Holding the Beast at Bay: My Journey with Kidney Cancer

This is a guest post by Julie Mulligan, 52. She lives in Burlington, Wisconsin with her family.

In March of 2022, I went to the doctor after noticing blood in my urine—just once. I felt healthy and assumed it was nothing serious. At the time, I was a mom to a 9-year-old and a 14-year-old , busy with school schedules, family life, and all the ordinary chaos of raising kids. Cancer was the furthest thing from my mind.

The nurse practitioner I saw was proactive and urged me to see a urologist, “just in case.” That decision would end up saving my life.

The urologist ordered a CT urogram, being “overly cautious,” as he put it. Weeks later, while at work, I got a notification that my results were ready. My best friend encouraged me to take a look. As I sat at my desk reading the words “tumor suspicious for renal cell carcinoma,” my world stopped. I remember calling my husband, leaving work, and sitting in the urologist’s office in shock as he explained that I most likely had cancer—a massive tumor in my right kidney.

Telling my husband was terrifying. Telling my children was even harder. They were old enough to understand that something was very wrong, but far too young to fully grasp what cancer could mean. The fear in their eyes is something I will never forget. Suddenly, the diagnosis wasn’t just about me—it was about whether I would be there to watch them grow up.

Within hours, a surgeon from St. Luke’s Hospital in Milwaukee was consulting with me over video, asking how I felt about having surgery in 48 hours. I barely had time to process what was happening, but I knew one thing for sure: I wanted it out.

Two days later, I underwent what was supposed to be a laparoscopic surgery. Midway through, the tumor—later measured at 15.5 centimeters —ruptured my vena cava, and I began to bleed out. My incredible surgical and anesthesia team saved my life, but I woke up the next day in the ICU, intubated, terrified, and disoriented. The 16-inch scar across my abdomen became a daily reminder of the battle I had barely survived—and how close my family had come to losing me.

Pathology confirmed my diagnosis: Stage 3, Grade 2 Clear Cell Renal Cell Carcinoma.

By June, I had recovered well and was back to doing things with my family. But given the aggressiveness and size of my tumor, my oncologist recommended one year of adjuvant immunotherapy with Keytruda to reduce the risk of recurrence. I decided to go for it—for myself, but also for my kids and my husband. For most of that year, I managed the fatigue and flu-like symptoms with determination, faith, and the hope that I was doing everything possible to stay cancer-free.

As I neared the end of treatment, a follow-up CT scan brought devastating news: the cancer had returned. In June 2023, I underwent another surgery to remove the regrowth along with my right adrenal gland. The procedure went well, but subsequent scans revealed that not all of the cancer could be removed. My diagnosis was now Stage 4.

I sought a second opinion at Mayo Clinic, where Dr. Orme reassured me that we were on the right path. In July, I began a targeted therapy called Inlyta. The side effects hit hard—skyrocketing blood pressure, relentless headaches, and painful blisters that made walking nearly impossible. I pushed through, adjusting doses and learning to listen to my body. Slowing down was humbling, especially as a mom who wanted nothing more than to keep up with her kids and remain active with her family.

In September 2023, my mom was diagnosed with Stage 4 ovarian cancer. For the next year, I stood by her side through every appointment and treatment, even as I continued my own. She faced her illness with extraordinary grace and courage. When she passed away in January 2025, my heart shattered. Losing my mom—my greatest supporter—while fighting my own cancer was one of the hardest things I’ve ever endured.

Just one week after her passing, I found a lump in my abdomen. I knew immediately what it likely meant. Scans confirmed that the cancer had returned aggressively. My options were limited: double immunotherapy or another targeted therapy, Cabometyx. With guidance from a kidney cancer expert at City of Hope, I chose Cabometyx.

The side effects were brutal—severe hand and foot pain that made walking unbearable, gastrointestinal issues, profound exhaustion, joint pain, and even changes in how food tasted. Eventually, my dose had to be reduced, and I made the difficult decision to step away from working full-time to focus on my health. As painful as that choice was, it allowed my body the rest it desperately needed—and allowed me to be present for my family in a different, gentler way.

Cancer has completely changed my life. I’ve lost parts of myself—my career, my energy, and sometimes my sense of normalcy. But I’ve also discovered strength I never knew I had. My faith has deepened. My gratitude has expanded. My understanding of what truly matters has sharpened.

Today, after nearly one year on Cabometyx , my scans tell a story I once feared I’d never hear. Almost all visible cancer is no longer detectable. What remains is a single 1-centimeter lymph node , stable and carefully monitored. The beast is still there—but it is being held at bay.

Every scan still brings anxiety, but it also brings hope. Hope that the treatments are working. Hope that I’ll have more time with my husband. Hope that I’ll be there for graduations, milestones, and ordinary moments with my children.

Every day I wake up is a gift. And while I grieve the life I once had, I thank God for the miracle of this one—the life of a survivor, a wife, and a mother who continues to fight, love, and live fully, one scan at a time.