Survivors

Brenda S. didn’t expect anything unusual from her visit to her primary care physician. It was the kind of routine appointment she had done many times before. It was a standard check-in, familiar questions, nothing out of the ordinary. Brenda had lived with multiple sclerosis (MS) for years and understood what it meant to manage a chronic illness, but aside from that, she considered herself healthy. Lung cancer was not on her radar.

And yet, that appointment marked the beginning of an experience that would change her life.

“You better get another opinion.”

Brenda’s experience with lung cancer stands out because it didn’t follow the path so many others know too well.  

“A lot of times people are diagnosed at a pretty late stage,” she explained. “I was one of the lucky ones to get diagnosed early.”  

That early diagnosis, however, didn’t come easily or immediately, and it didn’t come without persistence.

During that initial visit, something caught her doctor’s attention. Tests followed, and eventually, her doctor discovered a nodule. Brenda was told that it was benign. On the surface, that should have been the end of the story. Relief is the word most people would expect to describe that moment.

But relief wasn’t the whole truth.

“I remember just saying, please, please don’t let it be cancer,” Brenda recalled. And when she heard the word benign, she wanted to believe it completely. Yet underneath the reassurance, there was a feeling she couldn’t shake. “Deep inside, it was nagging,” she said. “It was like… I don’t know, sister, you’d better get another opinion.”

Brenda tried to move forward. Life went on. But that quiet inner voice didn’t disappear.

A gut feeling and rare early diagnosis

Brenda and her partner, Alice.

Nearly a year later, she developed a cough. It might have been easy to dismiss. After all, coughs are common, especially when life is busy and family visits. But that timing turned out to matter. Among the relatives in town was a nurse, someone trained to notice what others might overlook. She pulled Brenda’s partner Alice aside and said plainly: “This needs to be checked.”

That moment was pivotal.

Brenda listened. She followed up. And this time, the outcome was different.

The cancer was found early, something Brenda doesn’t take lightly. Early detection gave her options, time, and the ability to approach treatment without the urgency and limitations that come with a late-stage diagnosis. She knows how rare that is in lung cancer, and she doesn’t call herself lucky casually.

Her story is a reminder that diagnosis is not always a single moment, but a series of decisions—some small, some difficult—that add up. It’s about trusting medical expertise, yes, but also trusting yourself. Brenda’s experience underscores how critical self-advocacy can be, especially when something doesn’t sit right, even if the initial answer seems reassuring.

Living fully

Beyond her diagnosis, Brenda is someone defined by far more than cancer. One of the joys woven throughout her life has always been singing. Whether performing when she was younger or sharing music in more personal settings, singing has long been part of who she is. Today, Brenda has found her way back to jazz singing, a return that feels especially meaningful. Being back in that space, reconnecting with music and performance, has brought her renewed joy and vitality. Singing is an expression of creativity, resilience, and presence, qualities that carried her through uncertainty and continue to ground her now.

Cancer has a way of narrowing focus, of making life feel smaller. Brenda’s story pushes back against that. It’s not just about what she faced, but about how she continues to live fully, with gratitude and purpose. Returning to jazz is not about going back to who she was before but embracing who she is now. She speaks openly, not because the moments leading to her diagnosis were easy, but because she hopes her experience might help someone else pause, ask another question, or seek a second opinion when something feels off.

She’s also quick to express appreciation for her doctors, for her family, and for the advocates and organizations working to change the lung cancer narrative. “Thank you to GO2 for Lung Cancer for the work you are doing,” she said. “I’m here, whatever I can do.”

Brenda’s experience is a powerful reminder that early detection saves lives, that listening to your instincts matters, and that sometimes the most important voice to hear is the quiet one telling you to look again.

GO2’s HelpLine is a free, one-on-one service that connects patients and caregivers with experienced staff who can provide guidance, resources, and, most importantly, hope. Whether it’s questions about getting a second opinion, biomarker testing, screening, treatment options, or simply needing someone to listen, the HelpLine is here to make sure you know you are not alone. Call 1-800-298-2436 or email ‍ support@go2.org to get started. 

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Glen lives in Hercules, CA with his Yorkie, Kuma, where he moved in 2021 to be closer to family and friends. After nearly 20 years working in the probation department, he retired at the beginning of the pandemic and began volunteering at the East Bay SPCA. What started as a way to give back quickly turned into a full-time job. These days, you’ll often find him on his daily walk to Starbucks or visiting his mom, who lives just 15 minutes away.

Jeffrey B. Velotta, MD, FACS is a thoracic surgeon at Kaiser Permanente’s Oakland Medical Center, a Clinical Professor in the Department of Clinical Science at Kaiser Permanente’s Bernard J. Tyson School of Medicine, and a clinical assistant professor in the Department of Surgery the UCSF School of Medicine. Dr. Velotta went to medical school at George Washington University. He then completed his general surgery residency at UCLA Medical Center. During this time, Dr. Velotta also completed his postdoctoral research in the Department of Cardiothoracic Surgery at Stanford University School of Medicine. Following this, he completed his training in Cardiothoracic Surgery at Brigham and Women’s Hospital and Harvard Medical School. Dr. Velotta’s clinical and research interests involve innovative techniques and regionalization pathways for all thoracic cancers and improving lung cancer screening in at-risk populations.

When Glen first noticed chest pain in the fall of 2024, lung cancer wasn’t on his radar. He was in physical therapy at the time and assumed the discomfort was muscular and temporary. But 1 test led to another, and by December, an X-ray raised concerns that couldn’t be ignored.

On December 24, 2024, Glen had a biopsy. Four days later, he received a phone call confirming cancer.  

“I didn’t know what stage I was or much about what I was even being diagnosed with,” Glen recalls. “I just know it turned my world upside down.”

Glen didn’t have a smoking history, and there was no history of lung cancer in his family. Yet here he was, grappling with a diagnosis he never expected and didn’t yet fully understand.

Hearing the worst news, but not much else

Glen remembers little of the conversation that followed his diagnosis. His oncologist delivered the news with compassion, giving him permission to react however he needed.  

“She said, I’m telling you the worst news I could possibly tell you. It’s okay if you get upset, scream, or cry. I’m here,” he says.

But like many patients in that moment, Glen fixated on 1 question: How long do I have to live? “I wasn’t really hearing anything else,” he says. “My best friend was with me, taking notes. I’m glad she was there because I don’t remember much of what was said. I could only think about my prognosis.”

In the days that followed, Glen did what so many people do, he went online. And almost immediately, he regretted it. “That was the worst thing I could do,” he says. “You Google stage 4 (IV) lung cancer and life expectancy, and the first article you see tells you that this is really bad news. You don’t even need to read the rest.”

Treatment, side effects, and a growing sense of fear

Glen began treatment quickly. His first regimen included radiation to his brain and chest and an infusion therapy that caused repeated breathing reactions. After 4 reactions across 2 sessions, his care team stopped the drug. He later transitioned to Tagrisso (osimertinib), which he is still on today and has tolerated much better.

But emotionally, Glen was spiraling. He describes himself as generally relatively pessimistic by nature, and the statistics he’d read didn’t help. He began quietly preparing for the end, updating legal documents, organizing passwords, and making sure his affairs were in order.

A parking lot, a 5K, and an unexpected meeting

Everything began to shift at GO2’s San Francisco 5K Walk/Run. Glen attended the event almost on a whim after finding information about it online. He arrived early, sat in his car, and debated leaving. Eventually, he got out and walked toward the event, unsure why everyone seemed so happy. “This is a cancer walk,” he remembers thinking. “Why is everyone smiling?”

A volunteer noticed he wasn’t okay and introduced him to GO2’s Senior Manager, Support Programs and Events, Michele Zeh. As Glen shared how bleak he was feeling, she pointed around the room. “This person has 10 years since their diagnosis. That person has 8,” she told him.

“And I’m thinking, how is that possible? I thought people never lived that long,” Glen says.

Then Michele asked a simple question: “Do you know Dr. Velotta?”

Glen didn’t. But meeting him was about to change his life.  

“Let’s get rid of the mothership”

Dr. Jeffrey Velotta is a thoracic surgeon at Kaiser Permanente in Northern California, and one of only a small number of surgeons in the country willing to seriously consider surgery for patients with stage 4 (IV) lung cancer.

When Glen met him, the conversation felt different immediately. “He really cared,” Glen says. “I could tell right away how passionate he was about lung cancer and about the people who have it. It made me feel good.”

Dr. Velotta reviewed Glen’s scans and told him that he could be a good candidate for surgery, a treatment that might help his prognosis despite his stage 4 (IV) diagnosis. He explained his thinking using an analogy that stuck.

“We’ll get rid of the mothership,” he said.

The primary tumor, Dr. Velotta explained, was like a command center that was sending cancer cells elsewhere. If Glen’s metastatic disease was controlled with medication, removing the original tumor could still slow or stop future progression.  

“The approach made sense to me,” Glen says. “You’re radiating my brain and my bones but you’re leaving where it all started? Why not get rid of that, too?”

Why surgery for stage 4 (IV) is still so controversial

Dr. Velotta is blunt about how unusual his approach still is. “I don’t think every patient with stage 4 (IV) lung cancer should have surgery,” he says. “But I absolutely believe that some should, including many more than most doctors currently consider.”

In addition to being younger, healthier, and generally fit, the key factor that makes someone a good candidate, he explains, isn’t the extent of the disease or the number of metastases, but whether disease outside the lung is controlled.

“Glen had multiple spots in his brain, bones, and elsewhere,” Dr. Velotta explains. “But his cancer was well-controlled through a tyrosine kinase inhibitor (TKI). That’s what people call ‘polymetastatic’ disease. Most surgery trials exclude patients like that. But that’s actually the majority of people with stage 4 (IV) lung cancer.”

Clinical trials, he notes, tend to focus on patients with 1 or 2 metastases, not because others can’t benefit, but because trials are designed to show clean, easily publishable results. This disconnect, he believes, is 1 of the reasons surgery remains underused for people with advanced disease. “That leaves most patients out,” he says. “And it leaves surgeons hesitant.”

A lonely position in the field

Even today, Dr. Velotta says the prevailing mindset around surgery for stage 4 (IV) lung cancer hasn’t shifted much. “The thinking is that it’s too little, too late. We’ve missed the chance to help these patients surgically. The idea is that the cat’s already out of the bag,” he says.

That assumption, that surgery can’t help once cancer has spread, is something he pushes back against constantly. “People get freaked out by polymetastatic disease,” he says. “They see multiple spots and think, ‘Oh my God, they’re everywhere.’ But if those spots are controlled, it doesn’t matter how many there are. Those patients can still benefit.”

Dr. Velotta acknowledges that his willingness to operate in these cases often puts him at odds with colleagues. “There is a stigma associated with operating on stage 4 (IV) lung cancer,” he says.  

Even within his own health system, he is frequently the only surgeon willing to consider surgery for patients like Glen. “I feel very alone in this world sometimes,” he admits. “If these patients were all doing terribly, I would stop. But they’re actually doing really well.”

Instead, he says, many of his patients are living longer — and living well. “I’ve done this for 5 or 6 years. I’ve operated on many,” he says. “A lot of them are still alive. And even the ones who passed didn’t pass 3 months later. Some lived 6 plus years.”

Surgery as more than survival statistics

For Glen, surgery wasn’t just about controlling the disease. It was about reclaiming a sense of control over his own life. Surgery felt proactive to him, like taking control of his treatment and his future.  

Dr. Velotta sees that psychological impact again and again. “You can’t quantify that on a spreadsheet,” he says. “But mentally, it matters a lot.”

Glen agrees. “I felt better from the moment I knew I was going to have surgery,” he says. “I can’t put that on paper, but I felt different. Better. It has helped my mindset immeasurably.”

Glen had surgery on November 12, 2025. It was minimally invasive, and he went home 2 days later. Within weeks, he was walking hills near his house. Then jogging. Then biking.

“I’m not back to where I was yet,” he says. “But I’m close. And I really don’t mind putting in the work.”

Pathology from his surgery showed just .5 millimeters of active cancer remaining in the tumor that was removed. “All I cared about was that it wasn’t inside me anymore,” Glen says.  

NED — and what hope looks like now

When Dr. Velotta emailed Glen with the words “NED” or “no evidence of disease,” Glen didn’t fully grasp what it meant, but others did. “When I told people at GO2, they got really excited,” he says. “That’s when I realized, oh, this is a big deal.”

Hope, he says, is everything. “Sometimes I’m still pessimistic at heart,” he admits. “But the surgery has given me so much more reason to have hope for the future, and hope is what keeps me going.”

On sharing his story

Glen hesitated before agreeing to speak publicly about his experiences with lung cancer. Talking about cancer can still pull him into dark places. But ultimately, he agreed for 1 reason.

“If this helps 1 person,” he says. “If someone like me hears this and thinks, ‘Maybe surgery is an option for me, maybe I should ask’, then it’s worth it.”

Dr. Velotta agrees. “I just want people to know that they can ask,” he says. “That’s huge progress.”

GO2’s HelpLine is a free, one-on-one service that connects patients and caregivers with experienced staff who can provide guidance, referrals, resources, and, most importantly, hope. Whether it’s questions about biomarker testing, treatment options, or simply needing someone to listen, the HelpLine is often the first step toward feeling less alone after a lung cancer diagnosis. Call 1-800-298-2436 or email support@go2.org to get started.

When Mike Scanlon set out on a 30-day, 700-mile bike ride across Kansas, the journey ahead of him was daunting. He had 60 trails, 50 towns, and what felt like endless gravel roads ahead of him. But for Mike, who is living with stage 4 (IV) non-small cell lung cancer (NSCLC), this ride was about more than just the distance. It was about purpose and about transforming his diagnosis into something bigger.

At the heart of Mike’s journey was a principle that has guided his work and his life for years: the Athenian Oath, a commitment to leave things “not less, but greater, better, and more beautiful than they were transmitted to us.” Turning his ride into a fundraiser for GO2 for Lung Cancer and Kansas Trails Inc. was a natural extension of that belief. “I’ve always tried to live in a way that gives back,” Mike shared. “This ride felt like a way to do that — to take something personal and make it meaningful for others.”

Choosing “even if” over “only if”

Mike often described the Ride for Resilience tour as a lesson in mindset. It was one shaped deeply by his cancer diagnosis. Living with stage 4 (IV) NSCLC, he explained, can trap people in “only if” thinking: “I’ll have peace only if treatment works. Only if scans stay clear. Only if life goes back to normal.”

But the road taught him another way.

“The power of an ‘even if’ perspective is that it frees you to live with purpose no matter what happens,” Mike said. “Even if the road is uncertain. Even if outcomes aren’t guaranteed. Even if this journey reshapes your life.”

For Mike, resilience wasn’t about controlling the outcome. It was about choosing courage anyway. Pedal after pedal, day after day, that mindset carried him forward.

Trails, towns, and the strength of small places

Kansas is home to more than 4,000 miles of trails, and Mike wanted to experience as much of that diversity as possible. Riding 60 trails across 50 towns allowed him to connect not just with landscapes, but with people — especially in small, rural communities.

“I wanted to see how adaptable and resilient these towns are,” he said. “A lot of them don’t have much, but they keep showing up.”

That resilience came into sharp focus in places like Copeland, KS, population 251. A stop at the town library became a powerful reminder of shared values and of communities that quietly live out the Athenian Oath and the “even if” mentality every day. These towns, like people facing cancer, keep moving forward despite uncertainty.

Sharing the road and stories

Along the way, survivors, caregivers, and families found Mike. Sometimes it was literally on the trail, sometimes through word of mouth. They rode beside him and shared their stories.

Over the course of the ride, Mike connected with people across Kansas, creating space for honest conversations about cancer, treatment, and hope. He shared information about GO2 for Lung Cancer, including resources available to individuals and families at every stage of the disease.

“Cancer is deeply personal,” Mike reflected. “The courage it takes for people to open up always floored me.”

From a sales director at a Salina radio station to an administrative assistant at a high school in Wamego — who happened to share Mike’s same lung cancer mutation and treatment — these conversations became some of the most meaningful moments of the ride.

Hard miles and harder questions

The ride tested Mike in ways he didn’t expect, including fast farm dogs on gravel roads (most of which he could outpace, except one). But the hardest challenges weren’t physical. They were mental.

“I’ve been given an opportunity many people with NSCLC don’t get,” he said. “And I can’t waste it.”

A note from a donor, a message of encouragement, or simply the mantra JKP — Just Keep Pedaling — helped him find the answer.

The ride of a lifetime

The final day was a 93-mile ride along the Flint Hills Trail from Council Grove to Osawatomie felt symbolic. Mike saw the day as a reflection of life itself: starting early, uncertain, learning as you go, growing stronger, then feeling your body push back near the end.

And then, 2 miles from the finish, everything changed.

“I saw my grandson, Augie,” Mike said. “He wanted to ride the last 2 miles with me. And I knew his little brother PJ was waiting at the finish line with my daughter Megan.”

As Mike’s journey that day ended, his grandsons’ life journeys were just beginning, bringing the Athenian Oath full circle. “My obligation,” Mike said, “is to transmit Kansas trails — and this life — not less, but greater.”

Your turn to find your “Ride for Resilience”

Mike’s advice to anyone considering a fundraiser for GO2 for Lung Cancer is simple: define your reason.

“Mine was the Athenian Oath,” he said. “Once you know your why, invite others to help.”

Through his 700-mile journey, Mike raised more than $24,000, helping fuel GO2 for Lung Cancer’s work to increase lung cancer survival by supporting cutting-edge research, legislative advocacy, and patient support services for individuals and families nationwide.

Whether it’s a ride, a walk, a creative challenge, or something uniquely yours, your fundraiser can make a difference. As Mike’s journey shows, resilience isn’t about what happens only if everything goes right — it’s about choosing to act, even if the road ahead is uncertain.

And sometimes, all it takes is the courage to start pedaling.

Learn more about how you can create your own fundraiser for GO2 for Lung Cancer. 

June & Roy live in Kennebunk, Maine, a place they moved after visiting and vacationing many times throughout their lives. They enjoy barefoot beach walks, snowshoeing, many volunteer activities focused on environmental issues, Indigenous People’s rights, social justice issues, and textile drives organized by June which have kept over 20 tons of textiles and footwear out of landfills. They also enjoy exploring Maine’s forests and mountain areas. June is a retired clinical registered dietician while Roy is a retired banking executive and director. They see a return trip to Switzerland and other excursions in their future. Their favorite toast with an adult beverage is “Ein Sache”, followed by “Uns” — German for “One Thing” and “Us”. Roy is still trying to find where June hid his heart when she stole it. She promises him that it’s in a safe place.

After a history of heart disease, Roy has learned to pay attention to his body, so when he experienced shortness of breath in July 2018, he went to the emergency room. This time, his heart wasn’t his problem. Imaging revealed a large mass in his upper right lung and, with it, a diagnosis that would reshape his years ahead.

Doctors moved quickly. A biopsy confirmed lung cancer, and additional scans showed it had spread to nearby lymph nodes, ruling out surgery. Roy was referred to David Carbone, MD, PhD at The James Comprehensive Cancer Center, where a treatment plan came together quickly.

Roy enrolled in a clinical trial led by Dr. Carbone to explore using immunotherapy in people with stage 3 (III) non-small cell lung cancer (NSCLC). He would receive immunotherapy, then radiation, then chemo, and then immunotherapy again.

The early months were manageable, and Roy didn’t experience any side effects during his initial immunotherapy infusions. Radiation and chemotherapy followed, spaced carefully over many weeks. But toward the end of treatment, a rare and severe reaction to chemotherapy landed Roy in the hospital for 10 days.

This experience forced difficult treatment decisions and required Roy to advocate for himself, something he had learned to do years earlier while caring for his late wife during her illness. Immunotherapy was paused, then ultimately stopped altogether, when Roy developed serious gastrointestinal side effects. By that point, his treatment had already achieved a complete response, and his body could not tolerate continuing.

With treatment complete, Roy entered a new phase: survivorship, including regular monitoring and cautious hope. Follow-up scans initially came every 6 months, then 9, then eventually once a year.

Judy’s story

Roy’s experience with lung cancer was not his first time navigating serious illness. Just a few years earlier, he had walked a parallel path alongside his late wife, Judy.

In November 2015, Judy collapsed in their shower at their home in southeastern Ohio. At the hospital, imaging revealed a large mass in her brain. Judy immediately understood what that meant. Her aunt had died of glioblastoma years earlier, and Judy had been one of her caregivers.

Judy underwent brain surgery the day before Thanksgiving, followed by months of treatment including clinical trials, aggressive chemotherapy, and a 2nd surgery. Despite everything, Roy remembers her determination to keep living fully and authentically, even as options narrowed.

Judy approached her illness with the same intention and creativity that defined her entire life. A spiritual director and artist, she continued creating throughout her treatment, painting, weaving, and writing as a way to make meaning of what she was experiencing. Even after a stroke affected her body’s complete left side (she was left-handed), she adapted, learning to work with her right hand and allowing her art to evolve alongside her changing body.

For Judy, creativity was not a distraction from illness, but a way of engaging with it honestly. She remained deeply connected to people around her and committed to living as fully as possible, even as she faced her reality of a terminal diagnosis.

“She always showed us how to live,” Roy recalls a close friend saying about Judy. “Now she’s showing us how to die.”

Keeping a promise

Judy died in October 2016, after time in hospice that Roy describes as both heartbreaking and deeply meaningful. In his following years, he turned to journaling as a way to survive his abysmal grief.

“For 2 years, I journaled every day,” Roy said. “Sometimes 2 or 3 times a day, whether I was on my porch or in a local pub or a restaurant or the Grand Canyon, you would find me with my journal in hand.”

His writing became a form of self-therapy, a place to hold and process anger, memories, gratitude, and loss all at once. Over time, it also became the foundation for something Judy had asked Roy to do before she died.

“She made me promise to publish her art and her words,” Roy said. “And I said yes, not knowing at the time what that might look like.”

The result was a book built from Judy’s artwork and writing and interwoven with Roy’s journals to become a 3-part story about living well, dying honestly, and finding a way forward. What began as a promise became a project that took 5 years to complete and eventually reached far beyond Roy’s immediate circle. They edited over 950,000 words from him and Judy down to about 85,000 for the book.

Roy is clear that their memoir and award-winning love story was never meant for a narrow audience. It has resonated with people navigating serious illness, caregivers walking alongside loved ones, and healthcare professionals seeking to better understand the lived experience of patients and families.

“I’ve heard from hospice workers, nurses, and social workers who said it helped them better understand the people they care for,” said Roy. Others have told him they read the book not because they were facing illness themselves, but because they wanted to understand who they hoped to be when life becomes difficult for them.

Today, Roy and his new wife, June, give the book, “It All Belongs,” away freely, believing it is meant to be in people’s hands rather than on a warehouse shelf. Copies are available at no cost, with readers asked only to cover shipping. To learn more or request a copy, visit http://itallbelongsbook.com and use code “GO2Cancer” for your free copy.

June

June had been part of Roy’s life long before his lung cancer diagnosis. June met Roy’s late wife Judy through their Ohio church and became close friends. After she died, June and Roy became support for each other, and when Roy learned he had lung cancer, June was one of the first people he called.

“She screamed,” Roy remembered. “And I hated making her feel such pain.”

At that time, June and Roy were just beginning to recognize their growing feelings for each other, but for June, her decision to stay, to support Roy, and eventually to build a life together was instinctive.

“I had this voice that said, ‘I’m not going to let him go through this by himself. He’s already lost his wife of almost 40 years and had more than enough pain from her death,” she said. “I didn’t care where we were going to go or what we had to go through. I was in.”

When Roy proposed, he made sure June understood the reality of his diagnosis. “I said, ‘Do you realize I may not be here in 2 years?” he recalled.

Her answer was immediate. “Well, it’ll be the 2 best years of my life.”

June attended every appointment and every treatment with Roy, and their love deepened even as they navigated all of lung cancer’s difficult challenges together.

They married in Iona, Scotland during Roy’s treatment, after asking his care team whether it was safe to travel. Their answer was yes, and the moment became one of joy woven into a difficult chapter.

What comes next

For more than 5 years after completing treatment, Roy’s scans remained clear. Then, in the fall of 2025 during a routine follow-up appointment with his new oncologist at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute after a move to Maine, everything shifted again.

“Dr. Sands walked in,” Roy said. “And for the first time he didn’t say, ‘We didn’t find anything.’ Immediately, I knew something was wrong.”

A new tumor had appeared in the same area of his lung that had already been heavily treated. Because of prior radiation and scarring, many treatment options were no longer possible.

“Every option we brought up – radiation, surgery – they just kept getting pushed off the table,” Roy said. “That has been really hard.”

After consultations with multiple specialists, Roy and his care team determined that immunotherapy would likely be their next step. They are currently waiting on additional testing to confirm this as their treatment course, and Roy is eager to get started. While their next steps are currently uncertain, Roy is not without perspective.

“For me to be loved by two such incredible women and to be able to love two incredible women in one lifetime,” he said, “I don’t need a whole lot else. We’ll figure out the rest.”

If you or a loved one are facing similar uncertainty—whether newly diagnosed or navigating what’s next—GO2’s LungMATCH team can help you understand treatment options, including clinical trials, and talk through next steps. Call 1-800-298-2436 or email ‍ support@go2.org to connect with a LungMATCH Navigator.‍ to connect with a LungMATCH Navigator.

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Robyn and Bob Washburn live in Simi Valley, CA where they like to spend time with family, enjoy the outdoors walking and taking hikes when they can, and go on adventures with their Corgi, Teeter Moosie. Robyn has worked as a Senior Paralegal for over 35 years at The Burbank Firm, L.C. in Burbank, CA, and Bob is a retired advertising executive in the fitness industry who now enjoys day-trading. They are looking forward to good health, more traveling adventures, and numerous grandchildren! Their mantra is: “Make each day count, living life one breath at a time.”

When Bob and Robyn Washburn talk about the last 4 years, they describe it as a story that’s “a little bit like the Griswolds,” with 1 challenge after another, and moments so unbelievable they can only laugh at it all. But beneath the events that have seemed chaotic and even devastating at times is something much simpler and more powerful: a partnership built on deep love, determination, and the unshakeable belief that there is always a path forward, together.

For the Washburns, “together” has guided their experience. From the accident that revealed a hidden lung nodule, to months of long-COVID leading to heart failure, to a stunning set of medical missteps that delayed Bob’s diagnosis for more than a year, their story is marked by frustration and heartbreak, but also resilience, community, and a renewed capacity to hope.

A car accident, COVID-19, and a missed warning sign

Bob’s path to a diagnosis began with an accident that had nothing to do with cancer.  

In June 2020, he was hit head-on by another driver and rushed to the emergency room. Imaging revealed a small lung nodule, but doctors reassured them that it wasn’t alarming. “A nodule meant nothing to us,” Bob recalls. “It wasn’t red alert. We were told time and again that it was nothing to be concerned with.”

With no clear reason to worry, they went home, focused on healing from the crash.

But within a couple months of the accident, both Bob and Robyn became sick with COVID and remained sick for months as it developed into long COVID. Bob developed serious breathing issues followed by congestive heart failure. Their lives narrowed to managing day-to-day symptoms, seeking answers from specialists, and trying to understand what was happening to Bob’s heart and lungs.

“We were down for months,” Robyn says. “At times, Bobby couldn’t speak. He really needed to be hospitalized, but they wouldn’t take him.”

Amid the chaos of long-COVID and the overwhelmed healthcare system of late 2020, the original lung nodule that had been identified in the car accident faded into the background. Though the nodule appeared again on imaging ordered by Bob’s cardiologist, no one explained that it could be serious. There were no urgent referrals and no clear next steps.  

“It was COVID times,” Bob says. “Everyone was distracted.”

“No one ever said, ‘We think this could be cancer,’” Robyn says. “They only ever said, ‘We’ll watch it.’”

Nine months of waiting and a diagnosis delivered by accident

By early 2021, as Bob’s heart function gradually improved, the Washburns finally had the capacity to revisit the unexplained nodule. They pushed for appointments with a pulmonologist, hoping to get clear answers. Instead, they faced continued delays and uncertainty.  

Months passed with vague reassurances and no urgent action. Robyn remembers feeling powerless and furious.“It was a comedy of errors, but not funny at all. We waited another 9 months. We didn’t have the capacity at the time to say, ‘We’re not satisfied,’ because we were drowning.”

Finally, in September 2021, 15 months after the nodule was first discovered, Bob underwent a biopsy. But even then, they didn’t receive the results from a doctor. Instead, a lab employee, calling solely to request consent for biomarker testing, casually told Robyn the words no one should hear from a stranger: “You need to sign a consent because your husband has cancer.”  

“I just about lost it at my desk,” she remembers. “Now I had to be the one to tell my husband he had lung cancer. It wasn’t a doctor explaining anything; it was a lab worker checking her list.”

When they finally met with the pulmonologist in person, the physician was visibly shaken. “He was sweating,” Bob recalls. “He knew he’d made a huge oversight.”  

Finding answers and the right path forward

Once Bob actually received his diagnosis, the couple quickly had to consider treatment. Bob’s biomarker testing showed an ALK rearrangement, a type of mutation often highly responsive to targeted therapy.  

They were introduced to the possibility of clinical trials, surgery, and targeted therapy all at once, while still trying to catch their breath from the shock of the diagnosis.

“We came in not knowing anything,” Bob says. “And suddenly we had to learn everything.”

Initially, doctors explored whether the tumor could be surgically removed. But new imaging revealed the cancer had spread to the other lung, and then, in what felt like one more blow, to the spine, making him stage 4 (IV). Each new scan shifted the treatment plan, narrowing options and adding urgency.

There were many moments that felt surreal. For a time, Bob was being considered for a clinical trial, and the couple spent weeks working with the trial team to qualify and complete required testing. During a call about that trial, a doctor casually chatted about the artwork behind them on Zoom before abruptly telling them that Bob was no longer eligible. “We spent so much time with him, and then we never heard from him again,” Bob says.

Breathing again

Bob began taking alectinib in November 2021, about 2 months after his biopsy. By then, he was struggling just to walk up a flight of stairs.

“I could feel it; I was declining,” he says. “It was scary. I knew something was really wrong. I was dying, essentially.”

Within weeks of starting targeted therapy, he felt a shift. His breathing eased. His energy returned. The first post-treatment scan confirmed what he already sensed: the medication was working.

“That first scan showed progress,” Bob says. “And more importantly, I could feel there was progress in my body.”

More scans brought more good news. The spot on his spine disappeared and the cancer in his lungs shrank. Over time, he stabilized fully.  

“I’m basically NED right now,” he says. “Nothing on my spine. Just a little residual, and that’s okay.”

Four years later, Bob remains on alectinib with excellent results. They continue scans every 3 months, and with each clean result, their world opens a little wider.

Finding the right team and a community that feels like family

After the difficult start to their diagnostic experience, the Washburns made a change in their care. They transferred to City of Hope and found oncologist Dr. Ravi Salgia, whose expertise in ALK-positive lung cancer, and his personal kindness, made an immediate difference.

“He’s just fabulous,” Robyn says. “We know he truly cares. He was the right fit for us.”

Remarkably, they first met him not in a clinic, but at the GO2 SoCal 5K Walk/Run. From there, their involvement with the lung cancer community deepened. They have since attended ALK Summits, watched Lung Cancer Living Room^® sessions, participated in local walks, and gotten to know other families navigating similar paths.  

“We follow so many stories now,” Bob says. “We pray for these people. When we see them at events, we’re hugging each other like family.”  

Moving forward and finding joy again

As Bob regained strength, the couple began reclaiming parts of their life that had been on hold. They’ve traveled to Texas 3 times in the past year to see their daughter graduate with her doctorate in physical therapy, see their granddaughter be born, and spend her first Christmas together. Another milestone took them to Idaho, where Bob had the joy of walking his daughter down the aisle at her wedding. Another daughter, Brooke, has been a great support to them, including participating with them in GO2 5K Walks. They’ve also jumped into new opportunities, including Bob’s role as a Genentech ambassador, where he shares his story to help others.

“You wouldn’t believe the things he does now,” Robyn laughs. “Talking to people, getting out there; it’s amazing.”

Bob smiles. “I’m a private person. At first, I didn’t want anyone to know about my diagnosis. I didn’t want, ‘Poor Bobby.’ I isolated myself. But that wasn’t the right way.”

Now, the opposite is true. Their world is bigger, their community wider, and their bond—already strong—has deepened. Through it all, their love story has been its own anchor.

When asked what Robyn has meant to him through this experience, Bob’s voice softens: “She’s my eyes, my ears, my brain. She figures things out when I say forget it. She’s a dog with a bone, in a good way,” he says, smiling. “She made me a better person, and I wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t here.”

Robyn laughs. “And he takes care of me too. We’re a great team. We’ve been through everything together. We’re 100 percent connected.”

Their partnership shows up in small ways too, like the matching outfits Bob now wears willingly to every appointment.

“If you really knew me,” he says, “you’d say there’s no way I would do that, but here I am.”

“He even picks out the shirts now,” Robyn adds.

Reclaiming hope

For Bob, hope isn’t an abstract concept. It’s deeply practical.

“I’m a glass-half-full person,” he says. “Hope, for me, is a vision. It’s imagining us traveling more and watching our family grow.”

Robyn adds, “There was a time we didn’t know if we could do anything. We were stuck. Now we have things to look forward to, and that gives us hope.”

Their faith plays a role too.  

“We’re trying to normalize something that’s been very abnormal,” Bob says. “But we don’t take anything for granted. We know how blessed we are, and we give thanks for that.”

Advice for others hearing the words: “You have lung cancer.”

When asked what they would tell someone newly diagnosed, Bob doesn’t hesitate.  

“Take a deep breath,” he says. “Know that there are solutions. Lean on doctors, support groups, and organizations like GO2. Reach out. You will not embarrass yourself. You will not be judged. It’s overwhelming, but you’re not alone.”  

Robyn jumps in gently: “And rely on your care partner to listen for you. That’s what’s hardest. People isolate themselves. They don’t want to talk. But listening, sharing, getting support, it can change everything.”

Bob nods. “I wasted 6, 7, 8 months isolating myself. If I can help anyone, I’d say, get out there and get yourself uncomfortable. People really do care.”  

GO2’s HelpLine is a free, one-on-one service that connects patients and caregivers with experienced staff who can provide guidance, resources, and, most importantly, hope. Whether it’s questions about biomarker testing, treatment options, or simply needing someone to listen, the HelpLine is often the first step toward feeling less alone after a lung cancer diagnosis. Call 1-800-298-2436 or email support@go2.org to get started.

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Natalie lives in Atlanta with her husband and her dog Hershey. She loves to travel with her family and friends and is working her way through her restaurant bucket list. In her spare time, she works with different organizations by volunteering her time and speaking/advocating for lung cancer. She recently joined a Citizen Scientist Program, which teaches people about the lung cancer ecosystem and key aspects of research like ethics, data analysis, and patient-centered study design. Natalie hopes to start a new career involving cancer research one day.

When Natalie first developed a stubborn cough and persistent fatigue, she wasn’t sure what was causing it. Over the next 6 months, her search for answers led her through a series of doctors and shifting diagnoses: allergies, bronchospasms, and even malaria. All the while, her cough persisted, and her energy levels continued to decline. Only after she insisted on a referral to a pulmonologist did the truth start to surface. Multiple biopsies, and even a phone call initially assuring her it wasn’t cancer, eventually led to a stage 4 (IV) lung cancer diagnosis.

“It was such a rollercoaster,” she recalled. “They told me it wasn’t cancer, and then weeks later said it was. By the time I saw the oncologist, she looked at us and said, ‘This is already stage 4 (IV). Did you not know?’ And we didn’t. We were blindsided.”

Learning to advocate and adjust

After her diagnosis, Natalie had to adjust to a new reality. She never imagined that lung cancer could strike someone in their thirties. “I thought you had to be a lifelong smoker, or 80 years old,” she admitted.  

Biomarker testing showed no targetable mutations, something that surprised her care team, given her age. She began chemotherapy combined with immunotherapy, a combination that gave her years of stability. “I was still able to work and travel,” she said. “It was rough at times, but I could live a normal life.” Eventually, though, her cancer began to progress.

Natalie tried additional types of chemotherapy and enrolled in 2 different clinical trials, including one that required frequent flights out of state. Neither trial worked. “I didn’t know anything about clinical trials before,” she said. “But at that point, I felt like, what do I have to lose?”

A radical option

That’s when her pulmonologist suggested something she never expected—a double lung transplant. The criteria were strict: the cancer had to remain confined to the lungs, and she had to be healthy enough to withstand the surgery. Natalie was both. “When I met the surgeon, he looked at me and said, ‘Your lungs are trash,’” she laughed. “He didn’t say it cruelly; it was just the truth. At that point, it was either keep buying time with more chemo or try something much more radical.”

After weeks of intense testing, she was accepted into the program with the condition that she relocate from Atlanta to Chicago for a full year. Housing and expenses were her responsibility. “It wasn’t easy. My husband and I had to figure it out, but we didn’t really have a choice. I really felt like the transplant was my only option to possibly feel better.”  

On November 15, Natalie had the transplant. “It was the worst procedure I’ve ever had in my life,” she said, “the worst that I could even imagine. They told me later they had to call in another surgeon because my lungs were so diseased, they were basically yanking them out of my chest.”

The recovery was grueling, with months of pain and complications, but the transplant improved her life in incredible ways too. Her cough disappeared immediately. “Before, I was coughing 200–300 times an hour, to the point of breaking ribs. After the transplant, that was gone. My new lungs worked at nearly 100 percent. That alone changed my quality of life in a huge way.”

An unexpected recurrence

Unfortunately, Natalie’s lung transplant was not the cure her doctors had predicted. Just 2 months after her surgery, scans revealed cancer had returned, this time in her spine.  

“At first, I was devastated,” Natalie said. “I thought, I just went through all of this, and for what? Now it’s back. But then I reminded myself: without the transplant, I might not even be here. And I’m breathing and breathing well. That’s a gift.”

She returned to chemotherapy and added radiation to help manage pain. More recently, she begun a bone-strengthening shot that has given her renewed hope. “I’ve spoken with others who say it eliminated their lesions,” she said. “You just never know, but it’s something to hope for.”

Living between 2 worlds

Relocating for the transplant created its own challenges. Even though her husband and 2 best friends have spent the last year alternating visits to take care of her, she has still attended many appointments alone and navigated her health needs in a new city at least partly solo.  

“They’re incredible,” Natalie said. “Being sick shows you how loved you are. That’s a silver lining, but it’s changed me too. I don’t want to say that it’s made me stronger, but I can do a lot more on my own now. Sometimes you just don’t have a choice.”

She is also quick to point out the importance of caregivers. “People don’t realize how much this takes out of caregivers too,” she said. “My husband carries so much of this with me. We need to check in on caregivers just as much as patients.”

Lessons learned

Natalie is candid about the ups and downs of life with advanced lung cancer. “It’s not going to be smooth—it’s a rollercoaster,” she said.

Her advice:

• Advocate for yourself.

• Take small wins. “If I washed dishes today, that’s a win. Don’t just look at the big picture.”

• Prioritize mental health. “People focus so much on physical health, but this takes a huge toll mentally. Therapy and support matter just as much.”

• Acknowledge the invisible. “People look at me and say, ‘you don’t look sick.’ But stage 4 (IV) looks different for everyone.”

She also raises awareness about safety. “Many of us are on opioids for pain. I asked my doctor for Narcan, just in case. Everyone should carry it. You never think it will happen, but you don’t want to be unprepared.”  

Gratitude and hope

Despite everything, Natalie continues to find gratitude. She works out 3 times a week, takes walks when she can, and leans on her community. Though she is still adjusting to life managing care for both her transplant and cancer, she holds onto perspective.

“I may not have the story I thought I’d have,” she said. “But I’m here. I’m breathing. And I want people to know there are options, even unlikely or imperfect ones. And there’s always hope, even when it feels complicated.

Eva L. has what she calls an “all-American job.” She’s a teacher, a mother, a wife, a sister, a cousin, a daughter, and a neighbor who leaves for work every morning at 7:15 a.m. She is also someone living with lung cancer, a diagnosis that has reshaped her life and sparked her path into advocacy.

Two diagnoses, two realities

Eva’s path with cancer has been uniquely challenging. Within a short span of time, she was diagnosed with both breast cancer and lung cancer. “Any cancer diagnosis is a shock and alters your life,” Eva says. “With breast cancer, it was scary, but I knew there was a defined pathway and most people survive. I saw myself represented in the community. I didn’t feel diminished as a woman, or that I had brought it on myself.” Lung cancer, however, was a completely different experience. Instead of empathy, she was often met with suspicion. “Friends, coworkers, strangers, doctors, and even X-ray techs asked me if I smoked. The weight of the stigma felt as overwhelming as the diagnosis itself. This is the only cancer that is blamed on the patient.” For Eva, that stigma cut deep, not just in how others perceived her, but in how she had to challenge her own internalized biases. “I had to face my own stigma as I met other people with lung cancer, as those thoughts ran through my own mind. Our community perpetuates stigma through public service announcements, movie storylines, and cultural assumptions,” she said.

The stigma gap: breast cancer vs. lung cancer

The contrast between her experiences with breast cancer and lung cancer has been stark. “With breast cancer, no one questioned my personal behaviors. With lung cancer, even medical professionals didn’t believe me when I said I never smoked. Strangers asked, as if they were diagnosing me with a moral failure.” Eva is quick to point out the harm in these assumptions. “Smoking is not a moral failure. It’s a product sold to millions through lies about its health consequences. But the stigma lingers, and it impacts funding, research, and the way patients are treated.”

From classroom advocacy to cancer advocacy

Advocacy is not new to Eva. As the mother of a son with autism, she spent years navigating the education system to ensure he received the support he needed. “I learned to advocate for him and for the kids who came after him. It was exhausting but necessary,” she says. “That experience taught me that no one should have to be an ‘insider’ to get the support they need.” Now, she’s bringing those skills to lung cancer advocacy. “If stigma means less funding, then I need to participate in breaking it down. While I feel strong enough, I want to use my voice where and how I can.”

Finding her place

Eva’s entry into advocacy began with workshops through the Oregon Cancer Foundation and The White Ribbon Project. She realized that keeping her story private only reinforced the stigma. “Many women diagnosed with breast cancer just a decade ago reported similar experiences—friends and neighbors avoided them,” she said. “But that changed because survivors spoke up, advocated, and worked together to shift the narrative. I realize now I must do the same.” Part of that experience will take her to Washington, D.C. in 2026 for her first-ever Lung Cancer Voices Summit that GO2 has held annually for the past 19 years. “I look forward to learning how to add my voice to the movement others have been building for years. This will be a launching pad for me and the start of learning how to advocate at a regional and national level.”

Humor and humanity

Humor has also been one of Eva’s tools for resilience. From joking about “coffin lights” during a PET scan to wearing her favorite shirt that reads, “Cancer, 1 star out of 4, do not recommend,” she uses humor as a way to start conversations.“By starting with humor, people actually talk to me about lung cancer. That’s how we break down stigma—by talking, connecting, and reminding people that anyone with lungs can get lung cancer.”

Looking ahead

As we recognize Lung Cancer Awareness Month this November, Eva hopes more people will join her in challenging stigma, supporting research, and amplifying awareness that anyone with lungs can get lung cancer. Eva knows she has much to learn about advocacy, but her experience as a teacher and advocate for her son gives her confidence. “If my voice helps one person understand that anyone with lungs can get lung cancer, that’s a win. That’s how movements shift.” As she prepares for her first Voices Summit, Eva is stepping fully into her role as a lung cancer advocate—an all-American teacher using her voice to change the narrative, increase federal research funding, and help build a stronger, more supportive community for people at risk for and living with lung cancer.

When Debbie P. learned that a small “ground glass” spot on her right lung, one that had been monitored for years, was actually adenocarcinoma, she suddenly found herself facing the unthinkable.  “From my first appointment with the surgeon, he told me he would assign a nurse navigator,” she recalls. “Since then, my amazing nurse navigator has been with me at appointments and available for support and resources every step of the way.” After a successful surgery to remove her right lower lobe, Debbie faced several complications in recovery—pneumonia, medication reactions, and fluid that required thoracentesis. Through it all, she leaned on her care team and family for strength. One day, her nurse navigator, Tana, told her about GO2’s Sacramento 5K Walk/Run, and Debbie decided to give it a try. “I didn’t set out to be a team leader,” she says, “but as my friends and family started signing up, we created Team Debbie. It felt so special to give back to the community that gives so much to people like me.”

Moments that mattered

For Debbie, GO2’s 5K became far more than a race. It was a day of connection and hope. She remembers seeing her care team—surgeons, nurse navigators, and other medical professionals—show up to walk and run beside patients.  “That meant so much,” she says. “I had just had a thoracentesis the week before, so I wasn’t in the best place physically or emotionally. But I felt surrounded by love from my family, my care team, and my GO2 community.” Her husband, Rob, was her rock through it all, driving her to appointments, helping organize the team, and hosting a “thank you” celebration after the event. Her children and grandchildren proudly wore their Team Debbie shirts (designed by her daughter), and her son even ran competitively in her honor. Seeing old friends and even reconnecting with a high school classmate who donated after seeing her Facebook post brought unexpected joy and encouragement. “All these moments gave me such a sense of not being alone,” Debbie says. “I realized I could also be part of the encouragers as I continue my journey.”

Building connections beyond the 5K

At the pre-race dinner in Sacramento, Debbie met others deeply involved in GO2’s mission. This included Mary, who later became her Phone Buddy.“I wanted to talk not just about the medical side of cancer, but about the emotional and personal challenges that come with it. Having someone who truly understands has made such a difference,” Debbie says.  

Reflecting on Lung Cancer Awareness Month

This November marks a full year since Debbie’s diagnosis, making Lung Cancer Awareness Month especially meaningful.  “It’s my opportunity to support others the way I was supported,” she says. “I want to do whatever I can to support someone else going through this because other people are supporting me.” Debbie encourages others to take full advantage of the programs available through hospitals and community organizations, from nurse navigators and wellness programs to exercise classes and emotional support groups.  “You are not alone,” she adds. “Everyone’s diagnosis is different, but there are so many more options and resources now than there used to be. Each of these helps you heal in different ways.”

Join the movement

Debbie’s story is a reminder of the power of community, connection, and hope. This Lung Cancer Awareness Month, honor survivors like Debbie by joining a GO2 5K Run/Walk near you, or by starting your own team. Every step helps fund programs, research, and resources that ensure no one faces lung cancer alone. Find an event and join us!

Jim lives in Howell, MI, with his wife Cathy and their 3 daughters, Stella (19), Grace (17), and Leda (16). A recent graduate with a degree in public health (GO BLUE!), Jim jokes that his hobbies have all been replaced by his daughters. Twenty years after his lung cancer diagnosis, he says his full and active life and his family are proof of how far he’s come. He remains deeply involved in advocacy work and, having witnessed two decades of remarkable progress in lung cancer research and treatment, is passionate about helping those advances continue.

When Jim was diagnosed with stage 3B (IIIB) non-small cell lung cancer in 2005, treatment options were limited, and the outlook was grim. Biomarker testing was unheard of, targeted therapies didn’t exist, and treatment options were largely one-size-fits-all. Initially diagnosed at stage 1 (I), Jim went into surgery expecting a straightforward operation, only to wake up and learn that his cancer was more extensive than doctors had thought. Surgeons had removed three-quarters of his right lung, and he would need both chemotherapy and radiation. Luckily, the results of his treatment were extraordinary, and Jim has remained with no evidence of disease (NED) ever since. “I am the unicorn,” he says. “And have been for quite a while.” Two decades later, Jim has seen lung cancer evolve from what once felt like a hopeless diagnosis into a rapidly advancing field driven by early detection, precision medicine, and community advocacy. But Jim’s story is about much more than medical progress. It’s about the people who’ve shared the path with him, the lives saved through screening, and the meaning found in helping others move forward.

From patient to advocate

Jim’s path toward lung cancer advocacy didn’t start in the oncology ward. It began in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). Just 3 months after his diagnosis and surgery, his daughter Stella was born, and at just 21 days old, she suffered a brain bleed. Following that, his family all but lived in the NICU for many weeks. “At that point, I thought I wasn’t going to see too much of her life,” Jim recalls. “But I thought the best thing I could do with whatever time I had left was to make sure people knew who Stella was.”

That impulse to ensure others would have what his family needed became a lifelong mission for Jim. He first began volunteering at the children’s hospital that saved Stella’s life, joining its first Patient and Family Advisory Council. He then served on ethics committees, and, eventually, on multiple institutional review boards (IRBs) at the University of Michigan. Over time, that volunteer work drew him into the world of patient engagement and then cancer research. In 2012, 7 years after his diagnosis, Jim attended his first lung cancer event. “It was the first time I was in a room with other lung cancer survivors,” he said. “Until then, I had never met another survivor before.” It was uplifting to meet people surviving their diagnosis even longer than him, but it was also eye-opening. “Most of the other people in the room were women,” he remembers. “And many felt the need to introduce themselves by saying, ‘And I never smoked,’ as if the rest of us who had smoked cigarettes somehow deserved this. It was disheartening. Men would come to these events, mostly people who had a smoking history, but they often didn’t come back. They didn’t feel like it was their community.” That experience prompted Jim and a few peers to form what became known as Team Testosterone, a tight-knit group of male survivors who supported one another, challenged stigma, and provided a home for male survivors who are often outnumbered in advocacy spaces. “Our objective was just to keep breathing,” Jim said. “We wanted to show people with our own stories and our own bodies that you can survive this.”

Living with loss, choosing “forward”

Two decades in the lung cancer community means witnessing profound loss alongside tremendous progress. For Jim, each friend gone too soon leaves a mark and also a choice about how to carry on. “I could sit here and list names – just first names – and you would know who I was talking about. Cliff. Frank. Linnea. Gina. These are people who were deeply invested in this community. We become family here,” he said. “I don’t know how I’ve dealt with their losses except one at a time. Although, unfortunately, they haven’t always come one at a time.” Over the years, he’s learned that survival brings a different kind of perspective. “If you’ve ever met a family that lost someone suddenly, you see the devastation. I’ve had 20 years to say goodbye. I’ve had 20 years to raise my girls. It’s not about living forever for me now; it’s about living fully. I think my soul needs closure, and cancer has given me time to find it.” His daughters, now teenagers, grew up knowing their father was living with the threat of lung cancer. When Jim had surgery a few years ago, one of his daughters asked him when he was going to die. Jim asked her how long she needed him around. “She said she wanted me to walk her down the aisle and to be the grandfather to her kids. So we decided together that 112 was an acceptable age. I promised her I’d do everything possible to make it that long.” That sense of humor and determination carries him through. “If you allow wonderful things to happen to you, if you allow beauty to continue, it will. Good things will still happen. You just have to keep looking up.” “You can walk backward, stand still, or move forward,” he said. “But only one of those gets you anywhere that’s worth going. My father-in-law says “semper avante,” which means ‘forever forward.’ I’ve never seen another option than to move forward.”

Championing early detection for Veterans

In recent years, Jim’s advocacy has increasingly focused on Veteran health and lung cancer screening, an area that he believes has the greatest potential to save lives. “Screening saves lives,” he said plainly. “It’s really the low-hanging fruit. If you can catch it early, you can treat it. It’s often entirely curable. That’s true for lung cancer, breast cancer, and every kind of cancer. But with lung cancer, we still catch most cases by mistake or once it’s spread too far.” The opportunity to make an impact in Veteran communities is significant. “At the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), you’re looking at people with increased risks. We’re disproportionately prone to lung cancer because we smoke a lot, or we’re first responders, or the work we do after service tends to be different than white-collar jobs.” While national screening rates hover around 16%, Jim points out that the VA is achieving something extraordinary: screening rates above 50%, and more than half of lung cancers are detected at stage 1 (I). “At the VA right now, we’re diagnosing lung cancers at stage 1 56% of the time,” Jim said. “That’s incredible.” He credits the VA’s integrated care model and commitment to system-wide screening prompts. “At the VA, your primary care doctor, your oncologist, your radiologist—they’re all on the same system,” he explained. “Their medical records track smoking history and toxic exposures, and it prompts doctors to ask the right questions. That doesn’t happen consistently in the rest of the community.” By contrast, he says, many civilians struggle to access even basic primary care. “Most people don’t have a consistent primary doctor anymore,” he said. “They’re seen in urgent care, so no one’s tracking risk factors or making referrals. They have to ask to be screened. In the VA, they’re asking you. The VA system isn’t perfect, but it’s working well here.” That success is what drives Jim’s current work as lead patient advocate on the “MAS-EXPAND” study at Vanderbilt University that seeks to broaden lung cancer screening eligibility by enrolling 27,000 Veterans to prove that expanding screening access can catch more lung cancer early. “We’re expanding the criteria beyond the 20 pack-year rule,” Jim said. “We’re looking at any tobacco history, toxic exposures—especially for Veterans who served around burn pits or in industrial settings - and even family lung cancer history.” “If we can show this works, it could change the national paradigm,” Jim said. “And I feel like it’s already saved some lives. But saving even one is enough.”

Advice for the newly diagnosed

Jim often connects with people newly diagnosed with lung cancer, helping them navigate the early uncertainty. His first piece of advice: Don’t believe everything you read online. “All those statistics are old,” he said. “None of them include people diagnosed in 2025. The options available today are tremendous and always getting better. Nothing you read online will reflect that yet.” But above all, he reminds people that a diagnosis isn’t a death sentence. “If you’re alive, you already have a death sentence,” he joked. “This diagnosis is just something you have to deal with now. And you can deal with it. You just get up and do it. You move forward.”

Looking ahead

After 20 years, Jim’s story continues to evolve. He recently finished a degree he’d started years ago. “I didn’t want my daughters to see me quit,” he said, and continues his advocacy through research, policy, and mentorship. “There’s still a lot of work to do, and I’m grateful to be around to be a part of it. As long as I can keep moving forward, that’s exactly what I plan to do.” Semper avante. Forever forward.