Life in the Stupid Lane

It’s nearly midnight on a Sunday as I write this. I’m stretched out on the couch, wide awake, listening to Tugboat snore contentedly from his bed across the room. He’s on his back, feet sticking straight up in the air—the position he only finds when he’s fully at peace. I’ve come to learn that’s his tell. When he sleeps like that, he’s happy. Probably dreaming about food. Or getting pets from literally anyone in the building. Either way, it makes me smile.

In a few minutes, the calendar will roll over to the 15th. That means I have twenty-two days left before I learn what comes next in this cancer story. Twenty-two days until scans, answers, and whatever reality is waiting on the other side of early January.

Since radiation ended, sleep hasn’t come easily. It’s not that I don’t sleep at all—I do—but it’s restless, shallow, and easily interrupted by my own thoughts. These nights are strange because they’re both exciting and terrifying at the same time. That probably sounds contradictory, but it’s true.

They’re exciting because I can imagine a version of January where I’m told the radiation worked incredibly well. Where the words “we don’t see any cancer” are said plainly, almost casually, as if they aren’t capable of rearranging an entire life in a single sentence. That version of the future is easy to picture, and it fills me with real optimism.

But I’ve also become more of a realist than I used to be—maybe because of all this, maybe because you don’t get to be naïve forever. I know the odds aren’t great. A coin toss at best. And that means I have to hold space for the possibility that the news won’t be ideal, and that this road doesn’t end as cleanly or quickly as I’d like.

I want to be clear about something, though: this isn’t despair. I’m not spiraling or sinking or giving up. I still have hope. I still have faith. What I do have is a lot of quiet time to think—about mortality, about time, about what actually matters when the noise dies down. That might sound cliché or even a little pompous, but given the circumstances, it feels unavoidable.

This is usually the part where that Tim McGraw song sneaks into my head—“I went skydiving, I went Rocky Mountain climbing, I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu.” To be extremely clear: I will not be skydiving, I will not be bull riding, and there is a zero percent chance I will be spending even a fraction of a second on a bull named Fu Man Chu. I’m reflecting on life, not actively trying to shorten it.

Still, the song does its job. It got me thinking about the things I do want to do, and that list surprised me.

I want to live in Montenegro for a while, drinking coffee by the water and working my way through the eighty-four books currently sitting in my backlog. I want to graduate from being a modestly competent cook to a genuinely impressive one. I want to give away all my bourbon to people who will save it for the right moments—to forget hard times, remember good ones, and laugh at everything in between that made our friendships what they are.

I want to get a bespoke three-piece suit made in Italy, wait until cancer is firmly in the rearview mirror, and then wear it to hit on a woman wildly out of my league—fully expecting to get rejected and enjoying the absurdity of it anyway. I want to watch my nieces and nephews grow into adults who are better people than I ever managed to be. I want my mom to go back to Germany, where she met my dad, before she gave up so much of her own life to help her kids become adults half as good as she is.

More than anything, I want to get better at saying no—to the noise, the distractions, the things that feel important in the moment but won’t matter at all when you finally sit down and take inventory of your life. And I want to keep adding to this list as time goes on.

This isn’t a morbid bucket list. It’s not wishful thinking born out of fear. It’s a future I’m genuinely excited about. That’s why these sleepless nights are strange—they’re filled with both anticipation and uncertainty. The fear that some of these things might not happen is real, but the truth is that fear exists for everyone, cancer or not. None of us are guaranteed time.

Time is precious. It’s strange and fragile and unbelievably valuable. And wasting it—out of habit, fear, or apathy—feels especially stupid once you’re forced to really look at it.

So with that, I’m going to close the laptop and pick up my book. Because I know someone will ask, it’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong, and it’s incredible.

If the posts between now and early January are a little sparse, that’s intentional. There isn’t much new to report in these twenty-two days, and I’ll do my best not to sound pretentious or boring while we wait. Come January sixth and seventh, though, I’ll have a story to tell—good or bad.

And if you have any book recommendations, I can always make room for an eighty-fifth.

I haven’t written in almost two weeks, mostly because these are the dog days of cancer—the slow, uncomfortable stretch where nothing really happens but the waiting. I’m stuck in a holding pattern until the first week of January, when I head back to Houston for scans and, yes, the now-routine anal probing. Never thought I’d reach a point in life where I could say that without either laughing or thinking, “WTF?” But here we are. 2025 has been full of surprises.

The truth is, without any new medical chaos to report, I kept convincing myself I had nothing worth writing about. Who wants to read about me walking Tugboat, or the book I’m reading, or the PlayStation game my little brother and I dive into at night? Who cares that I’ve been learning to cook things I can’t pronounce with ingredients I can’t identify? (Tonight’s class is allegedly Mediterranean, but based on the grocery list, it could also be witchcraft.)

Then my friend Amy stopped by this afternoon to return some measuring cups and to distract Tugboat, who treats visitors like his personal entertainment staff. While I was stressing about my “lack of content,” she said something that stuck with me: that after the heaviness of all the Houston stories, there’s beauty in the mundane. People might actually want to see the quiet parts too.

It helps that she said this in a very elegant British accent—the kind that sounds like M from the James Bond movies. The one difference is that Amy looks absolutely nothing like Dame Judi Dench, something she would want on record.

So with her voice in my head (and yes, it is objectively better than the voice in my own head), I started thinking about the past couple of weeks. And honestly? Things have been boring… in a very good way.

I’ve been going back to work, which keeps my brain too busy to spiral about what radiation may or may not be doing inside me. I’ve been going to the gym again, which feels like getting a small piece of normal life back. I even squatted heavy for the first time since this ridiculous bag was attached to me. Hitting 300 pounds again was an emotional rollercoaster: good because it felt like progress, bad because 300 pounds is still very much 300 pounds, frustrating because it used to feel easier, and optimistic because once things are fully normal again next year, I know I’ll be able to push past it.

Evenings are for video games with my younger brother, whose superpower is turning my mind off better than any meditation app ever could. And Tugboat—my furry little tyrant—has softened enough to follow me room to room. Realistically, he wants treats. I choose to believe it’s affection. If he could read this, he’d roll his eyes so hard he’d sprain something.

I still have thirty days until I get any real answers, but when I look at the last thirty since radiation ended, life hasn’t been bad. In fact, it’s been pretty good. I’ve had far fewer reasons to pity myself than I would’ve guessed, and that alone feels like something to hold on to.

For now, the dog days of cancer and the beauty in the mundane are enough to get me to whatever comes next.

The past week has been slow and quiet—the kind of quiet that would normally feel like a gift. But this time, it hasn’t felt peaceful so much as… hollow. Too much stillness leaves too much room for my brain to wander into places I’d rather not be, places filled with questions about what’s happening inside me while I wait for someone in a white coat to tell me whether the last seven months actually worked.

Seven months. It feels surreal to even type that. Looking back, the time somehow blurred by. Looking forward? Time feels like it’s decided to drag itself forward on its elbows, one inch at a time. So I sit. And I think. And I try—unsuccessfully—to control outcomes I have absolutely zero power over. And that mental tug-of-war is exhausting.

I’m not falling apart. This isn’t a dramatic spiral. But in this stretch of the journey, I’m struggling. Not in a “call for help” way. Just… human. Tired. Uncertain.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to write any of this. I’ve realized I much prefer being the person who seems strong, upbeat, and unshaken by all of this. That version of me gets admiration, which is a lot more comfortable than sympathy. But pretending gets heavy. I’m not sleeping well. My “I’m doing fine!” smile has been powered mostly by caffeine and stubbornness. And I kept quiet this week because I assumed—probably unfairly—that people want the inspiring parts, not the messy ones. I do that too with others, so I get it.

So I hid. Smiled like someone who is absolutely not fine but refuses to make it awkward. Distracted myself with the things I love and hoped they’d pull me far enough away from my thoughts to get a reprieve.

The gym has been the most reliable escape. Now that I know my stoma—the stomach butthole—isn’t going to rip open like a grocery store bag carrying way too many cans, I’ve finally graduated from the Richard-Simmons tier of workouts. And I know it sounds dramatic to say this, but that garage gym feels like therapy. The grit of the barbell knurling. The rubber smell of the mats. The thunder of weights slamming onto the floor. Music loud enough to shake loose anything the doctors haven’t already blasted out of me. It all snaps me into the present moment in a way nothing else does. For an hour, the questions fade. The fear quiets. I just move.

But then I leave the gym. And the bag is still there.

And that’s the part that gets me—because the bag is the thing I can’t escape. It’s the reminder that nothing is normal right now. It’s the physical proof taped to my body that things went very wrong, and could still go wrong. I can bury myself in workouts, books, video games, whatever… but the bag comes with me. It’s the unpaid intern of this whole ordeal—constantly around, offering no help, and showing up at the worst possible times. And maybe that’s why this week felt so particularly shitty—pun required by law at this point—and why everything felt heavier.

Still, even in a week that felt like sludge, something good managed to sneak in. I was listening to Judah Smith, and he said something that landed in the center of all this: that sometimes the hardest seasons are the ones God uses to show the people around you His love—people who might not otherwise see it. That your suffering becomes a doorway for someone else’s hope. And somehow, that idea lifted something off me more than any weight I touched this week.

So tomorrow, I’ll get up. I’ll thank God for another day. I’ll try not to fall apart. I’ll keep counting down the days until this chapter ends and this ridiculous, stupid, clingy bag is finally just a bad memory.

And until then, I’ll keep telling the truth—even the messy parts—because maybe someone else needs to see it.

It’s been sixteen days since radiation ended, which means I’ve got fifty-one more before anyone can tell me how well it worked and what level of surgery I’m in for. I know something is going to get cut out of me—how much and how soon is still in the “wait and find out” category. It’s not exactly thrilling to sit around with your own fate on backorder. Most days fly by fast enough that I barely think about anything beyond the immediate stuff—mostly the bag attached to me like a very clingy, very unhelpful sidekick.

But then there are the slow days. The quiet days. The sitting-on-the-couch-while-Tugboat-snores-from-another-room days. And on those days, my mind wanders into places I’d prefer it didn’t. Is the radiation still working? Did it kill off the cancer? Did it only annoy the cancer and make it stronger, like a Marvel villain origin story I never asked for? Those thoughts don’t show up often, but when they do, they sit heavy. Tonight is one of those nights. Not even Monday Night Football, good takeout, or Tugboat angrily asleep because he didn’t get a single table scrap has managed to shut my brain up. So, I’m left with the only thing that still works: writing.

When I got back from Houston on Halloween, I walked in to find nearly thirty packages waiting for me. I had ordered maybe… three things from Amazon? Four if you count the impulse buy I still don’t remember making? Certainly not enough to justify the wall of cardboard that greeted me. I knew I had people who cared about me, but seeing all those gifts made it embarrassingly obvious just how much.

There was a brand-new video game(Borderlands 4) so I could play online with a friend. A stack of books from someone’s favorite authors—perfect for keeping my mind busy during those quiet, late-night hours when the condo feels too still. And then there were the mystery gifts. No notes, no names, just vibes.

Someone sent my favorite brand of jeans—jeans that do not come in my size and always have to be tailored. And these? Already tailored. Perfectly. Which raises questions. Who knows that brand? Who knows my measurements? And who went full Project Runway behind the scenes? I genuinely have no clue. But they’re fantastic jeans, so the mystery tailor can stay anonymous.

Then there were a pair of Air Jordans. I have not worn Jordans since the third grade. These fit perfectly and were the same style from the third grade. Another mystery. Someone else sent me a Costco-sized package of Cascade dishwashing pods. I don’t know if it was a hint, a joke, or someone thinking, “You know what this man needs during cancer treatment? Immaculate dishes.”

And honestly? Gifts like these—meaningful, random, practical, absurd—they all do the same thing: they distract me exactly when I need it most. Even if the distraction is just me wondering who knows my exact waist size, who is monitoring my footwear nostalgia, or who thinks my dishes are a cry for help.

Tomorrow is a new day, and the countdown will tick to fifty. Tugboat and I are heading to bed grateful for the people who clearly pay more attention to my pant length, waist measurements, and shoe size than I ever realized. Maybe that’s the sign of a good friend. Or a very dedicated stalker. Either way, tonight, I’m grateful for the distraction.

Since getting back to Austin, I haven’t had much to write about. I expected that, and honestly welcomed it. No news is good news for the next two months. But I kept trying to find something worth writing about—and I really should have watched what I wished for.

This evening I took my friend Emily to Canje, the Caribbean spot in East Austin that I love. We were celebrating her birthday, and it gave me an excuse to go out in public with another human and pretend to be normal. That was the plan anyway. Consider that your foreshadowing.

Two hours before dinner, I switched to a new brand of bag. A decision that, in retrospect, makes me wonder if radiation somehow melted an important part of my brain. I didn’t think much of it when dinner started. We ordered a few of my favorites—coco buns, plantain chips, ox tail empanadas. Not long after the first round of food arrived, I felt the bag inflating from gas. This isn’t something that happens often for me, but there was no denying it. So I excused myself and handled it in the bathroom—“burping the bag,” as my friend Ramsey (an ostomy nurse who lives in my building) kindly informed me it’s called. I wish I could un-know that term.

Once deflated, I came back to the table and was having a genuinely lovely time with Emily. She warms up slowly, but once she gets talking, it’s great. Then the second round of food arrived. I pulled my napkin back into my lap and was immediately met with a wet sensation on my jeans. My heart dropped. I moved my hands discreetly and realized the end of the bag—the velcro closure—wasn’t secured at all. And what I’ll generously call “juice” had leaked out.

I’ve had a lot of unexpected fears enter the chat since getting diagnosed with cancer, but this one shot straight to the top, battling it out with “dying of cancer” for first place. For about two seconds, I genuinely considered taking the table knife and slitting my wrists just to avoid the humiliation of the moment, but cooler heads prevailed—mainly because I didn’t want to traumatize Emily.

I went to the bathroom, cleaned up as best as possible, and prayed the kitchen smells would overpower anything lingering. I have no idea if they did, but Emily didn’t seem to notice. If there’s a silver lining, that’s the one.

I don’t have a positive spin for this beyond hoping that someday, far in the future, this becomes a story I can laugh about—or at least point to as evidence that something about me became stronger. For now, I’m just glad to be home, out of those jeans, and sitting next to Tugoat, who is staring at me like he can smell exactly what happened and is wondering how I’m the one in charge.

Before I sign off, I will say the walker joke at work landed perfectly. I still have two months before I know how effective the radiation was, and outside of the bag fiasco, things are fine.

For now, I’m going to bed and hoping this never happens again

Sleeping in your own bed might be one of life’s most underrated luxuries. After a month away, I’m finally back in mine — and sleeping better than I ever did in Houston. Tugboat seems equally thrilled, judging by the thunderous snoring coming from the other room. He’s back in his own bed too, though after two weeks of bouncing between friends’ houses (friends I’m forever grateful to for spoiling him), I suspect his dreams are filled with belly rubs and treats from his temporary caretakers. Still, even if he’s dreaming of others, there’s something ridiculously comforting about having that fat little loaf of bread snoring nearby while I drift off to sleep.

Radiation is officially over, and so — for now — is Houston. I have two months to wait before I find out if it worked. I asked why it takes that long, and my doctors started talking about double helix bonds and cancer cells losing their ability to reproduce. But honestly, it was my last day of radiation, and the only thing I cared about was cracking bad jokes to make my doctor laugh and getting my radiated ass home to Austin.

This might actually be the hardest part: the waiting. Two months of not knowing what’s happening inside me, of trying not to get lost in “what if.” I’ll try to distract myself, but that’s easier said than done.

Work seems like an obvious choice — I’m heading back this week — though I’m not sure it’ll keep my mind busy enough. At least it’s something. I can finally exercise again too, which feels good, even if I’m still slightly paranoid about that damn bag exploding at an inopportune moment. I briefly considered learning something mentally intense, like mastering a yo-yo or Rubik’s cube, but let’s be real — I’d probably just hit myself in the face with a yo-yo or somehow manage to injure myself with a Rubik’s cube. I don’t need to add “traumatized by childhood toys” to my list of current problems.

So instead, I’ll stick to what I know works. Spending time with friends, keeping busy, and finally tackling the eight dusty books that have been sitting on my nightstand for months. At the start of the year, I told myself I’d read one a week — eight in two months — but that plan went about as well as most of my well-intentioned plans do. Still, maybe now’s a good time to give it another shot.

It’s late, and tomorrow’s my first day back in the office. But before I head to bed, I have to admit — I’m actually looking forward to it. For weeks, I’ve been telling my coworkers that I’ve had trouble walking because of radiation. Which, to be clear, is not true. I just borrowed a walker from a family member and plan to show up tomorrow using it like an 85-year-old. I’ll dramatically shuffle around all morning, really sell it. Then halfway through our staff meeting, I’ll suddenly hop up, walk normally to get a Diet Coke, come back, and sit down like nothing happened.

I have no idea how anyone will react, but I know it’s going to make me laugh — and right now, laughing feels like medicine.

So maybe that’s my plan for the next two months: find things that make me laugh, no matter how small or stupid they are. Because honestly, anything that keeps my mind busy, keeps me moving, and keeps me from overthinking is a win in my book. And tonight, lying in my own bed with Tugboat snoring away in his, it feels like I’m already off to a pretty good start.

I’ve had a hard time writing this blog post — harder than any of the others — mostly because this week has been rough. I’m on my last week of radiation, just two treatments left. More specifically, only 2,481 minutes until I can head back to Austin. I’ve been counting, obviously.

But now that I’m this close to the end, my body has decided to remind me who’s really in charge. I’ve started showing signs of what I’m calling radiation sickness. I don’t think that’s the official medical term, but it sounds like something out of an Andy Weir book, which makes it sound a little more sci-fi and a little less miserable — so I’m sticking with it.

In reality, it’s more like the inside of my body has a permanent sunburn. That probably sounds dramatic, but that’s the only way I can describe it. It hurts to move, to sit, to do much of anything. I’ve tried to keep these blogs mostly positive, and there’s been plenty of good stuff to mention — my buddy Dave and his son came to Austin for Formula 1, then John came down from Dallas the next weekend for a great Texas game, and I even had a sip of Old Forester 2025 Birthday Bourbon that was absolutely amazing.

But this week, it’s been hard to keep up the optimism. I know this will pass — I’m hopeful it’ll happen quickly once radiation wraps up — but right now, it just sucks. I’ve been proud of how I’ve handled things up to this point, but when this new pain kicked in, I found myself asking God why.

I don’t always get answers to questions like that — at least not in ways that are obvious to someone like me. But every once in a while, I get what feels like a modern-day version of a burning bush moment (that’s an Old Testament reference, for the record).

On Sunday, I was talking to a buddy from church who’s always been a bit more spiritually dialed in than I am — and who’s been through his own share of hard seasons. He said something that really stuck:

“Maybe sometimes God puts us in shitty situations because someone else going through something worse needs someone good to get through theirs.”

I don’t know if that’s true in my case or not, but it hit me. He might’ve stolen that from Judah Smith, who’s a pastor we both like, or maybe it’s a line from a Macklemore song — I’m not sure and don’t really care. It makes sense either way.

And maybe that’s part of the point of this whole thing — that it’s not always about what we’re going through, but how we handle it while we’re in it. So instead of sitting here feeling sorry for myself, I’m going to get my sunburned-insides self up, stop whining, and go walk around Houston on this unexpectedly cool October d

This week was mostly uneventful—right up until Thursday night.

I’m now through the fourth of five weeks of radiation, which feels great to say. Up until then, I’d been getting through treatment relatively smoothly, outside of sleeping like garbage because of the awful bed in my Airbnb. It’s corporate housing, so I get why it’s not luxurious, but good God does it make long stays miserable.

You know a bed is bad when even your fat, lazy corgi refuses to sleep on it. Tugboat’s been back in Austin for a little over two weeks now, living his best life, probably rolling around on soft carpet and pretending I never existed. The traitorous little loaf of bread with legs will not be pleased when I return next Friday.

Anyway, as I was saying before the bed and corgi rant, things were fine until Thursday. Since I can’t work out like I’d prefer, I’ve been walking in the evenings with a weight vest to feel somewhat human again. That night, I decided to walk to a salad place I’d driven past earlier in the week, on my way to get what were—without question—the worst soup dumplings in all of Houston. Maybe all of Texas. But that’s a story for another time.

So, I threw on my weight vest and started walking through Rice Village, this bougie pocket of Houston where the lawns are surgically trimmed and the houses look like the kind you’d see in an episode of Beverly Hills, 90210—yeah, I know, that’s an old-school throwback reference, but it fits. Big, shiny, and a little too perfect to feel real.

I figured it was about four miles round trip. Turns out I’m terrible at measuring distance—it was closer to eight. At first, it didn’t seem like a big deal. But after I picked up my salad and started the walk home, my stomach started to hurt. Just slightly at first.

I’ll try to say this politely: I hadn’t had to empty my ostomy bag in two days, which should have been a red flag. Infer what you will. About a mile into the walk back, the pain went from “slight discomfort” to “holy hell I’m dying,” and I was sweating way more than the Houston humidity could justify. Right about then, the bag decided to fill—and I was still nearly two miles from my Airbnb.

I foolishly trudged on. From time to time, I’d pass an older couple walking their dog, and I’d try to manage a polite “Evening,” even though I was hunched over in pain, drenched in sweat, and clutching a brown paper bag that could’ve easily contained a suspicious amount of drugs. If I’d seen me, I’d have assumed I was a crackhead.

Honestly, in that last mile, if someone had offered me crack, I might’ve taken it just to dull the pain. It felt like someone was inflating a balloon lined with shards of glass inside my intestine.

I finally had to stop about three blocks from my Airbnb. I sat on the retaining wall of some rich person’s perfectly manicured lawn, and after a few minutes of misery, I threw up all over their flower bed. Thankfully, it was dark enough that no one saw. For a brief second, I considered just lying down on the sidewalk and letting fate take the wheel, but some tiny sliver of common sense told me to keep moving.

When I finally made it back, I didn’t eat the salad. I did, however, spend an absurd amount of time in the bathroom cleaning myself in ways I didn’t know were possible—and wondering if the best way to clean the bathroom afterward was with sulfuric acid or fire. Cooler heads prevailed when I realized that a) I don’t know where to buy sulfuric acid, and b) arson probably violates the Airbnb terms of service.

Other than that little detour through hell, the week was fine. I made another trip to H-E-B—round two of grocery shopping with an ostomy bag—and thankfully didn’t have to murder any bell peppers this time. I’d just applied a new bag that morning, so I figured I was tempting fate, but I love H-E-B too much to stay away.

People keep asking if Houston is growing on me. And while I don’t want to shit on any friends who used to live here (or still do), if Houston is growing on me, it’s an unwanted growth—kind of like the cancer I already have.

The thing that really gets me is the road system. It feels like a city planner handed a crayon and a placemat to a toddler, watched them scribble all over it, and then said, “Perfect. Let’s build it exactly like this.” Somehow it takes thirty minutes to go three miles for a coffee at 11 a.m., and also thirty minutes to go three miles at 5 p.m. I don’t know how you achieve that kind of consistency.

That said, Houston does have redeeming qualities. The people are kind, and the food is incredible—if you take the time to look. I did not do that when I Googled “closest soup dumplings,” which is how I ended up with frozen-Trader-Joe’s-quality bao. In hindsight, that might explain the Thursday night disaster.

But as usual, I don’t like to end on a low note. Right now, I’m sitting at a fantastic coffee shop called The BlackMill, drinking a Mexican mocha latte and eating a biscuit that deserves its own love song.

I’ve found a few great biscuit spots here, but none better than The Breakfast Klub. Partly because TJ, the manager, is the most welcoming human I’ve ever met—but mostly because they just do Southern breakfast right. Biscuits and gravy, chicken and waffles, crispy bacon—it’s all perfect.

That morning, I ended up talking with three women celebrating a birthday. They noticed my pink, sparkly toenails (I’d just had them done for Poppy that morning) and, understandably, thought I was a bit off—seems to be a theme for this post. But once I told them the Poppy story, they softened, and before long, we were laughing about the perks of getting older. They drank mimosas; I sadly stuck with water.

It was one of those random, human moments that sticks with you. And thinking back on it now, I guess Houston is growing on me a little. I still think the roads are a crime against humanity, but the food, the people, and the unexpected kindness make it harder to hate.

By Friday, I wrapped up my third week of radiation. Two more to go. So far, no major side effects—which, given everything, feels like a quiet victory.

People keep asking what radiation is like. The truth? It’s not that exciting. Every morning, I make my way to the east side of MD Anderson and head down into the basement. Down there is a maze of tunnels that make IKEA look organized. I’ve gotten lost more times than I’d like to admit. The only difference is that IKEA rewards you with Swedish meatballs at the end, and MD Anderson doesn’t.

The treatment itself is short—fifteen minutes total. Eight minutes of radiation, seven minutes of setup. I have three tattoos: one on each hip and one a few inches below my belly button. They help the team line up the machine precisely each time. So there I am, lying on a cold metal table, pants half-down, while a giant machine rotates around me, zapping me with invisible beams of radiation right at my tramp stamp tattoos. If you’re picturing an alien abduction scene, you’re not far off.

At least they let me choose the music. I usually go with Zach Bryan. By 7:15 a.m., I’m done for the day—free to rest, think, or just be bored.

I’ve been lucky. My radiation has been easy so far, and I don’t take that lightly. I don’t know why I’ve been spared the worst of it, but I try to use that grace to pay attention to others who are having a harder time. Sometimes people are open to conversation; sometimes they just want to sit in silence. Either way, I get it.

But Thursday was different. I met a woman and her 5-year-old daughter, Poppy. Poppy is fighting kidney cancer. She’d lost her hair and looked exhausted. Her mom mentioned to a nurse that Poppy had gotten her nails painted before coming in.

If you’ve followed this blog, you know I usually have my toenails painted too. It started as a joke, but it’s become a kind of quiet rebellion—a small, colorful reminder that there’s still room for joy, even in hard things.

So I went over, introduced myself, asked about her toenails, and then kicked off my shoes to show her mine—light blue, Frozen style. Hers were sparkly pink. She looked at my toes for a few seconds, then burst into laughter, hopping out of her wheelchair for a closer look.

It was a small, simple moment, but it lit up the room. For a few seconds, she wasn’t a kid in treatment—she was just a kid laughing at some guy’s painted toes.

The next morning, I ran into them again in the waiting room. Poppy grinned and pointed at her toes, then at mine. I pointed back and smiled. That’s when her mom told me that the day before—when she’d laughed—was the first time she’d heard Poppy laugh since losing her hair.

That stopped me.

It was the first time I truly felt like I was paying forward some of the kindness so many people have shown me—through calls, walks, and quiet support (if you are reading this, you are one of those people).

Thursday ended up being the best day of treatment I’ve had.

I probably won’t see Poppy again—her next treatment isn’t until after I’m finished and back in Austin—but tomorrow, I’m getting my toenails painted sparkly pink anyway. Just in case I get lucky enough to see her one more time.

The bell peppers didn’t survive.

Apparently, that’s an acceptable casualty when your ostomy bag decides to give up on life in the middle of an H-E-B. I didn’t know this until my phone started lighting up with sympathetic (and surprisingly funny) messages from friends. Turns out, people have opinions about how to handle a grocery-store bag explosion.

That day went straight to hell, so I did the responsible thing and made an appointment at the Ostomy Center for the following morning. When I showed up, the nurses — who are always absurdly kind — looked at me like they were trying to figure out if this was a bad rerun. One of them finally said, “Didn’t we just see you last week?”

Yes. Yes, you did.

I started listing my problems, one by one, and as I spoke I could see their faces shift between horror, amusement, and the kind of confusion that makes people blink twice before responding. Eventually, we all reached the same conclusion: either I was the problem, or radiation and chemo had melted whatever part of my brain controls common sense. Honestly, it could be either. Or both.

After I told them the whole embarrassing saga, they decided my situation wasn’t a big deal and immediately jumped into solution mode — which, for the record, was both comforting and terrifying. (Foreshadowing.)

If you’ve read my earlier posts, you know I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said goodbye to dignity. At this point, dignity is a luxury item — like a vacation home or a working metabolism. So I shouldn’t have been surprised to find myself lying on a hospital table with my stoma (which, if you’re new here, is the medical term for stomach butthole) on full display while a nurse removed the old bag and started cleaning the area.

Reading that doesn’t sound that bad, right? Still gross, but manageable. Except for when the stoma decides to “work” mid-cleaning — and the nurse reacts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Meanwhile, I’m silently begging for divine intervention. Something quick and painless. Maybe a tiny, hyper-targeted meteor strike that only hits me and spares everyone else. Anything, really.

But no — the stomach butthole just kept doing its thing while I stared at the ceiling, wondering where exactly my life had gone wrong. Eventually, the nurse cleaned up and started walking me through some “new solutions” that might keep the bag from falling off again.

Her first idea? Caulk. Yes, you read that right — actual caulk. The kind used to seal toilets to sewer pipes. Nothing says self-esteem like hearing the phrase “you and your toilet have similar sealing needs.”

I watched as she pulled out a syringe, filled it with this medical-grade plumber’s putty, and carefully applied it around my stoma before pressing the new bag down. She held it there for three minutes to make sure it sealed — and the entire time, she tried to make small talk. Normally, I’d be all in for small talk. But at that moment, my brain was blaring the Super Mario Bros. theme on repeat. I couldn’t focus on a single word she said. Just “doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo” echoing in my skull while this poor woman politely pretended I wasn’t a human plumbing project.

When the plumber’s caulk was set, she introduced me to Phase Two: the giant plastic shield. It’s basically an extra ring that goes around the bag’s adhesive seal, like armor plating for your abdomen. The original seal is maybe four inches wide — this thing felt like it covered half my torso. Manufacturers could easily just make the bag this size to begin with, but apparently, that would make too much sense. So there I was, lying on the table, half praying for that tiny meteor strike right to my head only, while being fitted with what looked like a futuristic Tupperware lid over my stomach.

In case you want to visualize this masterpiece of modern engineering, here’s what I’m talking about — the Convex Ostomy Bag and those lovely Barrier Strips that go with it. They sound innocent enough — but in the moment, they feel like industrial-strength punishment. Still, I have to admit: it’s working. It’s been a full day since installation, and everything’s holding steady. No leaks, no disasters. I’ll take the win.

There was one more thing — a belt. Apparently, the bag has little clips on the sides where you can attach a thin elastic strap for “extra support.” Which is a polite way of saying, “Here’s one more thing to make you feel ridiculous.” I wore it for about 45 minutes before deciding it was unnecessary. Also, it made me look like I was wearing a medical cummerbund. Not a good look.

All jokes aside, the nurses at MD Anderson are unbelievable. I don’t think people realize how much light they bring into some of the darkest moments of other people’s lives. It’s not just the nurses I see for treatment, either. I met another nurse at the dog park before heading back to Austin — a really sweet blonde Asian woman who works in a completely different cancer unit and also has diabetes. We ended up talking for a long time about books, food, stupid diabetes, and even stupider cancer. She had the same humor and kindness that all the nurses there seem to share. It’s uncanny — like they’re all built from the same combination of compassion and resilience that most people only aspire to.

Honestly, they’re a big part of why I can still laugh about all this. If they didn’t approach their jobs with so much empathy and lightness, these stories would be a lot darker to tell.

So here we are — 24 hours post–plumber’s caulk installation, no leaks in sight, and a tiny flicker of optimism returning. Tomorrow I’ll see if this new contraption can survive a workout. I’ve been slacking, and it’s time to move again.

It’s weird, but days like this — the messy, humiliating, absurd ones — have a way of making me grateful. Grateful for the people who show up with humor instead of pity. Grateful that my body, despite everything, is still trying. Grateful that somehow, through all of it, I can still laugh.

Because when life turns into plumbing, sometimes the only thing left to do is grab the caulk and keep going.