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.