For the past two weeks, I haven’t had much to say—at least not anything worth writing down. No big updates. No medical drama. Just a slow, weird limbo where I’ve existed between cautious hope and quiet dread. So, I didn’t blog.
But tomorrow, that all changes.
Tomorrow kicks off two full days of progress scans and appointments—CTs, scopes, bloodwork, and a lovely lineup of doctors ready to poke, prod, and pronounce how the last eight weeks have gone. It’s a lot. There’s the “scope,” which is as undignified as ever, and somehow always manages to feel like the lowest moment of an already surreal process.
For the last couple weeks, I’ve been bouncing somewhere between nervously excited and scared to death about these appointments. Because the truth is: I have no real idea where I stand. None. I’d love to say I’m confident that things are trending in the right direction, but… I just can’t. Not honestly. There have been new aches, strange discomforts—things that might be nothing, but my brain doesn’t do “might.” It races straight to the worst-case scenario. Is it something? Is it nothing? I don’t know yet. And not knowing is exhausting.
Here’s what I do know: I’m hoping they’ll tell me the cancer has shrunk and that there’s no sign of spread. That would mean I could avoid the ostomy bag—at least for now—as I head into radiation. That’s the best-case scenario, and while I don’t expect it, I’m holding onto it with cautious fingers. The more likely outcome? The tumor hasn’t spread, but it also hasn’t shrunk much either, and the bag is unavoidable. That’s what I’m preparing myself for.
People—good, supportive, well-meaning people—have tried to reassure me. “It won’t be that bad,” they say. “It’s short term.” I know they’re trying their best to help me see the upside in a situation that, frankly, is just complete shit. Pun absolutely intended. But here’s the deal: there’s no neat silver lining here that I can wrap myself in. Not yet.
That said, I’ll be living in Houston during this phase, and maybe that’s something of a silver lining. I won’t be running into familiar faces or fielding uncomfortable questions about the bag or how it works or what it’s like. Not that my friends would ever ask so directly. But anyone reading this knows that I’d end up talking about it anyway—because I have no boundaries. So maybe a little isolation in Houston is a gift in disguise. We’ll see.
Tonight, I’m back in the same hotel room where this whole thing began. I’m staring out the same window, across at the glowing MD Anderson sign, wondering if tomorrow will be another one of those seminal moments in this messy, brutal, beautiful fight. I hope so.
For now, it’s late. I’ve got a good book to keep me company—My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante—and two long days ahead that I’m trying very hard not to overthink.
No, I haven’t lost my optimism. It’s still here. Just a little guarded right now, as tomorrow inches closer.