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.