Kris Tuchek-Her Fight is Our Fight

06/04/2026

June 4, 2024. Tecartus CAR-T.
Two years ago today, my modified T cells were infused.

Four years ago, when I was diagnosed with mantle cell lymphoma, I thought I was starting my last chapter. I left my job. I tried to wrap my head around having maybe 3 to 5 years left. And without even realizing it, I started living to die.

I took trips thinking they would probably be my last ones. I pulled away from people I cared about because imagining leaving them was too hard. I hesitated to buy a new boat because I didn’t think I would be here long enough to enjoy it. I was scared to sign a car lease because I thought I might die before the lease was up. Such a strange and uncomfortable way to live.

The road from diagnosis to today was not easy. There were treatments, relapses, complications, fear, and days when I was not sure how much more I had in me. CAR-T was not easy either, and I don’t want to pretend it was. But it gave me something I honestly did not think I would have again: time, remission, and a quality of life I never imagined two years later.

I was so very wrong about this being my last chapter.

Today I am working out and walking daily. I am traveling. I am spending time with my family and friends. I am watching my grandchildren grow. I am making plans again.

And I bought the boat.

I don’t know exactly what the next chapters will look like. But I know this: I am still here, living days I never thought I would get, and I’m grateful for every one of them. I absolutely love my life and wouldn’t change a thing.

Thank you to everyone who has loved me, supported me, checked in, prayed, hoped, laughed, cried, and walked with me through all of this.
💚🦋💚Kris

05/28/2026

Today is Blood Cancer Awareness Day.

Four years ago I had never even heard of Mantle Cell Lymphoma. Now I live with the reality of an incurable blood cancer every single day — even on the good days. Especially on the good days.

People often see the travel photos, the grandkids, the adventures, the workouts, the laughter — and all of those things are real. I work very hard to LIVE while also living with cancer.

But there is another side to this life that is harder to explain unless you’ve lived it yourself.

The uncertainty. The scan anxiety. The mental balancing act between gratitude and fear. The strange space between feeling healthy and knowing the disease could return at any time.

Blood cancers are unique in so many ways. Many of us look healthy long before we feel emotionally safe again. Treatments can be lifesaving, but they can also permanently change our immune systems, our futures, our careers, our identities, and the way our families live.

And yet… there is also hope. Real hope.

When I was diagnosed four years ago, many of the treatments now being used and studied either did not exist or were just emerging. The pace of progress in blood cancer research is incredible, and it is giving patients like me more time, more options, and more reasons to believe the future can look different than it once did.

Over the last several months, I have quietly poured much of my heart and energy into helping cofound the Mantle Cell Lymphoma Alliance (MCLA), a newly formed 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization dedicated to patients, caregivers, education, awareness, support, and ultimately advancing research for mantle cell lymphoma.

After I was forced into retirement from healthcare because of my diagnosis, I struggled deeply with losing the ability to help people in the way I always had. MCLA has given me a way to find purpose again.

We are building the resources I wish had existed when I was diagnosed: trusted information, guidance from experts, help navigating treatment decisions, and a community where patients feel less alone.

I’ve also recently started a small Facebook community specifically for MCL patients and caregivers navigating life wrote, during and after CAR-T cell therapy. What started as a simple idea has quickly become a meaningful space filled with shared experience, support, and connection.

Sometimes helping others is also part of healing yourself.

So today, on Blood Cancer Awareness Day, I am feeling especially grateful:
for more time,
for science,
for my family,
for every person researching these diseases,
for every caregiver,
for every survivor,
and for every patient still fighting through the hard days.

And maybe most of all… grateful that purpose can still grow in places where fear once lived.

If you’d like to learn more about the Mantle Cell Lymphoma Alliance: https://mantlecellalliance.org

-T

The Mantle Cell Lymphoma Alliance supports patients, caregivers, and researchers with trusted information, expert-guided support, and targeted research to advance better treatments and a cure.

04/22/2026

I realized today that I haven’t shared much here in a while. The last time I posted was after our family trip to Arizona for my mom’s 90th birthday. All of us together for the first time in 10 years. I wrote, “These are the days I never thought I’d see. Forever grateful for blessings.”

And that is still true.

Tonight I am sitting at MD Anderson in Houston waiting for PET scan results I will get Thursday morning. Twenty-two months after Tecartus CAR-T. Terrified some days that the cancer is coming back. Because with mantle cell lymphoma there is no cure. There is only treatment. And I have already had some of the best treatments there are.

Some days I feel like I am pushing the envelope and any minute it will all come crashing back down.

And then there are the other days. Days where I almost forget I have cancer.

I feel good. I exercise. I travel. I laugh. I live.

Since January, Lara and I spent time in Mexico. Then a month in South Carolina with my sister and our spouses. Then Phoenix for my mom’s birthday with the whole family. Then we packed up the car and the dog and spent a month in Colorado, renting a house three doors down from my daughter and husband and her babies

For a month we got to be full-time grandmas to Liv, Asher, and Andi. Every day was a new adventure. Sticky hands,dirty faces, art projects, bedtime stories, playgrounds,dinosaurs, zoos, roller coasters, biking and scootering, little voices, toddler chaos, and so much joy. Exhausting and exhilarating all at once.

I got time with Emily who drove down from the mountains outside Denver. Todd came from LA and stayed for a week. We had all my babies and grandbabies together in one place more than once this year.

There is nothing I love more than that. Nothing.

Cancer has changed the way our family lives. We do not live in “next year,” “someday,” or “when things calm down.”

Because one day is now.

We take the trip. We pack up the dog. We stay a month. We say yes. We stop waiting.

Because the truth is, none of us know how much time we have.

As scared as I am sitting here tonight, I also have hope. More hope than I had four years ago when I was diagnosed. Treatments are changing quickly. There are bispecifics, new types of CAR-T, transplant options, and things coming that did not exist when I first heard the words “you have mantle cell lymphoma.”

I need this remission to last long enough for the next better option to become clear.

And for the first time since I had to leave healthcare and retire, I have found a way to be useful again.

I have cofounded the Mantle Cell Lymphoma Alliance a 501(c)3 nonprofit. MCLA. It is still in its baby stages, but we are moving quickly. We envision a future in which every person affected by mantle cell lymphoma has access to expert‑informed care, clear treatment choices, and a strong support community — and where sustained, collaborative research leads to better therapies, longer lives, and, ultimately, a cure. I spent my whole career helping people through some of the worst moments of their lives. Losing that part of myself after my diagnosis was devastating.

But maybe this is another way to help.

Maybe if I can help someone else find their footing, get better information, feel less afraid, or someday help fund research that leads to a cure, then something meaningful can still come from all of this.

I am tired tonight. Physically and emotionally. I barely slept. I am overwhelmed. But I know there are people here who understand this strange space between living and waiting. Between joy and fear. Between being healthy enough to forget and terrified enough to remember.

So tonight I am choosing hope.

And I am trusting that I still have more time.

-T
(And holy crap what a photo dump. I love them so much I can’t cut any of them ! They are my everything. My whole world💕)

04/14/2026

June 4 will be my 2 year post Tecartus CAR-t anniversary. Next week I head to MDAnderson for my every 4 month PET scan and labs. Here is a really interesting article about CAR-Tcell therapy and how it is keeping people like me and so many others alive longer. Without advances like CAR-t I would have died 2 years ago.

https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20260410-how-a-new-wave-of-immunotherapy-is-eliminating-cancers?fbclid=IwdGRleARLKClleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBzcnRjBmFwcF9pZAo2NjI4NTY4Mzc5AAEe1QYqPkSM7ogK1BtEJ3Vy1qw6uSOzYtMU-WAivs1f0Q5md6-3-e6IOIAiYqo_aem_Sdff7rl-tkUkj8mKmgaTTQ

After nearly 100 years of development, treatments that bolster the body's immune system to fight cancer are coming of age – and saving patients' lives.

03/19/2026

These are the times I never thought I’d have.
These are the trips I never thought I’d take
These are the kisses and snuggles and hugs I will forever long for.
These are the times I will never take for granted.
(Family trip (ages1-90) to celebrate my mom’s 90th birthday in Mesa, Arizona. Whole family together (missing one son in law) for the first time in over 8 years.

03/03/2026

February was a whirlwind.

I’m deeply grateful for every minute of my continued health. The truth is, I’ve lived more fully in the last four years than I ever did before cancer suddenly all that mattered became all that mattered. I no longer take time for granted.

This month held a lot.

We took full advantage of Lara being retired and my continuing good health and headed to South Carolina with Winnie, our amazing dog, spending three slow, beautiful weeks on the beach with my sister Karen and husband Dan. From South Carolina we drove to Atlanta to watch our best friend and favorite basketball coach's team play. Once home wee traveled to NYC to see the incredible Brandi Carlile at Madison Square Garden with and spent a day serving on the board of a nonprofit supporting theater kids—all our travels feeding the soul in very different ways.

I also took on the challenge of helping launch a new nonprofit focused on Mantle Cell Lymphoma with my sister and a few fellow MCL warriors. We’re in the early stages, but I’m genuinely excited about what we’re building and why it matters.

This month included another IVIG infusion. My immune system is still—and will continue to be—essentially nonexistent as long as my modified T cells keep doing their job and attacking my bad (and unfortunately good) B cells. That’s just part of my life now. And I’m learning how to live fully inside that reality.
February marked four years since my MCL diagnosis—the beginning of a journey that reshaped everything. It also marked the 14th anniversary of my dad’s passing, which always brings a wave of memories and a quiet reminder of the space he no longer holds here on earth.

Somewhere in all of this, I leaned hard into my creative side and taught myself balloon artistry (yes, really!) in preparation for my mom’s 90th birthday. The first of a few celebrations—and one I never imagined I’d be here to witness. We went all out, and it was hands-down one of the best birthday parties ever. A big one. A meaningful one.

We also spent time with friends who are near and dear to our hearts—people who hold a deeply important place in this chapter of our lives. That time felt grounding and necessary.

March already holds big plans, the entire family will spend a week together in Arizona to celebrate my mom's 90th birthday, and also includes my every-four-month trip to MD Anderson in Houston for PET scans, labs, and my oncology visit. Life continues to move forward—with intention, gratitude, and a whole lot of heart. Oh, and Lara, Winnie and I head to Colorado mid March for a month with the grandbabies and my kids!
February was full—of movement, memory, creativity, grief, love, health, and life. And I’m holding all of it. 💛

02/05/2026

World Cancer Day 💚🦋💚

I remember the day the world shifted—
three words that cracked the sky:
you have cancer.
Then the echo that hollowed my breath:
there’s no cure.

Since then, my life has been marked in strange seasons—
mutations rising like storms,
treatments that scorched the earth of me,
remissions that glimmered and vanished.
And the darkest chapter,
when my own cells were turned into soldiers
and the battlefield was my body.
A place where minutes lasted forever,
and I wasn’t sure I would survive them.

But I did.
Somehow, I did.
And now I stand in the delicate light of remission,
learning how to live again
with hands that still tremble from the dark.

A terminal diagnosis rewrites you.
The mundane becomes miraculous.
A breath becomes a blessing.
Gratitude becomes a steady flame
burning even through the fear.

I once built walls around my heart—
trying not to feel the sorrow
of imagining this world without me.
But walls keep out the joy, too.
So I am learning to open again—
slowly, bravely, painfully—
to let grief and beauty sit beside each other.

I do not want to leave this life.
I want fifty more years.
I want the sunrise, the laughter,
the ordinary magic of every day.

So now, I grieve and I live at the same time—
holding both like two sides of the same truth.
This is my work.
My prayer.
My becoming.

If you see me, know that I am trying—
to love,
to hurt,
to hope,
to be here
fully.

A journey of darkness and light.
Of tears and grace.
Of goodbye and still—
still—
this fierce, tender love for life.

02/01/2026

January was for renewing and recharging.

Lara and I began the year with 10 days in our paradise: Isla Mujeres. Such a special little island — full of life, beauty, and a kind of quiet magic. Long ago it was a sacred place of worship for Ixchel, the Mayan goddess of the moon and the cycles of life. Often depicted cradling a rabbit, she represents fertility, healing, and weaving — the rhythms of nature and creation itself.

Isla calls me to slow down, listen, and trust the journey. She holds the moon’s whisper in her hands, a guardian of cycles, a weaver of fate.
That energy has always spoken to me here.

After returning, we packed up the car (and our girl Winnie 🐾) and headed south to the South Carolina lowlands. We’re spending a few weeks escaping Michigan’s bitter cold, soaking up ocean air, and enjoying long walks along the shore.

More adventures ahead in the coming months as we wait for Michigan to thaw.
February will include labs and my immunoglobulin infusion.

Until then — and always — I’ve got a whole lot of living to do. ✨

01/07/2026

I’ve been following the Buddhist Monks’ Walk for Peace, and I’ve been deeply moved and inspired by this act.

Why do they walk?
Buddhist monks walk for peace as a practice of compassion, mindfulness, and nonviolence—calling attention to the need for harmony and understanding in the world. They walk in silence and intention, offering each step as an act of compassion and a wish for peace for all beings.

This is an excerpt from a writing shared by Venerable Su Dinh Gioi, one of the venerable monks, from Day 71 of their journey:

“If you were told you had only a year left, or even just one day—what would you do? How would you live?

A life is not measured by its length, but by how many days we live with full presence, with mindfulness, with a whole heart.

We only have this one life. Let us not let it slip away in forgetfulness. Let us live so fully in this present moment that when we face the end—whenever it comes—we do so with a smile of peace, not a sigh of regret.

May you and all beings be well, happy, and at peace.”

🤍I have been facing this very question every day for the past three years. I am deeply grateful for the time I’ve been given—to live in the present, to find my peace, and to be fully mindful of each moment. In an unexpected way, the blessing of a terminal disease has given me this profound gift.
My hope is that, in some small way, this encourages you to live more fully in the present, with greater awareness and compassion and more open to the peace that exists in each moment. 🤍

12/18/2025

The best Christmas gift has been delivered. Scans ARE CLEAR! This amazing doctor is keeping me alive. God is good. Prayers answered. (Next scan scheduled in 4 months!)