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.