The song that started it all for me.

I’ve known the word cancer since I was a kid. Friends fought it — some won, some didn’t. As a nurse, I’ve stood by countless bedsides, holding hands, whispering reassurance, doing everything I could to bring peace into the room. But it’s different when the chart says your name. When you’re no longer walking into the room — you are the room.

I remember the moment it shifted. My surgeon called me directly after a CT, which doctors don’t usually do. She asked how I was feeling. I said, “Pretty good… why?” And then she told me they’d found a tumor that looked almost certainly like cancer, and my labs lined up with it. Six months before, I’d had a severe blockage — no signs of cancer then. But now? Everything had changed.

I trusted her instantly. Our connection started long before this moment, and I believe with my whole heart that God orchestrated that. When she called, when she sat with me, when she suggested I consider retirement alongside discussing surgery — I understood what she was really saying. Pancreatic cancer is no joke. And I also knew, in my bones, that God had placed the right surgeon in my life at exactly the right time. I didn’t ask “Why me?” I asked, “Why not me? And if it is me… how can I walk through this in a way that honors those who walked before me, and those who are walking it now?” The Fight Begins We thought it was stage 1. After the Whipple surgery — a ten-hour procedure — we learned it was stage 3. The tumor had already climbed into my lymph nodes. Chemo was brutal. I was scheduled for eight sessions and only made it through seven. The first treatment fooled me — I got through it with only some discomfort. But after the second, something went terribly wrong. My daughter took me to the cancer center because I didn’t feel right, and as soon as I walked in the door, I blacked out. I woke up seven or eight hours later in the ER, IVs in both arms, tests already done, people talking to me, and no memory at all of anything I had said or done. I was apparently answering questions — incorrectly — but talking the whole time. That terrified me more than anything: that my body could be awake while I wasn’t there. My daughter was only twenty-five. This was one of the hardest things she had ever lived through. From that moment on, someone stayed with me around the clock — my daughter, my siblings, my sister-in-law, my mom. Friends stepped in. Church people stepped in. Coworkers sent care baskets. My airport team sent gifts. I didn’t know how much I needed support until it arrived. The Physical Toll Chemo wrecked my body. The numbness. The weakness. The nausea. The diarrhea — constant, uncontrollable — was like an F5 tornado tearing through me. I slept on the couch near the bathroom. I used CHUX pads — the disposable absorbent hospital pads — laying them down, throwing them out, laying another down, trying to keep some dignity in the chaos. My weight dropped from 140 to 103 pounds.

Some nights I cried in the shower just thinking, This is my life now? I can’t even control my own body. But then the other voice — the one God put in me — answered: “You’re still here. You have a warm shower. You have clean sheets. You have people who love you. Be grateful in the middle of what breaks you.” And that became my anchor. The Identity Part — Losing My Hair. Hair is part of our identity — more than we admit. Mine thinned gradually. Clumps in the brush. Lighter and lighter. I tried hats, side parts, anything.

The Cancer Center had a wig voucher program. That was a gift. I tried on blondes (definitely not me), reds, short cuts, curls. Eventually, I chose one closest to my own natural color — long, with bangs, a little 80s flair. It felt like home.

Jason joked, “Order whatever you want,” so I did — Amazon wigs of every color. Red, brunette, blonde, curly, straight. For $20 apiece, they made me laugh. And sometimes laughter is medicine.

Once, at dinner with the family I used to help care for, the teenage boy having a meltdown pulled my wig straight off and froze like he’d unplugged the moon. I just laughed, said, “Thanks for my hair,” and popped it back on.

You learn to take yourself a lot less seriously when you’ve lost everything except humor.

The day at church when I saw Susan — our pastor’s wife — with her thick hair after her own cancer battle… that hit me like a wave. I had to step into the bathroom and cry. Not from sadness — but from hope. A reminder: It will grow back. This is not the end. Showing up matters. Sometimes your presence preaches a sermon without saying a word.

The Support That Carried Me

My kids were incredible — every one of them. They checked in constantly. My daughter from Indiana surprised me for Christmas, cooked meals, helped around the house. Katie moved in and stayed until she knew I was safe enough to be on my own again. My siblings rallied — emotionally, physically, financially. Friends showed up without being asked. Vicki, my best friend, drove me to appointments, sat with me, even gave me a shower when I was too weak. That level of friendship is rare and holy. My church prayed for me. My coworkers sent gifts. And I had Jason.

Jason’s Part in My Story

Jason stepped into my story with a kind of love that didn’t try to fix cancer. He simply made me feel normal. From our very first dinner, there was a calmness with him I had never felt with a man before. It surprised both of us. In the middle of chemo, bald caps, nausea, and sleepless nights — he reminded me that I was still me, not just a diagnosis. He was walking through his own struggles, and somehow we steadied each other. I will always cherish his friendship — respectful, kind, steady. The first thing he ever told me was, “I like you as a person.” That mattered more than he knows.

The Spiritual Thread

My faith was never loud or dramatic — but it was constant. In the radiation room, lying flat while the machine circled, I would pray for every person I’d seen in the waiting room. The elderly man sitting alone. The young woman holding back tears. The mother with her teenage daughter. The stranger in the mask who looked exhausted. One hospital, one day — and dozens of people fighting the same invisible war. Multiply that by every city, every state, every country. I prayed because it was all I had to give. And praying connected me to others when my body couldn’t. I never asked God “Why me?” I asked, “Since it is me, please let something in this journey shine Your love into someone else’s life.” Maybe my surgeon needed hope. Maybe a nurse needed a reminder she makes a difference. Maybe someone in the waiting room needed to see another survivor. I’ll never know the ripple effect — but I believe there was one.

The Guilt and the Grace

One of the hardest parts wasn’t surviving. It was knowing others didn’t. A friend my age was diagnosed a month after me. Same age. Same hope. Same determination. She passed away within months.I struggled with survivor’s guilt. I still do. But guilt doesn’t honor the people who didn’t get more time. Living with gratitude does.

The Music That Became My Offering

During treatment, I didn’t watch much TV. I read. I listened. I prayed. And later — I wrote. I didn’t think I could ever capture the depth of this experience in a song. Too much pain, too many layers. But when the song When It’s Your Name on the Chart came together, I felt something shift. It didn’t have to say everything — it just needed to say what mattered. If it reaches even one person who feels alone in their diagnosis… then it’s worth every moment it took to write.

Where I Am Now

Three years later, my body is different. My hands and feet will always be numb. My bowels will never be the same. My life is built around new rhythms. But I am here. And I choose gratitude — every morning, every night, every inconvenience in between. Cancer didn’t make me special. It didn’t make me wise. It didn’t give me answers about life or death. But it did sharpen my understanding of what matters:

Love.

Presence.

Faith.

Community.

Music.

And the quiet courage to keep showing up.

If you’re reading this — whether you have cancer, love someone who does, or are holding a friend through the fog — please know this: You are not walking alone.

And you don’t have to pretend to be fearless to be brave. You are allowed to feel broken and blessed in the same breath. You are allowed to laugh and cry in the same hour. You are allowed to ask questions without answers. And you are allowed to live — really live — even in the middle of the fight.

This is my story.

And if it helps you feel seen, understood, or less alone…then it was meant to be shared.

My Grace in Motion,

Donna

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This song was written as a companion to this letter — a way of holding the moments that words alone can’t always carry. When It’s Your Name on the Chart reflects the experience of standing on both sides of the care — being the one receiving the news, and the one learning how to keep going afterward. It doesn’t offer conclusions or answers. It simply gives space to breathe in the middle of uncertainty, fear, faith, and resilience. If this story echoes something you’ve lived — or something you’re living now — let the music remind you that you are not alone in it, and that grace meets us even when the path forward is unclear.

This song is available on all major music platforms, including Spotify, Apple Music, and Pandora.