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.