Life in the Stupid Lane

It’s late Sunday, and while I don’t have much to update on my current condition—other than to say things are steady—I did want to share something that’s been on my mind after a few recent conversations with friends. They pointed out that this blog has a pretty overtly optimistic tone. And honestly, they’re right. I tend to lean hard into the hopeful, the upbeat, and the bright side.

That doesn’t mean the dark moments don’t exist. They’re very real. There are the four-hours or more a day I spend in the restroom because my body’s operating system is currently controlled by what has to be a psychopath with split personalities and ADHD. There are the days at the gym when my body betrays me—when I see and feel how far I’ve fallen from what I was a year ago—so much so that I sneak outside to work out, not wanting people to see me on the verge of tears. And then there are the late nights, when I can’t quiet my mind from looping through vivid images of my own funeral and asking what God really has in store for me through all of this.

But here’s the thing: those moments, as heavy as they are, don’t stick the way you might think. More often than not, they force me to take stock of the good that surrounds me. The friends—both old and new—who keep showing up. Tugboat snoring at the end of the bed, finally deciding I’m worth a little love. The fact that I can still exercise, even if not the way I used to. Hearing someone say I inspire them, which still blows my mind because a year ago you wouldn’t have found anyone betting on me to inspire anyone about anything. The stack of books gifted to me, the daily kindness from people curious about this journey, the food I’m learning to cook (even if I can’t eat it yet—I’ll save the chef stories for another post). The quiet mornings with coffee, watching the Austin breeze slip through the buildings. Conversations about faith, family, and life itself.

All of that dwarfs the bad. It’s why optimism keeps winning on the page.

And while I was writing this, one truth crystallized more than anything else—other than maybe realizing just how much Ryan really loves her cookies (s story for another time): I don’t just have a lot to look forward to when this cancer bullshit is finally over. I’m also finding real value in the journey itself. Yes, treatment sucks—really sucks—and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But learning to be present in the now, to pause and actually feel grateful for all these small, good things instead of sprinting toward the next milestone, may be the greatest gift in all of this.

So, does that make sense? Maybe it sounds over the top, but it’s the truth. And because it’s the truth, I’ll keep writing about the good that keeps showing up on this shitty journey—pun very much intended—that is my damn cancer. But I also won’t hide the bad. Both exist, both matter, and I’ll keep sharing them. It’s just that, for me, the good outweighs the bad—and hopefully, it always will.

There’s a moment in the Bible that’s always stuck with me. Jesus, in the Garden of Gethsemane, knowing what’s about to come, prays:

“My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass me by. Nevertheless, let it be as You, not I, would have it.”

He knew the agony that was coming—and still said yes.

This past weekend, I had my seventh round of chemotherapy, and let me tell you… if there was ever a time I wished the cup could pass, it was this one.

The day started out like any other chemo day. Long drive to Houston. Two different nausea drugs. One steroid injection. Then oxaliplatin—the drug whose name I still can’t spell without consulting a pharmacist. Every medication I get (besides insulin) looks like someone lost a Scrabble game but tried to win anyway by adding 85 consonants and a sprinkling of vowels.

The first thirty minutes were uneventful. I watched YouTube cooking videos of foods I can’t eat anymore—because apparently I enjoy self-torture told through Chicago deep dish pizza—and let the drip do its work.

Then I mentioned to a nurse that I was feeling a little itchy. That’s when things escalated—fast, really really fast.

In seconds, nine nurses and doctors were in the room. There was what I think was a crash cart, a lot of rapid medical chatter, and a quick mention that I was “bright red” with a heart rate pushing 200 bpm. Before I could panic, they gave me something that made me feel tipsy for a hot second, and then—lights out.

Three hours later, I woke up to find my chemo nearly finished. They’d pulled the offending drug, wrapped up the rest, and sent me off to a hotel bed where I fell asleep again, early stomach pain already creeping in.

The next day, I felt well enough to drive home to Austin—thanks to Super Cruise doing most of the work—and collapsed into more sleep. By the time I disconnected my chemo pump (no complications this round, which is its own small miracle), I caught myself thinking how normal it feels now to pull a needle out of my chest after it’s been pumping poison into my heart. It’s a thought I never imagined I’d have, much less write down.

Then I made a big mistake: fish tacos. Something i never thought could be a mistake…

If you’re wondering what doesn’t go well with colon cancer that’s already blocking part of your intestines… it’s Cabo Bob’s fish tacos. The hungry side of my brain won the battle over the sensible side, and within hours, I was praying  that prayer Jesus did in the Garden of Gethsemane, myself.

It’s strange, the places your mind wanders at 3 a.m. when your body is twisted in pain. I’ve stumbled plenty during this cancer journey, but when there’s nowhere else to turn, I turn to prayer. I’m not going to pretend it always “works” in the way I hope—it rarely does. And this time, it really didn’t.

I spent three days in and out of pain, talking to God in the quiet spaces between waves of nausea and cramps. For me, faith isn’t a magic fix. It’s that constant handhold i grab on to in the good times and especially the bad times, to help me endure whatever God has planned.

Relief finally came, but it took time. I haven’t eaten much in nearly a week, and my energy’s low, but I’ll get back to whatever passes for “normal” these days. Tonight, I’ll have some water, maybe a little ice cream, and thank God I made it through Round Seven.

I don’t know what Round Eight will bring. But I do know this: if I can get through this cup, I can get through the next one.

Tomorrow is round seven of eight.
Seven. Of. Eight.
If chemo were a Netflix series, I’d be in that part of the season where all the plot lines are starting to converge, but you still have to get through the second-to-last episode before you can breathe.

The past ten days have been… boring. And that’s not a complaint—it’s been beautifully, gloriously boring. No drama. No big setbacks. Just the kind of everyday life that, before cancer, I barely noticed. I didn’t write because I figured no one wanted to hear about the deeply unremarkable things I was doing. But then I remembered: when you’ve got cancer, silence often sounds like trouble.

So here’s the truth—nothing’s wrong. It’s just been quiet. And in my world, quiet is a win.

That quiet did get interrupted by a birthday, though. I usually treat birthdays like any other day. Not because I’m against cake (God forbid) or aging (I am getting old which is odd to realize), but because most years it just doesn’t feel special. This year was different.

I woke up early, took myself to The Carpenter Hotel, and drank coffee while Tugboat flopped on the floor like the lazy corgi he is, occasionally standing up to collect pets from strangers. The scene was so perfectly simple it felt as though it were out of a good book—me, coffee, a dog who thinks the universe exists solely to rub his ears and belly.

At noon, I wandered into BookPeople, bought a few books, and felt a flicker of something I hadn’t realized I’d been missing: anticipation. It’s a strange kind of hope, knowing I have stories waiting for me in both the near and far future.

Dinner was soup dumplings with my gym friends—the same people who were there in Montenegro when the first hints of trouble appeared. They’ve been constant in ways I can’t fully explain—equal parts encouragement, distraction, and accountability. And sharing dumplings with them felt like life’s quiet way of saying, See? You’re still here. You’re still you.

Throughout the day, my phone kept lighting up with calls and messages. In other years, I’d smile, say thanks, and move on. This year, I let the weight of them sink in. Behind each message was a little pocket of love, a reminder that people stopped their busy lives to think of me. Maybe it’s the cancer, maybe it’s just getting older, but those moments felt heavier—in the best possible way.

By the time the day ended, I realized I hadn’t just celebrated a birthday. I’d celebrated being alive in the middle of it all. And I’d felt more gratitude in 24 hours than I have in most years combined.

So tomorrow, I’ll go back to MD Anderson. I’ll sit in the chair, get the IV, watch the chemo drip in. But I’ll do it with a smile. Because I’m not just fighting cancer—I’m surrounded by an army. You’ve encouraged me, prayed for me, reached out, laughed with me, and made this long road a little less lonely.

See you next round.

Round six. I’m back in this tiny hospital bed again—hooked up to machines with lights and beeps and tubes that all have one job: to pump poison straight into my heart and call it healing. Usually, the room hums with the kind of clinical chaos that makes you feel like a walking science experiment.

But not today.

Today, my buddy Don handed me a lifeline: Explosions in the Sky. I knew the music from Friday Night Lights, but couldn’t have named the band if my life depended on it. Now, they’re scoring my treatment session, and the beeping machines fade into the background. (And Ed, don’t get any ideas—just because I’m using this music to ignore the noise doesn’t mean you get to use it to ignore me. I’m not that easy to tune out.)

This is the part of treatment where the whispers usually start—the ones that say, Maybe this is the round that breaks you. Maybe this is the one where your hair falls out, or you spend the week hugging a toilet. The annoying thing is, chemo doesn’t follow rules. Just because the last round went okay doesn’t mean this one will. It’s like playing roulette with your body—spin the wheel, see what symptom you land on.

But despite all that, I’ve been lucky. And I keep choosing to believe I’ll keep being lucky, even when doubt keeps tugging at my sleeve with no off switch.

The strange thing is, cancer hasn’t just brought pain. It’s also brought people. Reconnected me with old friends, unearthed forgotten bonds, reminded me that time is a lousy excuse for losing touch. There’s this quote you see online: Friends come into your life for a season, a reason, or a lifetime. I used to like that one. Now I just disagree with it. Because when I look around, I see a whole bunch of people who’ve come into my life for a reason—and somehow stuck around for a lifetime.

People I haven’t spoken to in years are suddenly back—calling, texting, showing up. And here’s the beautiful part: it doesn’t feel weird. It doesn’t feel forced. It’s like no time has passed at all. Sure, life’s changed—jobs, kids, moves, marriages—but the friendship hasn’t. It’s still there. Still solid. Like it was just waiting for us to pick it back up again.

And yeah, it sucks that cancer had to be the reason. But honestly, I don’t really care what the reason is. I care that they showed up.

So here I am. Round six. A few more hours to go. I don’t feel like I got hit by a truck. I just keep waiting to see if one’s coming. There’s a difference.

And while I’m sitting here getting pumped full of medicine, I’m also listening to good music, texting with old friends, and queuing up Happy Gilmore 2. Because if I can’t be back in college eating bad pizza with no responsibilities, at least I can pretend for a couple hours.

There’s still good in the middle of all this garbage. Sometimes you just have to look for it. Sometimes it shows up on its own.

I’m sitting on my couch—the same one I’ve been sleeping on for the last couple of nights—because I’ve let a few simple adult responsibilities slide longer than I’d normally care to admit. Things like taking the bed sheets out of the dryer and actually putting them on the bed. I really hate trying to wrangle a duvet cover onto a comforter. For some reason, it’s one of those frustrating tasks that always feels harder than it should, even when life isn’t upside down.

Tugboat, of course, loves it. He seems to think I’ve officially surrendered the bed to him. Which is pretty damn selfish, considering he already has a bed in the living room, a nest in the closet, and a small bed on the floor in the bedroom. He does not need a fourth option. But I’ve had a lot on my mind the past few days—mostly the looming threat of a colostomy bag and the fact that I hadn’t been using the restroom much at all. And when that’s weighing on your brain, changing sheets just doesn’t rank high on the priority list. Sleeping on the couch felt easier.

The good news—without getting into too much detail—is that I may be able to avoid the colostomy bag for now. I finally started using the restroom a bit more in the last day or so, thanks to a nasty concoction called Magnesium Citrix. Things… shifted. If you’re curious about the specifics, I suggest doing your own Google research. As open as I am about this crazy shit—pun intended—called cancer, I draw the line at giving a play-by-play of my bathroom schedule. And honestly, if you are craving more detail than that, you might want to ask yourself what’s wrong with you.

Even when things start to improve, it usually takes me a few days to get off the couch and return to something resembling normal life. This time it took a little longer. A colostomy bag is a heavy thing to sit with mentally, even if it hasn’t become a physical reality. But slowly, the routines that make me feel like myself begin to resurface.

The first and most immediate one is the gym. As meathead as this sounds, getting under a barbell really helps. Sure, my body is failing me in ways that are frustrating—everything that shouldn’t feel heavy absolutely does—but it doesn’t matter. Squatting, benching, cleaning, and pressing feel both terrible and amazing at the same time, and I’m grateful for that contradiction. I’ll be even more grateful when Yanelle, Dean, and John are back, because there’s something healing about suffering with friends around. Even if they’re roasting you mercilessly for it. It’s normal. And it feels good.

Reading also helps. There’s a quiet kind of peace in it. I’ve been working my way through a book backlog that grew wildly out of control over the past eighteen months. Right now, I’m reading My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante, and it’s amazing. Sitting in a coffee shop with a book is how I’ve always pictured my retired life. Granted, I imagined it in a small Italian beach town, but for now, the Carpenter Hotel’s coffee shop in Austin is a solid placeholder.

There are a lot of things that help restore a sense of normalcy—but maybe none more than finding someone else who needs help. That might sound odd or sentimental or surprising, but nothing, and I mean nothing, takes my mind off my own crap—second and final pun of the post—like stepping in to help someone else. Lately, that someone has been my little brother. I won’t go into his story because it’s not mine to tell, but I’m incredibly thankful to God to be in a place where I can help him and his family. That simple act of being useful has made all the difference in how I feel right now.

So, with that said, it’s time to change the sheets, kick Tugboat off the bed and into one of his other three beds, and stop sleeping on the couch—at least for now.  Goodnight…

here’s this YouTube clip I saw — I think it was stolen from a movie with Morgan Freeman — where someone asks: When you pray for strength, do you think God just gives you strength, or does He give you the opportunity to develop strength? I don’t know the answer to that question. Probably won’t for certain until this life is over. But I like the idea all the same. I bring this up because this week, more than any other, I’ve needed that idea to be true. I’ve needed this week to mean something — to be something. And I’m hoping all of it is exactly that: an opportunity to build strength, and trust, and faith in God.

Let me start with the good news: Round five of chemo went well. Like, really well. No symptoms during treatment, no side effects after. So that part? Great. But here’s where that strength-and-trust prayer kicks in.

Without being too graphic (but let’s be real, I have colon cancer — there’s no such thing as too graphic anymore), the whole “food goes in, food comes out” system is kind of…failing me. In the past two weeks, I’ve used the restroom twice. Twice. I’ll let you imagine what that’s like without getting into more detail. Or maybe don’t imagine it — you’re welcome either way.

Last week I had an MRI and CT scan. I thought I understood what the doctors said at the time, but apparently I didn’t — which, in my defense, is understandable considering I was being anally probed by three women while they were explaining things. Multitasking has never been my strong suit, especially when it involves literal ass work.

Turns out, the tumor hasn’t shrunk at all. Big suck. But, the chemo is doing what it’s supposed to: it’s keeping the cancer from spreading. That’s the job right now — and the doctors weren’t expecting shrinkage (pause for Seinfeld reference) this early in the process anyway. Still, I didn’t catch that the first time. Probably because again: three women, one rectum. You try focusing.

So, here’s where it all leads: Unless there’s a miracle, I’m heading toward a colostomy bag — even if just temporarily, maybe for three months or so. And yeah, I know, in the grand scheme of things, that’s not that long. People live decades with colostomy bags. People thrive with them. And I’m lucky to even have options like this. But psychologically? That shit is hard.

I can’t wrap my head around having a bag of crap hanging off the outside of my body. How do I sleep with that? Exercise? Go out in public? Sure, maybe it can be hidden — but I’ll still feel it. I’ll still know it’s there. And the worst part? I don’t even know how to make a joke about it yet.

That is when I know I’m not dealing with something well — when I can’t make light of it. Humor is usually my default, my safety valve. And right now, even the jokes feel stuck. Just like, well… everything else.

But — and this is important — I’ll get there. I always do. I just don’t know when or how, and that’s the hard part. So if you ask me how I’m doing and I say “shitty,” know that I’m trying to laugh about all this shit, but I’m not quite there yet.

All in all, I’m still doing fine. I just wish God had chosen a slightly less shitty way to give me the chance to develop more strength and trust. (That was a good joke… I think.) Sorry for all the cussing, Mom. =)

And who knows — maybe the fact that I managed to make this many jokes in one post is a sign I’m finally starting to deal with it. One step at a time.

Ask ChatGPT

I don’t usually write these updates mid-chemo. If I’m quiet, it’s usually a good sign—like, I’m vertical and life isn’t completely falling apart. But this week? Not one of the good ones.

I’ve made the Houston pilgrimage twice in a single week. First was Tuesday and Wednesday. Then again Saturday morning—chemo at 12:30, back in the car by 7pm. Drove myself home. Total genius move. Nothing like a solo seven-hour road trip after a poison drip to really let the existential dread marinate.

Physically, I felt okay. But mentally? I had way too much time alone to think about all of this.

Let me say this upfront, because it matters: the chemo is working. It’s doing the crucial job of keeping the cancer from spreading. That’s huge. That’s the line in the sand, and right now, it’s holding.

But the tumor itself? Not shrinking. Not growing either—but no visible change. And that part’s frustrating.

Last time I wrote, I mentioned that the tumor might be shrinking, just not in the “right” way. That was based on a conversation or two. Then I got the actual MRI and CT scan reports. And in black-and-white medical speak, they both say: “no significant change.”

So now I’m in that fun gray area between what I thought I was told and what the scans actually say. I’ve sent some notes to my surgeon to get clarification, but so far, silence.

Which left me with 400 miles of highway and a full tank of mental rabbit holes.

The first one: what happens if these next four rounds of chemo don’t budge the tumor? Answer: radiation. And with that, potentially, a colostomy bag—hopefully temporary, but still. That thought alone spun me out for a bit. I don’t handle stuff being stuck to me very well. IVs, glucose monitors, whatever—my brain doesn’t like it. The idea of a bag glued to my side catching waste? That’s a tough one to process.

Then came rabbit hole number two, courtesy of a single sentence in my MRI report: Mesorectal fascia: 2mm.

Translation: the tumor is just two millimeters away from breaking through the rectal wall. That’s not a buffer; that’s a breath. That’s where your thoughts go from, “Okay, we’re managing,” to “Cancer’s about to blow through the wall and set up shop everywhere else while I’m stuck in Houston traffic.”

And even though I know my body hasn’t betrayed me yet—that the chemo is holding the line—I still catch myself wondering: Is this the pain that means it’s spreading? Is this cramp something I should be worried about? Will I know if something breaks loose? Can I bounce back if it does?

There are no clean answers. Just the uncertainty.

And I try not to dwell in that space. But solo drives are where those thoughts multiply.

Eventually, I’ll put on music or an audiobook to drown it out. Buck-ee’s used to be my reward stop—grab something greasy and stupid—but now I can’t eat a single thing there. I miss their beaver nuggets like they were an old friend.

So instead, I blast the music. Grunge from the late ’90s and early 2000s. Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots, Social Distortion. Or I lean hard into The Gaslight Anthem and all of Brian Fallon’s other bands—The Horrible Crows, his solo stuff. It’s become my mental ripcord. I pull it when the spiral starts.

And tonight, I’m not driving. I’m home. I’m on my couch, chemo pump clipped to me, watching a sunset burn across the West Austin sky. It’s round five, and so far, I feel okay. No nausea. No crash. Just a Diet Coke in my hand (my one allowed per week), a few tacos still on the “approved” list, and a moment of stillness I didn’t expect to get.

People have come out of the woodwork to support me—old friends, distant friends, friends of friends. Some praying, some checking in, some just reading these posts. It all matters.

This week wasn’t great. Mentally, it was rough. But the chemo’s holding. The cancer’s not spreading. And right now, that’s enough.

Next time, I’ll talk more about what chemo actually feels like. A lot of people ask. But tonight, I’ll finish this Diet Coke, sit in this quiet moment, and thank God I’m still here—two millimeters and all.

Monday night, I drove three hours in the dark, through rain and silence, down Interstate 10 to Houston. I was heading toward two days of tests—an MRI, a CT scan, and some other dignity-removing procedures that have become disturbingly routine. I was hopeful. Nervous. Tired. A little numb.

Tuesday morning, I caught an Uber to the radiology building at MD Anderson. The campus itself is massive—sleek towers of glass and steel, the kind of place that screams cutting-edge medicine and billions of dollars. But the radiology building? That thing looks like it was forgotten. Beige walls, bad lighting, and a vibe so heavy it feels like the paint itself has given up. You walk in and the air just says, You’re not going to like this.

The MRI wasn’t bad, physically at least. It’s just a half hour of lying perfectly still while a giant machine thumps and clanks around you like it’s building a ship inside your skull. They gave me a pill beforehand to temporarily paralyze my intestines (sure, that sounds fine), and then I laid there alone, in the dark, with nothing but my thoughts.

It’s strange where your brain goes in those moments. I wondered how many people had come into that same room, hopeful, only to get news that wrecked them. How many had their lives rerouted right there in that tube? You start thinking about that stuff when you’re left alone long enough. You can’t help it.

Next was the CT scan, in the newer building—the big, shiny one with the massive cafeteria. That’s where you’ll find the Chick-fil-A. I assume it’s mostly for the staff. Can’t imagine too many patients, in between bouts of fear and nausea, are thinking You know what sounds good right now? A spicy chicken sandwich and waffle fries.

But then again… maybe they are. Because halfway through my own scan, while they were flooding my veins with contrast dye that makes your insides feel like they’re on fire, I started craving waffle fries too.

The contrast dye hits hard. It warms you from the inside out and convinces your body that you’ve wet yourself, which they kindly warn you about ahead of time. “It’ll feel like you’ve urinated,” they say calmly, like that’s a totally normal sentence. MD Anderson uses a stronger version than most places, apparently. Fantastic.

So I laid there, half certain I was peeing, half focused on imaginary waffle fries, and somehow that was enough to get me through it.

And then came Wednesday—and the part of the story I wish I could skip.

Before I got the results, my surgeon had to perform a flexible sigmoidoscopy. If you’ve never had one, lucky you. If you have, I’m sorry. It involves lying on your side in a thin gown, your bare ass hanging out in front of three women—one of them a visiting doctor from South America—while they insert a tube with a camera, a water spout, and what I swear feels like a damn air compressor… straight into your ass.

The air inflates your colon, the water rinses it, and all of it plays out in HD on a giant monitor while they casually talk to you like it’s just another Wednesday. And maybe it is—for them. But for me? It was four solid minutes of uncontrollable farting as my body expelled the air they’d pumped in. I had zero say in the matter. Just me, wide-eyed and mortified, listening to a steady soundtrack of shame while trying to pretend like none of it was happening.

Dignity? Gone. Vaporized.

At one point, I genuinely hoped I’d either die on the table or mentally retreat back to the waffle fry fantasy that got me through the CT scan. No such luck. Just me, a sore ass, a 40-inch flatscreen showing the inside of it, and three women doing their best to pretend this wasn’t wildly uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Fuck cancer.

Now, the part you’ve probably been waiting for—the results.

They were… mixed. Not bad. Just not what I wanted. The tumor is shrinking, which is a win. The chemo is doing something. But it’s shrinking wrong. Picture a donut. I needed the hole in the center to widen—that would mean the tumor is shrinking from the inside out. But instead, it’s just getting smaller around the edges. The hole is still too tight. Still too dangerous.

So instead of moving on to radiation, I’m doing four more rounds of chemo. If the tumor keeps shrinking, the hole might widen enough. But there are no guarantees.

We can’t do radiation yet because it causes swelling. And swelling, in my case, would require an ostomy bag. And if I’m being honest, I’d rather get daily scopes broadcast on Netflix than go that route.

So yeah. Chemo restarts Saturday. And while it is good news, I’m still feeling pretty down tonight. I’m giving myself a little pity party, going to bed with a sore ass, and—eventually—I’ll get those waffle fries.

But not tonight

It’s a gray, rainy Saturday night in Austin. The kind that begs you to slow down and think too much. And right now, most of my thoughts are fixated on Tuesday—the day I find out what’s actually going on inside me. Specifically, whether this crappy tumor (pun very much intended) squatting in my colon is shrinking, holding steady, or doing something more sinister.

For most of these first few months, I’ve carried a kind of steady optimism. Not just for me, but for the people around me. I’ve tried to be the guy who believes. Who stays grounded. Who keeps hoping. And honestly, it’s helped. I’ve seen how my attitude has lifted others, and that’s meant more to me than I expected.

But now, just days before I get answers, that optimism isn’t gone—it’s just… quieter. Not unshakable. Not unbothered. Just cautious.

Because Tuesday (or maybe Wednesday) isn’t just another checkpoint. It’s the moment that determines whether all this hope I’ve clung to is grounded or misplaced. And no matter how confident I try to be—or how much I tell myself I’m ready—the truth is, I’m scared.

I don’t expect bad news. There’s no specific red flag waving in front of me. But fear doesn’t need logic. Doubt doesn’t need a reason. It just shows up—slinks in like a shadow—and suddenly I’m spiraling, overthinking, chasing worst-case scenarios like they owe me rent.

So I distract myself. With everything I can.

Friends. Family. Books. Video games. The gym. Busywork. Dumb jokes. Memes. Anything that might hold the anxiety at arm’s length, even for a little while. Most of it works like emotional Tylenol—numbs the ache but doesn’t cure it.

And then there’s Tugboat.

Tugboat is my dog. Technically. But more accurately, he’s a short-legged chaos goblin with big corgi ears and absolutely no regard for boundaries. He’s relentless—demanding food, walks, treats, attention, and full emotional availability on a minute-by-minute basis. It’s raining this weekend, which means he’s even more insistent than usual. He cannot go outside to terrorize the neighborhood, so now he must terrorize me.

At one point today, I think he could tell I was anxious. So, in what I choose to interpret as a deeply selfless act of compassion, he launched one of his toys directly at my face. Multiple times. With great intensity.

Was he trying to distract me from spiraling?

Or was he trying to kill me so he could find a warmer, drier household with fewer existential vibes?

Hard to say. The line between empathy and mutiny is thin in Tugboat’s world.

I wish I had a more profound way to end this. Something tidy and wise that makes the waiting easier or the fear less real. But I don’t. What I have is this: I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got.

And if you’ve read this far, that probably means you’re someone who cares. Someone who’s in my corner. That means more than I’ll ever be able to explain.

If you’re the praying kind, I’d love your prayers. If you’re the hoping kind, I’ll take that too. Even a passing thought sent in my direction helps more than you might think.

I’m holding onto hope, however shaky it feels tonight—and trusting that God hasn’t stepped away for a second. I don’t always feel strong, and I don’t always feel calm, but I do believe I’m not carrying this alone. That’s been true every day so far. I’m counting on it to still be true when Tuesday comes.

So for now, I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep trusting. I’ll keep trying to dodge Tugboat’s flying toys. And somehow, all of that will be enough.

I haven’t posted in a while—mostly because nothing dramatic has happened (a nice change), and also because I figured no one really wanted to hear me rant about Tugboat being a jerk again. Apparently I was wrong on both counts.

Because today? Today brought actual good news.

Now, I know I usually bury the headline somewhere deep in a rambling paragraph about corgi betrayals or the existential weight of chemo snacks, but I’m going to do this one right:

MD Anderson called. They’re stopping chemo.

Not because the cancer’s taken some terrifying turn or because they’ve decided to give up on me and let Tugboat start choosing a new owner, but because… it’s working. The chemo is working better than expected. Well enough that they want to move radiation up by a few months to really shrink the tumor before surgery.

To be honest, when I first heard the nurse say it, I didn’t immediately process the good part. My brain kicked into survival mode: Wait, what? No more chemo? Is this bad? Are we skipping steps? Did someone lose a chart?!

But before I could spiral too hard, she kept talking: “You’re coming in next week for new scans and evaluations. The treatment is showing more success than we anticipated.”

Still, I hung up the phone feeling… underwhelmed. It didn’t feel like fireworks or champagne-worthy news. Mostly, I just fixated on the fact that I wouldn’t have to sit through chemo on the 4th of July. Which, you know, is something.

So I called my older brother and gave him the rundown. His immediate reaction?

“You’re an idiot. This is amazing.”

And while I argue with him constantly—sometimes just for sport—this time I couldn’t. He was right. This was good news.
Hurray.

Now, moving on to less life-altering and more emotionally complex topics: Tugboat.

If you’re new here, Tugboat is my corgi. If you’re not, you already know he’s a manipulative little loaf of judgment wrapped in fur.

These days I get two questions consistently

1. How is the cancer going?

2. How is Tugboat?

And honestly? The cancer’s responding better to treatment than Tugboat is responding to my existence.

He loves that I’m sick—not because he’s evil (probably), but because it means every time I go to the hospital, he gets a vacation. While I’m hooked up to IVs and losing my taste buds, he’s lounging at someone else’s house, being hand-fed, belly-rubbed, and told how handsome he is. I am, in his eyes, a mildly disappointing manservant whose main function is to refill the food bowl and then get out of the way.

He doesn’t like to be in the same room as me. He tolerates me. But send him off to stay with literally anyone else and suddenly he’s affectionate, loyal, clingy—basically everything you hope your dog would be.

Last time I was gone, a friend stayed at my place. She’s one of his all-time favorite people (which is a long list that notably excludes me). When I came home two days later, she had already left for work, and Tugboat thought she might be returning. He heard the door open, sprinted around the corner, eyes shining—fully expecting his beloved Ryan.

And then… he saw me.

He skidded to a stop five feet away. His face fell from gleeful corgi grin to what I can only describe as emotional betrayal, followed by a dramatic pivot and a slow, deliberate walk to the closet where he naps when he needs to disassociate from my presence.

People always think I’m exaggerating these stories. I am not. That dog is playing a long game. He knows exactly what he’s doing—and he keeps getting away with it. Mostly because everyone else finds it adorable. “Aww, classic Tugboat,” they say, while he glares at me from behind their legs, smirking like the little chaos goblin he is.

But—because life likes to be complicated—there are moments that give me pause.

Lately, I’ve noticed that he’s… different. A little more attentive. It might sound ridiculous, but when I’m struggling with some of the more personal, less glamorous side effects of cancer—like difficulty using the restroom—Tugboat is always nearby. Lying on the bathroom floor like some judgmental emotional support goblin.

And when chemo hits me hard and I can’t make it out of bed? He’s there too. Sleeping at the edge of the mattress. Not curled up next to me or anything sentimental like that, but close enough that I notice.

He’s still a jerk. Don’t get it twisted. The other night, I dared to move him slightly in bed so I could lie down, and he bit my foot. Bit it. Not hard, but in a way that said, this space is mine now and you are merely a guest in it.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe—just maybe—he does care. That he’s keeping an eye on me. Not out of affection, per se, but possibly so he can be first in line to inherit the apartment and begin vetting new owners the moment I croak.

Classic Tugboat..