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.