MINES - The Real MVP

Breaking the Silence… Again

Once again, radio silence has been broken. The medical updates are on pause for now, but I know so many of you want to know what happened with Jake. So, I’m releasing this blog into the wild.

Please enjoy this update, soak it in, and wait before asking me about the rest. Give me a moment to breathe, and I promise—by the end of the weekend, I’ll catch everyone up on the medical, surgery, and chemo. For those of you who struggle with the concept of time (you know who you are), that means please hold all questions until Sunday, February 2, at 11:45 PM.

If you reach out before then… well, let’s just say, I might pretend I didn’t see it. More likely, I’ll just send you the direct link to this blog again—maybe even in all caps with excessive exclamation points. Enjoy! Consider this your friendly but firm “Don’t Make Me Auto-Reply You” notice. (But you are always welcome to text me your answer to the BIG question or send me a song, That way I know you truly hear me.)

Now, Onto Jake…

Fair warning: This is basically a full diary entry from Tuesday to Thursday. If you’re just here for the Cliff Notes, skip to the bottom. But if you want all the details of my trip to Colorado to see Jake—buckle up, grab a snack, and enjoy the ride.

Mission: Get Jake Set Up and My Sanity (Mostly) Intact

Since I don’t sleep, why not fire off some emails at 2 AM on Tuesday? I reached out to MCC (Mines Counseling Center), DSS (Disability Student Services), and my personal favorite, SOS (Student Outreach and Support). By morning, they had all responded, set up calls for that evening, and arranged meetings for me when I arrived. Wow, Mines, you’ve got this. I’m not the first parent they’ve helped through this, and unfortunately, I won’t be the last.

Wednesday: Colorado, Here I Come

To my Wednesday crew—sorry, I bailed on all of you. I hopped on an early flight to Colorado because I needed to get my head on straight and, honestly, just needed to know Jake was taken care of

Krysti: The 5 AM Hero & Snowstorm Navigator

A 5 a.m. pickup. Krysti, you are literally an angel. Who even does that? Not only did she get up before the sun, but she also willingly drove me to the airport before the roads were plowed. Thank God she’s from Maine because Massholes apparently forget how to drive at the sight of two inches of snow. It was a full-blown defensive driving situation, and at that hour, I half expected her to roll up with her granny panties on the outside of her joggers, full superhero mode, ready to whisk me away.

Jake’s Built-In Life Support: Operation “Not Jake’s Problem”

This trip isn’t just about seeing Jake—it’s about Jake seeing me. Healthy, strong, with hair, looking like me. Because tonight, I’m telling him what’s coming. That I have breast cancer. That I’ll be starting chemo. That things are about to change.

And while I don’t know exactly how this will affect him, especially from so far away, I do know one thing: I don’t want it to shake his stability. Jake loves Colorado. He’s thriving here. At no point during my treatment do I want him worrying about whether he has the right support to keep moving forward. So before I say a word to him, I made sure that everything he could possibly need is already in place. A plan is a plan, and this one? Beautiful. So let’s break it down:

The Plan (Because You Know I Love a Good Plan)

1. Counseling Center: Met with the amazing people at the Mines Counseling Center. Seriously can I take them back with me? The compassion, consideration and care is overwhelming. “We’ve got this.” (Meaning Jake is going to be ok). Jake can meet with them every other week, short-term, covering this semester and if needed into next. If he needs more frequent sessions, they’ll make it happen. Their setup is better than off-campus therapy, but I am slightly worried he’ll love it too much and want a permanent therapist—sorry, kid, not how this works. Gotta keep things open for the next crisis.
2. DSS (Disability Support Services): Jake is already enrolled, but now they’re ready to expand his accommodations as needed to make sure his academics don’t take a hit. Basically, they’re on standby for whatever extra support he might need through this.
3. SOS (a.k.a. My New Favorite Department): Enter Josh, Associate Director and newly appointed Executive Chaos Coordinator. (Not his real title, but it should be.) At 8:30 PM EST Operation “Not Jake’s Problem” officially launches.

Going forward, Josh is one text away from Jake. He’s the glue holding all of this together—liaising between MCC, DSS, his professors, and Jake’s RA—coordinating everything so Jake doesn’t have to navigate it all alone.

At 8:30 PM, Jake will get a text from his newly assigned life wrangler, the guy responsible for fielding whatever college-life curveballs Jake throws his way. He’s Jake’s academic, emotional, and possible physical spotter—just in case he drops something heavy, literally or metaphorically. Because, let’s be real, he is my kid.

The last thing I want is for my diagnosis to derail his life. He’s built something great here, and if I can’t be right next to him making sure he’s okay, at least I know that I’ve put the right people in place to do it for me.

Honestly, I wish Jake had this level of structured support all the time. Wait, scratch that—I wish I had this level of structured support all the time. Where’s the SOS for adults? I need someone to step in when I lose my phone, forget why I walked into a room, or attempt to schedule a second doctor’s appointment for the same time slot. Where’s that program, Mines?

The Calm Before the Conversation

Jake and I had a nice dinner, and right at 6:30 PM MST, Josh followed through—an email was sent, but it wasn’t the email that caught Jake’s attention. It came in as a text first, and he immediately looked at it. I asked him to put it away for now, finish dinner, enjoy dessert, and I promised we’d talk after. And that’s exactly what we did.

So, how did I tell Jake what was going on? I couldn’t figure out the perfect way—because, really, is there one? All I could do was take everything I’ve laid out above, put it into a letter, pour my heart and soul into it, and let him know.

You all know the plan, and now Jake does too.

I’ve summarized the main points here, but the deeper parts of that conversation—the raw, personal moments—those are just between me and him.

The weight of it hit him before I even said the words. His mind moved fast—faster than I expected, but not faster than I should have known. He pieced it together before I had the chance to explain. The disbelief, the sadness, the anger—it all flashed across his face, and I felt it in my own chest like an echo.

Because this is grief. Not the kind that comes after loss, but the kind that slams into you when you realize the world isn’t as safe as you thought. That your mother—the constant, the foundation—can get sick. That life doesn’t always work the way it should. He’s so far from home, living his own life, doing everything he’s supposed to, and now this? Now he has to carry this too?

He asked, How could you get breast cancer again? But what he really meant was, *How did they miss it?*He knew. He figured it out instantly. And yes, he’s angry. Of course, he is. Because this isn’t fair. Because someone should have caught it. Because none of this should be happening.  But that’s not where we’re putting our energy right now. The plan remains the same: forward.

He’s sad. He’s searching for answers. But he also needed to know the plan. And there is one, and now he’s on board. He’s finding comfort in his people, in his space, in knowing that no matter how far he is, I’ve got him, and he’s got me.

He’s already thinking ahead, trying to research on his own (cue my deep sigh of motherly disapproval—until I looked it up and, apparently, this is normal). He needs a plan, and as it turns out, I should have known that. Because as much as I rely on a plan to stay grounded, so does he. Scratch that. He needs it . Not just to stay on track, but to keep from spiraling. And just like that, he’s already reached out to Josh and the counseling center.

Thursday is for me and Jake. That’s it. No updates, no questions, no interruptions. Just us. If the world ends, someone else can handle it—preferably on Friday.

We’ve got this. He’s got his support system in place. This chapter is done, and Jake’s got us, Mines has him and we’ve got all of you.

End of story. Well… until I have another reason to rant, which shouldn’t take long.

To My True Blue, Ride-or-Die Crew (AKA My Favorite Pair of Panties):

Life’s been a little granny panties on the outside of joggers lately—functional, ridiculous, and somehow still getting the job done. But let’s talk about you, my people. If our friendship were a pair of underwear, what kind would it be?

1. The favorite pair—go-to, comfortable, and absolutely necessary for survival.
2. The holy ones—well-loved, been through it all, possibly falling apart but still hanging in there.
3. The naughty ones—probably causing trouble, definitely making life more interesting.
4. The cheap ones—not in quality, but in attitude. You keep it real, and I respect that.
5. The ones that actually cover my butt when I need them to—the true ride-or-die, always there when it matters most.
6. The ones that crawl up your butt—always in my business, but in a way that somehow works.
7. The ones that don’t have the strength to hold me up—love you, but let’s be real, you’d probably pass out first in a crisis.
8. The ones that get a little twisted—things might get chaotic, but we make it work.
9. And of course, the granny panties —maybe not the flashiest choice (but they can always surprise you), but they’ve got full coverage, never ride up on you, and always hold you together when life sags a little.

Drop your answer in the comments or text to me (or just an emoji if you’re too stunned to process this). If I missed your pair, let us know. Love you all—you keep me covered in more ways than one!