The Timeline
Fear, Faith, and Flickers of Hope
How it All Began
“David, what in the world are these lumps?”
That’s how this journey began. I was the first to notice the two lumps in my husband’s groin (needless to say, any romance we had in mind was ruined).
David hadn’t even noticed them. Men.
My husband figured the lumps (fairly large, like marbles) were related to past hernia surgeries. So he booked into Toronto’s Shouldice Hospital for a consultation. The doc’s reaction: “You need to see your family doctor. This has nothing whatsoever to do with hernias.”
Naturally, cancer was the furthest thing from our minds.
And so it began.
That was two years ago, January 2024. By March, David was under the care of Dr. Silverman of North York General Hospital, receiving his first chemotherapy treatment for stage four Follicular Lymphoma. Was this scary for us? Absolutely. Yet, our oncologist assured us that even at stage four, the prognosis was surprisingly hopeful. The cancer was in several lymph nodes, but had not spread further.
David had a total of six treatments, one each month. By August, after our move from Toronto to Burlington, he was cleared to begin maintenance chemo. Starting in November 2024, he received these treatments every three months at North York General hospital.
From November 2024 to November 2025 David received five maintenance doses. And we thought all was well. The plan was simple: Fight this thing and get to that magical five-year mark where we could all exhale.
That is not how things worked out.
Late November 2025, after a maintenance dose, Dr. Silverman agreed to do routine scans to see how things were going. Two were scheduled: an MRI and a CT scan.
Results were available for the first test just before Christmas. Dr. Silverman telephoned my husband with the good news that things looked fine and he seemed to be doing well on this maintenance dose of chemo.
The results of the CT scan had not yet arrived.
A Christmas to Remember
Our family, Christmas 2025. Little Joanna is already not feeling great here.
It was Christmas Day and we had booked a lovely Airbnb with ample space for our family to enjoy being together for a whole week. With our gang, space is important: four young-adult daughters, one son-in-law, two precious and high energy grandchildren, various boyfriends, and one large dog. And us, Nana and Grandpa.
On the evening of Christmas day everyone had arrived. The house was full, loud and joyful. Lots of fun.
On December 26th David received a call from North York General. “David, Dr. Silverman would like to have a zoom meeting with you on Monday, December 29th to go over the results of your CT Scan.”
I invite you to imagine the scene.
There we were, all together, enjoying the warmth and love of the season, playing games, eating lots of yummy food. Celebrating the birth of Jesus. And then David receives this odd phone call on Boxing Day.
What would you have thought of this call, dear reader?
Me? I’m thinking “If the doctor simply telephoned David with the good news of the MRI, why in the world does he need to set up a zoom meeting for the scans…”
My stomach tightened. Something was up.
We decided not to say anything about this to our daughters. Why bring this to them now when they were all enjoying this special time together?
David and I waited four long days. Praying it was nothing serious. Fearing the worst.
December 29th will stay etched in my mind.
The morning was frigid and quiet, the sun hidden behind heavy clouds. While most of the gang were still sleeping, David and I headed into a nearby town to a Tim Horton’s coffee shop to zoom with the oncologist.
Dr. Silverman: “David, there are concerning spots on your liver. There are also a few smaller spots on your lungs. This is not related to your lymphoma. I’m actually not sure what this is. But it does not look good.”
David: “But you said the lymphoma is under control.”
“Yes, it is. This has nothing to do with that.”
April: “Wait, could this be more cancer?”
“Yes, it could be. I am so sorry. You need to have more testing. If this is cancer, it is likely from your colon.”
Quietly, my husband and I finished our Tim’s coffee, then headed back to be with our family.
But first we sat in our car, held hands, and cried. And prayed. But mostly we cried.
The next few days at the Airbnb were rough. We were carrying a great weight, while life carried on around us in full Christmas mode.
Blessings amidst suffering
At the same time, a common cold had begun making its rounds, started by little Joanna, our one year old granddaughter. My husband, being immunocompromised as a cancer patient, got the worst of it.
By late that Monday, my dear husband was very sick. I kept thinking, “This can’t be cancer moving this fast!” He spent most of the next few days in his room resting. It was very hard not to bring our girls into this. But, with little Jo’s cold, they assumed he caught her bug. Which was true, at least in part.
This was not the Christmas we had imagined.
We waited until after the Christmas week at the Airbnb to tell our daughters. Those were hard conversations. We are a very close family, and our girls love their dad so much. They understood this was serious.
On Monday January 5th, David was admitted into Joseph Brant hospital in Burlington with a fever and dangerously low white blood cell counts. He stayed there for a week while they stabilized him.
But this turned out to be a gift.
Because of the hospital stay, all his testing was expedited. No waiting around for six weeks for the scheduled biopsy. Everything moved quickly, including his colonoscopy.
Life Looks Different Now
By mid-January, our lives were profoundly changed by David’s diagnosis of stage four metastatic colon cancer.
Life really does look different now.
We can hear God speaking to us through this – speaking in ways we were previously too distracted by life to hear.
But we’re listening now.
Next week I’d like to further explore this idea of listening. When one is faced with life and death, I believe our sensitivity to God’s voice, and to our own spirit, is heightened.
To my subscribers, thank you for being here. For listening.
Thank you all for travelling this path with us. Your love and prayer support mean more than I can say.
April, thank you for sharing this journey. Yes, God often speaks when the world quiets amidst heartbreaking news (I'm a breast cancer survivor). Prays going up for you and your family.
Your journey breaks my heart right in two , but thank you for sharing so that we may pray for you both and your beautiful family, May Gods hand , strength and pure love stay with you always, Amen 🙏🏻