Controlled Chaos Report

A weekly dispatch for Toys R Us kids.

Baby’s First Substack🥇

I’m typing in bed next to a wiggly child co-sleeping but I’ve got a heating pad so I’m in my flow state. Let’s begin.

Have you ever looked back at a month and been like—what the fuck was that?

February, for the shortest month, you sure were way too long. I thought 2025 was sassy—and here we are two months into 2026 and the US is at war, and I have circulating tumor cells to treat. Cool.

In the morning I’ll be hurriedly editing my Cancer (s)care update after having made the news over the last two weeks. I was shot in the face at close range a little over a year ago and I have never been more scared than when I was told I needed a PET scan. Fear is something I’ve expertly managed since being a child performer by dissociating but my nervous system couldn’t run from this (beta-blockers be damned).

I actually knew my positive results a week after beginning my night shoots filming my first ever Hallmark Christmas movie at Walt Disney World in January. I haven’t acted since 2019, so I was caught up in the moment, to say the least. If I’m being honest, I was confused why my husband was so emotional in our Zoom with my clinician. After all, I had HPV until my body “cleared” it years ago. This must be just something minor like that.

So I continued a ruthless work schedule for the next three weeks, deciding against driving my rental car out to an imaging site nearby on a rare off day. Night shoots are brutal, however filming after hours in the parks from 10pm to 10am (past rope drop, mind you) for a month would scramble anyone’s circuits. I was as blissfully avoidant of my future with Mickey ears holding a churro as I was in my early 20s. Patterns have a funny way of repeating themselves.

Cut to February 9th, when I return to the clinic to continue with bloodwork for my hormones, etc. I ask my clinician in person, “So what is this test I got? Why does everyone seem so worried?” I snicker. I’ve been through it all…or have I?

I read his face to find that he’s already reading mine. In a measured and caring voice he proceeds to explain that the type of test I had was a circulating tumor cell blood test where they found and microscopically photographed abnormal cells. Since they discovered that I have them (I saw the picture of their fugly asses) that could mean I have stageable cancer of any kind, anywhere.

I jerk my chin back into my cushy leather chair where I am now receiving a massive IV drip of immune-boosting vitamins for shits and gigs.

“Oh, so like… I like have… wait. What?”

“You have tumor cells active in your body, so that means you might already have a tumor.”

Cue Arnold’s cinematic meme of “IT’S NOT A TUMOR!” as a metaphorical intrusive thought bow on top.

I blink. I blink again. “Oh fuck.” I try to snicker, but my usual nonchalantness is stuck in my chest, which I’m now well aware is trying desperately to expand to breathe.

Then, like Will Ferrell blacking out for trivia in the end scenes of Old School, my type-A Ren Stevens side comes out.

“Got it. So what were the indications at a cellular level that would have given this result? Back up—repeat that. I need to understand. Got it, and let’s discuss my out-of-pocket costs since we’ve been tied up with insurance approvals? I’ll be texting you after I leave to follow up. This has to happen ASAP.”

There she is—only takes a bout of chaos for my brain to function.

I am set to go to Las Vegas to see the Backstreet Boys with a large group of parent friends later that week into the weekend. Pulling out of the driveway, I immediately call my husband, Brendan.

“So… I have tumor cells.”

“I know,” he says, indubiously.

“And I’ve had them this whole time and didn’t rush to get tested,” I say in a hollow voice.

“I just thought you were tough as hell. I asked you while you were filming and I’ve been worried for you,” he says. I can tell he’s still worried, though now there’s a confusing mix of “I told you so” and “I need to fix this for her” competing with his usual light-hearted tone.

I double down on the Ren Stevens coping mechanism. “I’ll be getting a PET scan scheduled ASAP, and from there I will start the protocol.”

The protocol is a process of supplements, eight weeks of immune-boosting treatments, and a five-day fast to essentially starve out the circulating tumor cells. Think of a tumor (if I have one) as a tree and those cells as seeds that need to be filtered out.

And then there’s the fun twist: it’s not just a temporary protocol — it’s now about making life-lasting changes so I don’t get back here or worse. What I eat. What I drink. What I put on my skin. What I’m exposed to. The whole hippie-dippie lifestyle audit. I have to say goodbye to Diet Coke?!

Home life continues. School pick-ups, summer planning, polishing the legal draft of my memoir so we can meet our pub date timeline. But just as I remember sometimes that I have two pieces of bird shot chilling in my eye and skull in perpetuity, I get shook into remembering that my life can’t stay the same until I have more info.

The next day I am filming with my social media assistant, Gabby, and I am attempting to film a “yap” video about the year anniversary of the gunshot and how I’m feeling. It’s terrible. We can’t seem to lock in to film quick humorous viral trends, much less me sit down and get personal about ‘yappable’ topics to batch extra videos.(So goes the creator’s plight)

When Gabby leaves that afternoon before school pickup, I set the phone down and record myself crashing out. I sob. I try my best to choose my words graciously about our broken healthcare system stalling my testing — and about those I recently lost to cancer.

I had just been to the funeral for the husband and young son of a dear friend who lost his battle with a fast-acting cancer two weeks ago in Orlando. He was my life coach post-Covid and helped ease my transition from SoCal expat to Austin-dwelling content creator with his confidence, kindness, and spiritual attunement. He always encouraged me to look in the mirror but now I was terrified I would see his future instead of mine.

My youngest had a birthday party the day after we would fly home, so naturally my tears only started to flow once I was alone packing jelly slime into DIY goodie bag boxes with colorful deranged looking axolotls on them.

The decision was increasingly weighing on me, as it had one year ago with my gunshot post. I had to decide if I would edit, share this, and buckle up for the potential public exposure this would cause me. I’d make the decision after Vegas.

Vegas was a 72-hour whirlwind of friendship, inside jokes, great food, nightlife, and best of all—nostalgia.

I’ve been lucky enough to share close space proximity to BSB twice in my life. Once when I was hosting the 90s Con several years ago and we had a pop star panel with TLC, Joey Fatone, Nick Carter, and AJ. Before that I ran after the guys in their iconic millennium Sears commercial when I was 14.

I had inquired to see if I could sneak into the VIP/Friends and Family lounge after and grab a pic with any one of them. I’m so grateful to have connected with AJ and Nick. Nick was especially open to chat as I wanted to give him my condolences on his brother in person after I had been interviewed for some documentary around his passing. I wanted him to know I only sought to help and/or advocate for future young performers. I could tell he missed him.

Upon flying home, we had been delayed three times and I had to work late hours of the night finishing those damn axolotl boxes and pre-packing the car for the illustrious Austin aquarium. (iykyk)

If it’s one thing that fixes everything for this modern millennial female, it’s throwing a damn party. That cake was perfect, those balloons — bespoke. My baby had an amazing time and had no idea that her mama might have a tumor.

I posted it. I chose to share what having a cancer scare feels like because I was suffering alone and I have a platform where I can reach across a digital device and impact someone’s life for the better. I don’t usually “take stands” or virtue signal. I’m a person who would prefer we live, laugh, love on the internet and make some money at the end of the day through some cute sponsored content. But this story hit home, and next thing I know my bestie Will Gans from GMA is texting to see if I had anything to add to their segment that would go live in the morning. I didn’t. Because I hadn’t had a PET scan yet.

I’m no stranger to fight or flight, but living in the type of fear a cancer scare gives you is another animal completely. I don’t wish it on my worst enemy, and I have been known to be a vengeful person at times.

Hubby and I lock in and get to San Antonio to get the scan on the 20th. The tech gave me the shot that would make me radioactive for the remainder of the day. My nonchalant alter ego wanted to make a joke about being able to sub out of putting the kids to bed before the rest of my brain shut it down with terror. I couldn’t out-sass this experience. Am I dying?

The weekend that followed was not without worry either, but we held tight. Hubby and I had good conversations that ranged from deeply philosophical to practical if I, in fact, had stageable cancer. For one, I told him I’d stop posting content almost immediately. It felt good to say — to know that though I had shared so much of my journey online, I still had the wherewithal to leave and live offline. You know like in the early 1990’s.

“Hi Christy. Hope you had a good weekend,” my clinician gently says on the phone.

“Okay, how’s it going?” Pleasantries aside. I may live in TX but I’ll always be a direct New Yorker when the chips are down.

“Your PET scan was clear. So we will just switch to eliminating the circulating tumor cells with our protocol and re-testing in June.”

My world had been stopped for weeks and only just started back up like a demented old carousel.

As my world began to come back into focus, I exhaled a breath that many don’t get to breathe after calls with different test results. This isn’t supposed to be a “back to normal” moment. It’s a wake-up moment. The scan being clear doesn’t mean I go right back to sprinting through life pretending my body isn’t keeping score. It means I have a chance — right now — to make the kind of lifelong health changes that keep whatever this was from getting a foothold again.

Relief isn’t meant to soften the lesson but rather it sharpens it.

And yes—there’s a flicker of that thought that crosses my mind: What do I say to the people who are worried? What do I do with all that attention? But the truth is, I’m glad I did the test. I’m glad I got checked. I’m glad I am meeting with an Oncologist next week for more information. Early detection is the whole point of testing before your life gets derailed and your options are vastly different. I’ve walked alongside and seen one parent live and one parent die from cancer.

As the gift of our daily life marches on, I am humbled by the various health scares I have undoubtedly had the last year or so. I feel spared, once again, and I live with the knowledge that I am here for a reason. Every one of us has been put on this planet at this very moment for a reason. We ache to know why more than we realize until it feels like it is too late, and the autonomy we have gets ripped away.

So I am reminded through this to believe in living life “one day at a time,” for it’s the dedication to stay present that will help reveal your immediate next steps and overall purpose.

I love you for reading this. And welcome to my Substack. See you next week.

- CCR