It’s Saturday morning, and I’m still in Houston—same hotel, same view of MD Anderson, and somehow, I ended up in the exact same room I was in when this whole thing started. Only a month has passed, and already, it’s been one hell of a ride.

Back then, I remember staring out this window wondering if these folks were going to be able to save my life. That question still lingers—and probably will until this story finds its end, whenever that may be—but right now, in the short term at least, things are looking good.

I just got my latest blood test results, specifically for something called Carcinoembryonic Antigen (CEA). It’s a protein found on the surface of some cancer cells and is used as a tumor marker to monitor treatment progress. When I started this journey, my CEA numbers were pretty high. Now, they’re back in the normal range. It’s just one data point out of many, but it’s a damn good sign that things are working. So today, even though chemo has left me tired, messed with my taste buds, and made my fingers a little tingly with neuropathy, it’s a good morning. A really good morning.

I wanted to start this post with the good stuff, then shift into the absurd, and hopefully finish with a solid gut punch to the feels. So here goes…

Yesterday, at the start of my chemo treatment, they went through the usual pre-procedure checklist. Standard questions—most of them boring and repetitive. Naturally, my brain looks for ways to answer them in novel, stupid ways. Most of my responses get ignored, but when they asked how my cancer fight was going, I said, “Just waiting for my background check to go through so I can end this fight quickly.”

Turns out, that raises some eyebrows.

Apparently, that kind of joke gets you visits from a therapist and the hospital chaplain.

I spent a decent part of the afternoon explaining that I was kidding, I don’t have a gun, I’m not getting one, and I have absolutely no intention of harming myself. One person even asked if I actually thought a gun would help in my fight. It took most of my willpower not to say, “Sure, if I shoot myself in the ass—because that’s where the tumor is, and I really don’t see any other way that could possibly work.”

But I bit my tongue and answered as politely as I could: it was just a joke.

I guess there’s a line I’m not supposed to cross with dark humor… but let’s be honest: I’ll probably forget all about that by the next visit.

And when the conversation inevitably comes up again, maybe I’ll skip the joke and just say the real reason I’m not quitting any of this: I’m my momma’s boy.

And that matters.

My mom—who is probably a little embarrassed that I’m writing this—is the strongest person I’ll ever know. She raised four kids on her own, including a diabetic little terror (who, to be fair, didn’t settle down until… well, let’s say 40). All while caring for my dad as he died of cancer. There was a time when we were all crammed into a small house and didn’t have enough room for everything—including the hospice bed my dad needed. So my mom gave up her own bed and slept on the couch. Night after night. Because that’s what she did for her family.

After my dad passed, she fought a life insurance company that tried to screw us over in a way that makes me hope they have a reserved suite in hell. And somehow, she managed not to drown any of us over the next 15 years while shepherding four wild monsters into the kind of adults we can be proud of.

And in between all that? A thousand other big and small sacrifices I couldn’t begin to name without turning this into a 300-page novel—and even then I’d probably leave something out.

So yeah—if I’ve got even half her strength in me, I’m not going to do something short-sighted and rob myself, or the people I love, of the chance to see just how much of a momma’s boy I’ve grown into.

That’s it for now. I’ve got room service on the way. They had to confirm—twice—that I did in fact order 18 slices of extra crispy bacon and a latte. So now I’m just waiting in this hotel room, looking out at that same view, and hoping my stomach understands how strong my mom made me—and doesn’t go and do something stupid like try to evacuate the bacon. And if it does? Well… I might just reconsider that gun in this one instance.  Bacon is no joke!

I haven’t written in a few days—not because anything’s wrong, but because, well… nothing is. Life has been weirdly normal. And I’m learning that “normal” is its own kind of gift.

Still, I know silence can sometimes sound like worry. So let me say this clearly: I’m okay. Things are good. Round three of chemo is in two days, and yeah, there’s some quiet anxiety humming beneath the surface. Not because I’m afraid, really, but because I don’t want to break the streak. So far, my body’s held up well. I’d like to keep it that way.

But if symptoms show up, I’ll deal with it like I always do—with dumb jokes, a corgi who only sort of likes me, and whatever version of a smile I can manage that day.

Right now, I’m writing this from bed. Tugboat is curled up at my feet, snoring like he’s had the rougher day between the two of us. It’s rare for him to choose my company, so even though he treats me like a vending machine with legs, I’m kind of loving this moment. There’s something quietly beautiful about sharing space with a little loaf of bread who doesn’t even know he’s comforting you.

Lately, people have asked how I’m doing mentally. The honest answer? Pretty good, most of the time. I’m not spiraling or lost in dread. I still laugh too much. I still complain about dumb stuff. I still end up explaining to Tugboat why the Amazon driver isn’t here to murder us both.

But I also think a lot more than I used to—about life, about death, about all the shit in between (pun absolutely intended).

And while I truly believe this cancer will one day be just another weird chapter in my story, I’ve had to accept that it could also be the end of it. That’s a hard sentence to write. We all know we’re going to die. But knowing you might get a more specific expiration date if things go sideways… that’s something else.

Strangely, though, I don’t see that thought as a burden. If anything, it’s changed how I see the world.

Because I’ve started noticing everything. Really noticing it. The small things. The overlooked things. The beautiful, everyday things that have always been there but never really registered.

Like the walk to my favorite coffee shop.

Every morning, I head out with Tugboat, listening to Judah Smith’s devotional and making my way to Nate’s. That walk used to be just a bridge from my bed to my desk. But now? Every breeze, every crack in the sidewalk, every wave from the yoga people next door feels intentional. Alive. Like God is whispering, “You’re still here. Pay attention.”

And I do. I pay attention to the smell of espresso and warm pavement. To the joy of that first sip. To the ridiculousness of Tugboat refusing to walk in a straight line. It’s all small and it’s all sacred now.

Food has changed for me too. Cancer doesn’t let me eat solid food often, and for someone who used to borderline worship food, that’s been hard. But on the days I can eat, I don’t reach for anything fancy. I reach for history.

Cornbread. Buttermilk biscuits. Frito pie.

These aren’t just comfort foods—they’re pieces of my past. Bites of childhood. And now, they taste like something more. Something earned. Something remembered. My taste buds are changing, and maybe so am I. I never used to feel grateful for biscuits. Now I do. Deeply.

Another unexpected joy? Working out.

For years, I dragged myself to 5 p.m. workouts with Dean, John, and Yanelle. I hated every minute of it. It was hot. It was hard. It was a lot. But now? I’m trying to rebuild the strength chemo keeps stealing, and those workouts have become sacred ground.

It’s not actually CrossFit—calm down, Ed—but we use the gear, and we move our bodies, and we sweat. A lot. And my friends don’t let me off the hook. They push me. They won’t let me hide behind the word “cancer.” And I love them for it. Even when I’m tired. Even when it sucks. Especially then.

So yeah. It’s been an uneventful week. But I’ve come to believe that uneventful is just another word for grace. This week didn’t have a dramatic twist or a breaking point or a medical revelation. It had coffee. And cornbread. And a corgi. And laughter. And workouts that made me feel a little more like myself again.

And it had you.

Because whether you’ve texted, called, checked in on my mom, sent a prayer, or just quietly kept me in your heart, you’ve made this weird and uncomfortable adventure a little more bearable. A little more beautiful.

Thank you for being part of it. For walking with me, even if from a distance. For helping me see the small things clearly.

I’m grateful. More than I know how to say.