---

Thursday, May 29th: When the Doctors Ride In

The news I feel right about sharing publicly: Mom had her breathing tube removed and “woke up” on Tuesday, 5/27. I’m a little jealous of everyone who was there to see her spirit come back to life—by then, the girls and I had already headed home to take care of some business in Iowa. Mom has been battling headaches and sleepless nights, but today she seems less restless and has even complained less about her headache. Her kidney function is stable, and dialysis has been stopped. Just ten days ago, Mom was hiking in Tennessee, healthy and strong, with no signs of trouble. Now she’s been diagnosed with Stage 4 Non-Small Cell Carcinoma—an overwhelming truth to wrap our heads around. Yesterday, she caught some fresh, 70-degree Colorado air. My sweet cousin Alexa took some special photos that we know Mom would lose it if we shared publicly, so let me paint the picture: Her hair was freshly braided, silver strands glinting in the sun. She wore a hospital gown that matched her blue eyes. Behind her, a Colorado blue spruce towered over blooms of red roses, peonies, irises, and lantana. She gave us her first real smile in over a week—one that broke our hearts and healed them in the same breath. And Dad? Instead of smiling at the camera, his eyes were locked on her. [[[Pause to catch your breath here.]]]

Today is a big day for Christy/Chris/Christina/Mom/Grammy.

As my Aunt texted me this morning, “Today is a big day for her and we all need to stop and say a prayer that all of this goes off without a hitch for your mom today.” She’s had one lung procedure, is going through a heart procedure now, and a lymph node biopsy tonight. Patience will be a virtue as we wait for up to a week for the results. Cowboy Trace/Tracy/Dad/Papa/Larry finds comfort in the prayers, kind words, and shared memories. At midnight last night, as we cried, laughed, and maybe lost our tempers together, I found out he was starching his own Wranglers in his hotel room. [I bunked with him for days, and that never even crossed my mind. I can’t believe he didn’t rope me in to help with that!]Right now, I feel pulled in every direction: wanting to be with Mom when her eyes open, wanting to be the best mom I can be to my girls as they dive into their summer activities, wanting to be at the ranch tending to Dad’s horses, Mom’s flowers, and—yes—those stubborn weeds that keep trying to take over. And in the quiet moments, I’m trying to find a little focus for Broker Leather—getting back in the saddle to keep this shop and spirit alive. So many people have offered to help, and here’s what I’d say: The best way to help is to keep sending prayers and kind words, to share your own stories of how Mom has touched your lives, and to support the Venmo account if you’re called to do so. Those words and photos? They’re the gentle encouragement Dad needs to keep his hat pulled down and his eyes on the trail ahead. It’s wild how fast life can spin away from your hand and cause such a wreck.  I repeat, just ten days ago, Mom was hiking in Tennessee, healthy and strong, with no signs of trouble. There was no time to brace for impact; we’ve been thrown straight into the dirt.  Still, she’s left such an impression on her care team that even doctors and nurses not assigned to her stop by to check in. And even though she’s never wanted the attention, she’s being treated like a queen. When the girls and I were at UCHealth, it felt like our family stampeded into the ICU. The staff welcomed us like old friends, even as we took over their conference room and turned the waiting room into our own corral. They supported us while I felt like a pack of rowdy coyotes making a racket. We’ll never forget the way they've taken us in and kept us steady on the roughest ride of our lives.

---

✙  We’re thankful for every prayer, every kind word, and every memory shared. Mom’s cowgirl spirit shines through it all—steady, gentle, and as strong as the Colorado sky above her. ✙

~Brianne, Nick, & Tracy 

---

Sunday, June 1st: Riding the Healing Trail

 

Today, we’re feeling a bit restless. There’s a lot of paperwork that needs to be wrangled—some for Dad’s work, some for hotel room arrangements, and plenty of hospital forms that will need to be addressed on Monday. It’s a lot to rope in, but we’re saddling up and taking it one day at a time. 

The Chute Gates Will Open Soon!!!

Mom is technically off ICU status, but they’re waiting for a bed to open up on the general patient floor. The floor has been very busy today, so we’re keeping our fingers crossed that she’ll be moved soon. We’re looking forward to this new trail—some calmer country for her to rest and rebuild.

Dr. Sun from the Oncology Team was in this morning and shared some hopeful news. Mom’s central line will probably come out today—one more notch on the belt of her healing journey. Her heart seems to be recovering, and the heart drain is scheduled to come out on the 3rd. They’ve also ordered an ultrasound because her right leg is swelling more than the left, so we’re hoping for some answers soon.

We’re also expecting biopsy results sometime between Tuesday and Thursday. In the meantime, we’re hoping she gets another spa day this afternoon [hair wash included!] and a chance to soak up some Colorado air in the courtyard again. Nothing like a little sunshine and mountain air to lift the spirits.

On a lighter note, Mom’s nephew, Luke, treated us to our first DoorDash experience today, and Mom found a smoothie she really likes. It’s the small comforts—like a cool drink on a dusty trail—that will help her keep going strong.

Mom also thought my chickpea salad for lunch sounded good, so I bought her some from the cafeteria. She had a few bites, which felt like a little victory, even though she still has her feeding tube.

Thank you for all the love and prayers. We’ll keep you posted as we learn more. 🤠❤️

 

---

Friday, June 6, 2025: Hangin' Her Hat on Hope

It feels like a lot has happened since Sunday, even though the days blur together for those of us back in the rhythm of daily life. For my mom and dad—who’ve now spent 15 long days tucked away in a hospital room at UCHealth in Denver—the passage of time looks very different. Still, the small wins keep stacking up, and we’re grateful for every single one.

Mom is now hangin’ her hat in a room on the Oncology floor. This week brought a few long-awaited milestones: her dialysis sessions have ended, the heart drain and catheters were removed, and her painful headaches have finally subsided. She’s been catching up on lost sleep and taking well-earned naps throughout the day.

We had hoped for biopsy results by now but are still waiting. In the meantime, she's been able to enjoy a real shower instead of the "cowboy shower" known by those roughriders on the rodeo road, meaning a handful of wet wipes and some cologne.  Mom has been FaceTiming with loved ones on a steady schedule, lifting everyone’s spirits in the process.

Several more tests were done this week, including a spinal MRI and a leg ultrasound—all of which came back with good results. Dad is working hard to help Mom regain her strength, encouraging her to eat what she can and doing gentle hand and arm exercises with her. Last night, she proudly told us she’s “getting good at using the walker”—though we all know her optimistic spirit might be exaggerating just a bit.

Right now, the only thing she’s still connected to is a nasal feeding tube. We’re all hoping she can avoid a surgically placed one and that her appetite kicks in soon.

In thinking long-term, Mom has made the decision to pursue a transfer to Mayo Clinic in Rochester to be closer to family while she continues her fight against Stage 4 non-small cell carcinoma. We hope to receive her biopsy results today so she and the medical team can determine the next steps.

Thank you for continuing to check in, pray, and ride this trail with us. We’ll keep hanging our hats on hope. 💛

---

 Friday, June 13, 2025: Hung Up In The Arena

I can’t believe a full week has gone by since I’ve provided an update to y’all. So much has happened, and yet, so much still feels like we’re stuck in the same hard go round.

Your continued prayers and messages mean the world to us. Truly.

If you’re family or an old friend, you might remember—it was my original dream to be a bullfighter. Not the cowboy riding the bull, but the one who jumps in when things go south—the one who runs toward the chaos to protect the rider who’s hung up and getting thrashed by 2,000 pounds of fury.

Now, standing here as a daughter, I feel helpless. I’m watching my mom caught in that fight—hung up and getting whipped around by a battle she didn’t choose. It feels like we’re the crowd at a rodeo, witnessing someone we love so deeply take hit after hit while Dad and her care team are doing everything they can to get her back to safety.

We’re holding tight to hope, to each other, and to the kind of strength that only love can offer.  Thank you for sticking with us on this long, uncertain ride. 💛

---

Today marks three weeks and two days of Mom being an inpatient at UCHealth in Denver.

She’s been doing what feels like a tough two-step—two steps forward, one step back. Up until recently, her progress had been slow but steady. We had even started hoping she might be strong enough to move to the rehabilitation floor to begin more rigorous therapy, with the goal of eventually getting her back home to the Midwest.

But last night brought a scary setback.

Mom had a severe coughing fit that left her struggling to breathe. A large team of doctors and nurses jumped into action, and thankfully, they were able to stabilize her. There was talk of moving her back to the ICU, but as of this morning, that has not happened. Additional testing revealed her pneumonia has returned, and she now has fluid building up around her lungs again.

We are still waiting on the results of her biopsy, but even without those answers, one thing remains clear—Mom is still too fragile to begin any treatment for her cancer diagnosis.

To add another layer to the challenge, Mom is now being tested for COVID-19. Until those results come back, she’s confined to her room, and unable to go on any of the short, healing trips outside that had become a rare but meaningful comfort.

We know many of you have been praying and hoping with us for that turning point—where we could get her to rehab, build her strength, and bring her closer to home. But for now, that goal is on pause as we ride out this next bull in the arena.

---

We also want to take a moment to thank everyone who has sent old-fashioned cards and letters, as well as monetary donations. There’s a growing pile of cards sitting on my desk—each one a little envelope of comfort just waiting for the right moment. Dad hasn’t ignored them; in fact, I haven’t even given him the opportunity to open them yet. We’re saving them for my next trip West, when I know they’ll bring the kind of peace and strength only a handwritten note can offer.

Until then, please accept our heartfelt “thank you” here. Your love is felt, even in the quiet spaces between the chaos.

---

Friday, June 20, 2025: Backed in the Box.

We had another conference call with Mom’s palliative care team a couple of days ago—though I’ll admit, I’ve completely lost track of time.

Time now feels more like the inside of a bulldogging run—a blur of movement and grit. Funny enough, that was always Mom’s favorite rodeo event.  In this arena, Dad is her hazer—riding right beside her, doing everything he can to keep her lined up for the best possible shot at relief.

But still, I forget what day it is. Meanwhile, I know the hours drag on in that hospital room like a roping box—confined, tense, and waiting.

My heart cracked open like the barrier when a member of her care team asked mom how she was doing and her first word was, “lonely.”

She’s no longer technically an ICU inpatient and has been weaned off high-flow oxygen—now getting by with regular oxygen support. She’s on day six of Lasix, as the cancer continues to cause fluid buildup around her lungs, making every breath more difficult than it should be.  For now, the plan for extensive rehab has been put back in the backup pen. 

But on Wednesday, we nodded our heads and leaned into the next go-round. Mom started a prescription treatment aimed at slowing or stopping the growth of her cancer cells. The doctors told us there’s a 76% efficacy rate, and if she falls into that lucky percentage, we could start to see improvement within one to three weeks.

That’s the kind of timer we’re watching now—not calendars, but chances.

This is her only treatment option at this point.

The medication is already showing signs of affecting her cognitive function—something we were warned might happen. We’re praying those symptoms even out and that the treatment buys her more time in the saddle.

The ride continues to change, day by day. Some moments feel like progress, others like we’re just trying to stay on our feet.

But we’re still here—roped in together by faith, love, and the unshakable Cowgirl Spirit that Mom has carried through every arena of life.

Please keep the prayers coming.  Especially in the moments where she’s stuck in that roping box, waiting to nod—your words remind her she’s not in there alone.

Thank you for being part of our herd. 🤍

---

A Bright Spot in the Arena

In the middle of all this heaviness, our family had a moment of light worth celebrating. My niece Dallas—Mom’s first grandbaby—had an outstanding weekend at the Big 4 Fair.

She brought home Reserve Champion Angus Female, was the Middle Weight Class Winner with her steer, earned Reserve Champion Junior Showman, and took home Junior Champion Photography Entry.

We are so proud of her hard work, dedication, and her faith at such a young age. I know Mom would’ve been grinning from ear to ear if she’d been there ringside—probably tearing up behind her sunglasses and bragging to anyone who’d listen.

And a special shoutout to my brother Nick for being the kind of dad—and show dad—that any girl would be lucky to have. You’re doing a dang good job.

---

Monday, June 30, 2025: Forty Days & Still Fighting

Forty days.

That’s how long Mom has officially been in the hospital—and she’s moved rooms and floors more times than I can count. Each move has brought new nurses, new hopes, and new setbacks—a ride rougher than any eight seconds I’ve ever seen. One step forward, two steps back, and a couple ICU detours in between. But now, the talk has shifted from just staying stable… to coming home.

Her doctors are currently trying to figure out how she and Dad can manage her oxygen and feeding tubes from home. Yes, you read that right—home. The plan has changed since my last post. Although the Montana ranch has officially been listed for sale, Mom wants to return to the home she’s built there before whatever comes next. There’s no timeline yet—just a strong dose of determination from both her and Dad to bust outta those hospital walls.

And wouldn’t you know it? She’s working harder than ever to make that happen. This week, she’s been walking the hospital hallways without a walker—slow and steady, building her strength one determined step at a time. Not bad for a gal who spent weeks tethered to the wall.

If you’ve been following along, you may remember my last update noted,

“The medication is already showing signs of affecting her cognitive function—something we were warned might happen. We’re praying those symptoms even out and that the treatment buys her more time in the saddle.”

Well, praise God and pass the sweet tea—those side effects have thankfully gone away.

Truth is?
There was a stretch where I didn’t think we’d get to this point. I’ll be the first to admit—I’ve been the pessimist in the herd more often than not. It felt safer to brace for the worst than to hope too hard. But here we are—talking about discharge instead of decline. Miracles come in all shapes and timelines, and my mom? She’s proving to be one tough ticket to punch.

I’m working on changing my attitude—trying to trade in some of that doubt for faith, even when it’s hard. She’s earning every bit of optimism we’ve got, and I don’t want to miss the beauty in that because I was too busy waiting for the bottom to fall out.

Please keep watching your mailboxes. During this last trip to Denver last week, we spent time pouring over your donations and words of encouragement and handwriting thank-you notes to send back your way. We felt your support in every message, every prayer, and every gesture. And I’ll be honest—I never thought we’d be sitting down to write thank-you cards from this side of the storm.

Your love helped carry us through. Truly.

Keep those prayers coming, friends. We’re not quite out of the woods yet, but if anyone’s proven she’s got the grit to blaze her own trail out—it's my mama.

---

Wednesday, July 16, 2025: Home on the Range

She made it.

On July 1st, after 40 long days in the hospital and more setbacks than we could count, Mom did what we honestly weren’t sure was possible—she made it home.

She’s been back on the ranch in Montana for two weeks now. While the road ahead is still rough in places, there’s something deeply healing about being in familiar surroundings—her own porch [complete with her diy clothesline], her own things, and the peace of wide-open space outside her window.

Even though the ranch is officially for sale, it still holds decades of memories and comfort, and for now, it's where she gets to rest, recover, and breathe a little easier.

With Dad back to work, Mom has been managing the days at home mostly solo—no small feat. She’s had daily visits from nurses, CNAs, and both speech and occupational therapists, along with a steady stream of loyal friends checking in. She’s eating real food again, though her G-tube is still in use. She’s doing a few light chores, working on a routine, and slowly building up the strength to tackle things like walking up stairs [with help!] and completing her therapy exercises.

Even with her boots back on the porch, this trail’s still got its rough patches. She’s had a couple of trips to the ER, and is now wearing a compression sock due to a blood clot. These crow hops are frustrating—but not surprising when you remember everything her body has been through.

She’s still unsteady on her feet, but she now walks with her favorite new accessory: a flashy red walker that fits her cowgirl spirit perfectly. Back in Denver, she had the girls on a mission to track down the cherry red walker that all the patients shared like gold. Well, now she’s got one of her own—and we all agree it suits her just fine.

Another sign of progress: she’s been able to reduce her oxygen at times, which is a huge blessing. Every breath is still work, but it’s getting just a little easier.

And now, something that deserves a huge shoutout:
My parents’ friends and coworkers out West have organized the most incredible fundraiser to help cover some of Mom’s piling medical bills. They’re hosting a large raffle with amazing prizes, and we’re so moved by the kindness, thoughtfulness, and hard work that’s gone into it.

This chapter is slower, quieter, and still uncertain—but she’s home, and that alone is a miracle we don’t take for granted.

Please continue to keep Mom—and Dad—in your prayers as we navigate these new challenges. Here’s one we’re saying often:

Dear Lord, thank You for bringing Mom this far. We ask for continued healing, restored strength, peaceful days, and the comfort of knowing You are walking with her through every step on this long trail. Give Dad patience and energy, and bless their home with moments of joy, even in the quiet. Amen.

And as we focus on Mom’s strength this week, we also want to wish all the best of luck to everyone at the Allamakee County Fair! We know mom will be cheering you on from afar—and probably asking for a full play-by-play, ribbons and all. 💛

With dusty hands and a hopeful heart,
✙ Brianne