Life in the Stupid Lane

I’m sitting on the 35th floor of an Airbnb in Houston, earbuds in, Zach Bryan’s Pink Skies running through Spotify, and the city sprawled out beneath me like a quiet map. From up here, it’s calm—peaceful even. The kind of calm that makes you forget the chaos waiting on the ground.

And chaos came quickly.

Tugboat got sick. The Wi-Fi didn’t work for two days. The hospital “forgot” to give me my chemo pills during my first day of radiation. My short-term leave paperwork got botched so my paycheck was delayed. And the crown jewel? On my second morning, walking Tugboat, my ostomy bag finally ruptured and left me strolling home covered in my own…well, use your imagination.

Individually, none of these things would’ve been a dealbreaker. But stacked up in the first 48 hours? It felt like the universe saying, “You thought this was going to be smooth sailing? Ha.” I’d pictured myself coasting through treatment, reading four books, cooking like a pro, brushing up on tech skills, and coming back to Austin in November stronger, smarter, better. Instead, here I was, two days in, feeling like a guy in a slapstick comedy with an exploding prop bag.

And yet—here’s the weird part—I’m grateful. Three days of radiation in, I don’t feel any real side effects. Maybe these small fires are blessings in disguise. Each one has kept me busy enough that I haven’t had time to spiral into the fears I carried with me to Houston: What if the radiation doesn’t work? What if I get really sick? What if it hurts like hell? What if I can’t handle it?

So far, those questions haven’t lived in my head. And if it takes a series of sh*t shows to keep them at bay, I’ll take it.

Before coming here, the biggest weight on my mind wasn’t radiation or chemo—it was the bag. The literal one attached to my stomach. My friend Ramsey, who used to be an ostomy nurse, gave me the crash course in leaks, gas, and blowouts. She made it clinical and funny enough that I felt less like a patient and more like a leaky bicycle tire. Still, the self-consciousness followed me everywhere.

That’s why, when my friend Emily invited me to a movie the night before I left for Houston, I nearly said no. Emily is brilliant, kind, gorgeous—all the adjectives you want in a new friend. But sitting in a small arthouse theater with someone like her while your stomach bag farts on its own schedule? Nightmare fuel.

We went anyway. It was a Leonardo DiCaprio flick, One Battle After Another. Loud soundtrack, constant noise, perfect cover. Two hours in, I was thanking God for the volume. But then came the setup—foreshadowing I should’ve seen from a mile away.

Two hours and fifteen minutes in, the film drops into a dead-silent car chase. And right on cue, my bag decides it’s time to audition for America’s Loudest Sound. In my head, it was a jet engine. In reality, it was probably much smaller. Still, as I shrank in my seat, praying for invisibility, Emily didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t acknowledge it. She gave me exactly what I needed: nothing. And with that, what I thought would be my most humiliating moment became just another story. One more absurd chapter in this whole saga.

That’s been the theme: the disasters I script in my head never play out the way I fear. The ruptured bag, the sick dog, the broken Wi-Fi—none of it has crushed me. If anything, each stumble has been a reminder that this whole thing is survivable. Laughable, even.

So here I am now, earbuds in, Zach Bryan still playing, watching the Houston sun sink into the horizon. Thankful for Emily’s quiet kindness. Thankful for Ramsey’s expertise. Thankful even for Tugboat’s stubborn stomach, because he gets me out walking when I’d otherwise sulk indoors.

It’s not the smooth, quiet trip I imagined—but maybe that’s the point. The chaos, the interruptions, the embarrassments—they’re not detours. They’re the path. And maybe, just maybe, they’re what keep me looking up instead of down.

It’s Tuesday morning, five days since my ostomy surgery, and I’ve waited until now to post anything. I wanted to be back home, through the initial shock, and—well—“functioning” as normally as someone can when their butthole has been temporarily relocated three inches left of their belly button. Go ahead and laugh at that with me. It took me until yesterday to be able to laugh about it myself, so you might as well join in.

The surgery itself was mostly as expected—about two hours start to finish. I stayed in the hospital until Sunday. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Pain was almost nonexistent, which is surprising considering they cut through my abdominal wall, pulled out some intestine, and made a new exit point for my body. You’d think that would hurt more, but it really didn’t.

What did make me smile was ditching that dignity-destroying hospital gown almost immediately and putting on my usual gym clothes. By day two, when the surgeon or a new nurse would come in, they often mistook me for a visitor sitting in the chair rather than the patient. “Wait—you’re the patient? You don’t look like a patient.” I’ll take that compliment, intentional or not.

I’d hoped to get out by Saturday, but anesthesia had my intestinal tract on strike. So, they kept me another day. In the meantime, I took their advice to “move around” a little too seriously—walking to Starbucks or Chipotle, podcasts in my ears. Nurses didn’t love that I’d disappear for three hours at a time. Personally, I thought they should’ve congratulated me. Turns out doctors and I disagree on these things.

Coming home was its own milestone. The first night back, Tugboat did something he’s never done before—he curled up next to me and stayed there the entire night. It was like he knew I needed support, or maybe he thought he needed to stand guard. I’m not sure which, but either way, it was exactly what I needed.

No one warned me about the soundtrack of life with an ostomy. Thursday night, still groggy from anesthesia, I was jolted awake by the loudest, most violent blast of gas I’ve ever experienced—straight from my stomach. The vibration alone made me think something had ruptured and I was doomed. The nurse laughed, assured me it was “normal.”

Normal?! My stomach farted loudly enough to alert patients on other floors. That’s not normal in any world I know of.

Since then, I wouldn’t say I’ve gotten used to it, but I’ve gotten less embarrassed—except when it happens in an elevator with one of my very attractive neighbors. Nothing like a stomach fart at close quarters to kill the vibe. Thankfully, most of them know what’s going on and laugh it off. Me? I want to sprint back home, hunt down those pain meds that knock me out cold, and pretend it never happened. Writing this out probably isn’t helping my case.

From talking with my friend Ramsey (who’s a phenomenal nurse) and YouTube research, I’ve learned there are other “fun surprises” in store—blowouts, leaks, and situations that make me sound more like a bike tire than a person. Apparently, this is all just part of the package deal.

This is definitely a life adjustment, but it’s temporary. Six months, give or take. On Sunday, I head to Houston for radiation treatments that will last until early November. The prep process gave me another entry for my “HOLY SHIT 2025” bingo card—literally.

First, they tattooed me with three tiny dots (below my belly button and on each hip) to line up the radiation lasers. Then, during the simulation the day after surgery, they realized they needed a fourth reference point. Without much warning, the technician slapped a sticker on my butthole. Yes, you read that right.

It wasn’t announced with any buildup. Just: “SURPRISE!” Not the kind of surprise anyone wants. But honestly, by now any shred of dignity I once had has long since packed up and left. Weirdly enough, I didn’t even think it was that strange in the moment. I really hope that mindset resets when this is all over, because that’s not the kind of “new normal” I’m trying to keep.

As of this morning, things are moving again—literally. My intestines have woken up, and I lost seven pounds in one day. I’ll let you do the math on that one.

What I keep coming back to, though, is this: six months isn’t forever. It’s tough, yes, but I’ve surprised myself with the strength I’m finding along the way. I hoped it was there, but until life forces you to prove it, you never really know.

I’ve been through a lot—diabetes, nearly going blind, that car accident, and now cancer. Taking a step back, I’m in awe that I can sit here at my kitchen counter with a bag of shit stuck to my abdomen and still smile about it all. That’s a testament to my mom’s influence, my siblings’ support, my friends’ encouragement (that’s all of you), and ultimately what God knows I’m capable of.

For now, I’ll end this post here.

It seems like a number of my posts start the same way: me, sitting in a hotel room across from the MD Anderson campus, the night before something significant is about to happen. Tonight is no different.

Tomorrow I go in for surgery—the one I wanted to avoid at nearly any cost outside of my life. They’ll be placing an ostomy bag on my left side, right where the abdominal meets the oblique and about an inch above the belly button. After my third (and most alarmingly in-depth) ostomy training session this afternoon, I think the only appropriate descriptor for all this is: F%$K ME.

There’s no sugarcoating it—this won’t be easy. And while I sincerely appreciate people trying to be supportive (because really, what can you say?), if you think it’s “no big deal,” I’d like to invite you to get one too. We can treat it like matching tattoos—except instead of ink, you get an exit hole on your stomach! I’ll even pay for yours.

I know that sounds angry. It’s not, really. It’s mostly tongue-in-cheek, because what else can I do at this point but make jokes? The education nurse, while kind, seemed oddly dismissive, minimizing what this thing will actually mean for daily life. It’s glued to your body, dangling there after you clean the “hole.” Tucking in a shirt? Forget it—unless you want your waistband to clamp your bag. Exercising? Still trying to imagine how that works with this thing flopping around.

And then there was the pamphlet a second nurse gave me—some guy in his eighties, grinning while wearing what looked like a cummerbund to “disguise” the bag. Nothing says “discreet” like working out in a cummerbund. I’m sure there’s some solution I haven’t figured out yet, but right now, nothing about this screams subtle.

The worst part, though, is what I won’t go into detail about: cleaning the hole and sealing it correctly. If you don’t, you risk—you guessed it—leakage. I had some wild things on my “2025 THIS IS CRAZY” bingo card, but anal leakage from the front of my body? Not one of them.

So, to quote one of my favorite characters of all time—Mark Watney from The Martian: “Well, I’m fucked.”

But, like Watney, all I can do is solve the next problem, then the next, and keep going until there are no more problems left. Tomorrow’s surgery is around 10 a.m. Then I’ll hang out in the hospital, hopefully not hyper-fixating on my new “exit hole,” until Friday or Saturday. After that, I’ll head home to recover until the 28th, before moving to Houston for 40 days.

That’s the plan. But before I get there, let me pause this pity party and focus on what I am grateful for.

The day before I left Austin, the residents of my building—about 120 people—gave me a care package. Inside were handwritten notes from nearly every neighbor, filled with kindness that honestly floored me. It reminded me how important it is to tell people how you feel when you have the chance. Don’t wait. You might not always get another shot.

It also reminded me how lucky I am to have people supporting me through all this shit—pun absolutely intended. And because of that, even in the face of what feels like a massive indignity, it’s not as unbearable as my mind wants me to think.

It helps too when one of your oldest friends tells you, bluntly: “Stop being a bitch.” He knows me well enough to know this isn’t the hardest thing I’ve faced anyway.

So until next time (and it probably won’t be tomorrow, because I’ll be drugged out of my mind and liable to type gibberish if handed a computer), do me a favor: go tell the people around you how important they are. You never know who’s going through some shit too—and they might need to hear it.

I’m currently perched in a small window sill on the 7th floor of MD Anderson’s main building, drinking a below-average iced latte and listening to Blur’s Song 2. Out the window, I’m watching people and traffic pass by, soaking in a small moment of peace before I head in to talk with my colorectal surgeon.

There’s a sticker on my laptop that makes me laugh every time I see it. It says:
“This too shall pass, but like HOLY S**T.”
Honestly, that might be the most accurate mantra I’ve ever encountered.

I didn’t post an update yesterday—not because there wasn’t news, but because I didn’t want to let frustration and anger misrepresent it.

Yesterday included a CT scan, a visit with a geneticist, and then a meeting with my radiation oncologist. Let’s start with the good news: the cancer hasn’t spread and hasn’t ruptured the colon wall. That’s a win. That should have been the headline.

But that wasn’t the only news I got.

I also learned that an ostomy bag is unavoidable. Even if it’s temporary, it’s still a bag attached to the front of my stomach. From a personal and psychological standpoint, that hit me hard. It’s… well, shitty news. (Yes, pun intended.)

Then came the treatment schedule—turns out, I’ve been wildly optimistic. I had pictured myself done with radiation by the end of October, surgery by mid-November, and back to normal life in time for Thanksgiving.

Turns out, I suck at estimations. No surprise to Jeremy or anyone on my team at work who’s seen my feature timelines.

Here’s what the actual plan looks like: surgery for the ostomy bag on September 23, followed by 10 days of recovery, then five and a half weeks of radiation—with chemo during that time. Neither the duration nor the chemo were part of my original mental draft. After that, I’ll need a few weeks to recover before undergoing surgery to remove whatever’s left. And then, likely, eight rounds of harsh chemo to clean up anything hiding elsewhere in my body.

Which means… I’m in this until sometime next year.

So yeah, I didn’t write yesterday because it would’ve been a rambling stream of curse words, a bad pun, and then more swearing. I try to limit the profanity, if only to avoid getting a call from my mom about my language.

So that brings me to today, sitting in this window sill with my latte and my music. Cooler heads have prevailed. The anger’s dulled, and the question now is: what’s next?

Well, now I move forward.
The ostomy bag is coming—I’ll deal with it.
I’ll be staying in Houston for at least the next five or six weeks. Other than my buddy Dave and his son, I won’t be seeing many people in person while I adjust to this “crap bag” (last pun, I swear).

Then comes radiation and chemo, and I’ll get through that too. Because none of this—not cancer, not a bag, not even the damn chemo—gets to dictate how I live my life. No more than diabetes or anything else I’ve faced so far.

As I write this, I can feel my mood already shifting—upward. That happens a lot, especially when I write while listening to some good old rage rock. Korn, Tool, Pantera, Deftones… you get it. It’s shockingly therapeutic for me.

There’ve been some surprising, meaningful moments recently that I’m genuinely proud of.

At work, a senior leader invited me to give a safety message during an all-hands meeting—a big deal kind of event. Naturally, I got up and talked about cancer screening and how important it is. I managed to squeeze in a few jokes and, yes, a couple of curse words. Very professional… for me, anyway.

What followed was overwhelming: messages of love, support, shared stories—and most importantly, people showing me they were getting screened. That meant the world.

If this experience leads to even a handful of people I know (or just met) getting screened and catching something early—or avoiding it altogether—then this shitty process has another silver lining.

Also: my older brother continues to show up in huge ways. Everyone has, truly. But having a sibling who works in genetic oncology and knows how to navigate this mess? That’s been invaluable. He’s helped steer my treatment in ways only an expert can. I’m beyond grateful for that.

Next, I need to find a place to live in Houston—probably in Montrose so Tugboat (my dog) has some stuff to do. I’ll pack up some cookware, pick out the books and video games I want to bring, and try to make the most of the time.

If I’m lucky, I’ll spend it gaming, reading, resting, cooking, maybe even studying a bit. Hopefully not going crazy in a city that still feels kind of alien, alone except for Tugboat.

Normally I’d be excited about living somewhere new—meeting people, trying food and coffee spots—but with the ostomy bag situation, I’m not sure how social I’ll be. We’ll see. Time will tell.

But for now, all I need to do is get through today.
And then see what tomorrow has in store.

For the past two weeks, I haven’t had much to say—at least not anything worth writing down. No big updates. No medical drama. Just a slow, weird limbo where I’ve existed between cautious hope and quiet dread. So, I didn’t blog.

But tomorrow, that all changes.

Tomorrow kicks off two full days of progress scans and appointments—CTs, scopes, bloodwork, and a lovely lineup of doctors ready to poke, prod, and pronounce how the last eight weeks have gone. It’s a lot. There’s the “scope,” which is as undignified as ever, and somehow always manages to feel like the lowest moment of an already surreal process.

For the last couple weeks, I’ve been bouncing somewhere between nervously excited and scared to death about these appointments. Because the truth is: I have no real idea where I stand. None. I’d love to say I’m confident that things are trending in the right direction, but… I just can’t. Not honestly. There have been new aches, strange discomforts—things that might be nothing, but my brain doesn’t do “might.” It races straight to the worst-case scenario. Is it something? Is it nothing? I don’t know yet. And not knowing is exhausting.

Here’s what I do know: I’m hoping they’ll tell me the cancer has shrunk and that there’s no sign of spread. That would mean I could avoid the ostomy bag—at least for now—as I head into radiation. That’s the best-case scenario, and while I don’t expect it, I’m holding onto it with cautious fingers. The more likely outcome? The tumor hasn’t spread, but it also hasn’t shrunk much either, and the bag is unavoidable. That’s what I’m preparing myself for.

People—good, supportive, well-meaning people—have tried to reassure me. “It won’t be that bad,” they say. “It’s short term.” I know they’re trying their best to help me see the upside in a situation that, frankly, is just complete shit. Pun absolutely intended. But here’s the deal: there’s no neat silver lining here that I can wrap myself in. Not yet.

That said, I’ll be living in Houston during this phase, and maybe that’s something of a silver lining. I won’t be running into familiar faces or fielding uncomfortable questions about the bag or how it works or what it’s like. Not that my friends would ever ask so directly. But anyone reading this knows that I’d end up talking about it anyway—because I have no boundaries. So maybe a little isolation in Houston is a gift in disguise. We’ll see.

Tonight, I’m back in the same hotel room where this whole thing began. I’m staring out the same window, across at the glowing MD Anderson sign, wondering if tomorrow will be another one of those seminal moments in this messy, brutal, beautiful fight. I hope so.

For now, it’s late. I’ve got a good book to keep me company—My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante—and two long days ahead that I’m trying very hard not to overthink.

No, I haven’t lost my optimism. It’s still here. Just a little guarded right now, as tomorrow inches closer.

It’s Monday night, and I am officially done with chemotherapy—three hours ago, I took my pump off for the eighth and (hopefully) final time. This is definitely a reason to celebrate, and I’m happy to have this part behind me. But let’s be real: I’m far, far from through with all the crap—pun intended.

Next up are scans, then 30 days of radiation, and finally surgery. With scans coming in about three weeks, my mind now has plenty of time to wander into dark places filled with “what ifs.” What if the chemo didn’t work and the cancer has spread? What if the tumor hasn’t shrunk and I end up needing an ostomy bag for a while? Or worst of all—what if I need more chemo? These thoughts creep in whenever I’m idle, and since I’ll soon be on FMLA during radiation (living in Houston with no clue what to expect), I know there’s a lot of idle time ahead.

Normally, I’d be thrilled for a little downtime. But in this situation, I’ve been trying to figure out how to keep myself busy—beyond reading and exercising—so I don’t fall into the “what if” trap. Naturally, I decided on two things: diving deeper into security and AI, and… cooking.

Yeah, you read that right. Cooking.

Let me be clear: I am not a cook. But in anticipation of becoming a world-class chef who specializes in the greatest chicken biscuit sandwich on earth, I went out and bought a mountain of high-end cooking gear. Knives, stainless steel pots and pans, a fancy baking pan, a mixer, a blender, a spice grinder (don’t ask—I don’t know why either), and about thirty other gadgets I was convinced would turn me into Gordon Ramsay overnight. The goal? To make a chicken biscuit sandwich so good it cures both cancer and diabetes. Ambitious? Sure. But hey, what’s the point of goals if they aren’t stretch goals?

Of course, I quickly learned the hard truth: tools don’t instantly make you a good chef. My “plan” was off to a pretty shitty start—pun again intended. But I wasn’t about to be deterred. I went back to Williams Sonoma, where I’d bought all my gear, and struck up a conversation with a woman running a cooking demo. One thing led to another, and suddenly I had a chef coming over to give me private cooking lessons.

So far, on my quest toward the super-chicken-biscuit, we started with knife skills and made shrimp scampi. And let me tell you—it was really good.

Now, instead of letting my mind drift to all those dark places, I find it wandering toward food—or buried in cookbooks. I don’t know if that’s necessarily “better,” but at least it keeps me distracted and gives me something to focus on until the next scan, and until I move on to the next phase of this cancer crap.

I’m not sure if cooking will end up being a new passion or just a distraction, but for now it’s giving me something to focus on other than the “what ifs.” And honestly, if the worst thing I come out of this with is a killer chicken biscuit recipe… I’ll take it.

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.