Another Clean MRI: Gratitude and the Weight of Survival

It has been under a month since my last blog post, and in that time, life has been a whirlwind of emotions, change, and the ever-present balancing act of living with Glioblastoma. I am long overdue for an update, so here it is: I had another clean MRI.

Grateful does not even begin to cover it. Every clean MRI is a victory, a breath of relief, and a moment to celebrate. But if I am being honest, it is also a mixed bag. For those of us in the cancer world, clean MRIs are never just a sigh of relief. They are also a reminder that we are always waiting for the other shoe to drop. It is like standing on the edge of a cliff—grateful for the ground beneath your feet but never quite able to ignore the drop just beyond it. That is the paradox of a clean MRI: it brings hope and fear in equal measure.

Embracing Time, Fighting Fear

I want to learn to embrace the time I have been given, to find joy in these moments instead of living in fear of what comes next. But it is hard. I know so many of you reading this understand that feeling all too well. We smile, we celebrate, and then, when no one is looking, we wonder: For how long? Every clean MRI gives us a pause from panic, but it never silences the internal monologue of doubt. Still, I try to be present, try to be thankful. Because every clean MRI is another day to live and love.

Living in this state of gratitude and worry is exhausting. You start to build routines around uncertainty. Even the mundane things, like what to eat or how long to plan ahead, feel loaded. There are days where planning next week’s grocery list feels overly ambitious. But every clean MRI reminds me to keep trying, to keep building a life even if the blueprint keeps changing.

In the midst of all this, I have felt like I have neglected my blog. Life has been happening, and between scans, daily routines, and just trying to get through each day, I have not had the energy to sit down and write. A lot has happened since my last post. We lost Peanut—not too long ago, I wrote about how sick he was, and eventually, we had to say goodbye. It was devastating, and if I am being honest, I still have not fully processed it. Losing a pet is losing a piece of your heart, and Peanut had been such a big part of our lives.

Opening a New Chapter

Not long after, we welcomed another dog into our home. I struggled with it at first, feeling like I was replacing one for another. Guilt has a funny way of sneaking into even the happiest moments. But I know Peanut would want me to open my heart again, and this little guy—he has completely stolen it. He is not a replacement. He is his own being, with his own quirks, and he has brought so much comfort into our home. Love does not replace love—it just expands.

I talk a lot about living with intention, and this is part of that. Every time I look at our new pup curled up beside me, I feel two things at once: sorrow and peace. It is okay to feel both. That is what a clean MRI gives me—a little more time to feel both. To live in the messy, beautiful now.

So, here I am, trying to navigate this life of unexpected turns, trying to be present, trying to appreciate the good without letting the fear of the bad take over. Another clean MRI, another month, another reminder that I am still here. And that means something. That means everything. Every clean MRI is a silent triumph, a moment that whispers, "Keep going. You have more to do."

Some days, I wonder what “more” means. Maybe it means writing another blog post. Maybe it means hugging my husband longer. Maybe it means trying a new recipe, walking the dog, or just breathing deeply. That’s the gift of a clean MRI. It gives space to ask those questions and try things again.

Lessons from the Waiting Room

For anyone who has waited for scan results, you know that it is a time warp. Minutes stretch endlessly, and your mind races through every possible outcome. When the words “clean MRI” finally come, it is like being pulled back into the world with force. You are alive, yes—but also aware of the line you are constantly walking. It changes you. It makes you want to hold tighter, love harder, and complain a little less. And when the scan is not clean, well, that is a different story for a different day. But for now, I am in the afterglow of good news, and I want to stay here as long as I can.

If you are reading this and you, too, are living with the weight of uncertainty—whether it is from cancer, grief, or just the struggles of life—I see you. I understand. And together, we will keep moving forward, one day, one step, and one deep breath at a time.

Every clean MRI is a reason to hope. But more than that, it is a reason to live.

Resources & Links

Johns Hopkins: Understanding Glioblastoma

Support My Fight Through the JohnVsGBM Store

American Cancer Society – Types of Brain Tumors

Disclaimer: This article is based on personal experience and should not be taken as medical advice. Always consult a licensed healthcare provider for diagnosis and treatment guidance.