us.

I celebrated my good news at my boyfriend’s restaurant, Pastoral, on Valentine’s Day, with my son, Briggs (left) and nephew Nico (right).