Life in the Stupid Lane

Round four of chemo is officially in the books—at least the hospital portion. I still have 46 hours tethered to the chemo pump before I’ll know how sick this round might make me. But today marked a first for me in this whole cancer crap—yes, pun very much intended: fear. Real, sinking, gnawing fear.

Normally, I don’t struggle with anxiety. It’s just not how I’m wired. But this morning, I had a three-hour drive to the hospital, which gave my brain the perfect runway to start spiraling. And then, as if my internal stress machine needed a boost, someone at the infusion center passed away during treatment. The energy in the room shifted instantly—nurses moving quickly but quietly, conversations turning into whispers. I don’t know the full story, but it rocked me. Suddenly the beeping machines and IV drips weren’t just background noise—they felt ominous. Between the long drive, the mental buildup, and witnessing that moment, my anxiety hit a level I didn’t even know I had.

I’m scared this round will snowball into the same misery that hit me during round three—nausea, burning acid reflux, and the sense that my body had turned on me. I’ll survive it if I have to. I know that. But right now, the fear feels like it’s camped out just around the corner, waiting.

My medical team did adjust my chemo cocktail this time, hoping to dodge the worst of the side effects. One of the new meds is meant to crush the nausea—side effect: surprise narcolepsy. It’s working a little too well. I’m five minutes from full-blown faceplant.

I didn’t have much in me to write tonight. But a few people pointed out that if I don’t post after chemo, they start assuming I’ve either died or become patient zero in a zombie outbreak. (To be fair, if I were a zombie, there’s only one person I’d bite, and they live way too far away for it to be logistically feasible.)

So here I am—alive, semi-coherent, and slightly drugged—but still standing (well, reclining). More soon, assuming I don’t fall asleep mid-sentence or sprout a taste for brains.

It’s a warm dusk in Austin, and I’m sitting on the patio of my 14th-floor apartment, watching the sun melt behind the hills to the west. Tugboat—my corgi and self-appointed ruler of personal space—is uncharacteristically close, snoring softly in the chair beside me. Usually, he disappears in the evenings, nesting in the closet like some antisocial king. But lately, he sticks close. Not on me—God forbid—but near. And I wonder if he knows something.

When I first started chemo, he wanted nothing to do with me. He practically begged to stay with my friends Vince and Janice one floor down. When I brought him home, he sat at the door and cried to go back. I don’t blame him. He knows what’s off, what’s heavy. Maybe he didn’t want to be near it then. Maybe he does now.

Dogs are weird like that—instinctive in ways we don’t always get. I’ve read stories of pets sensing things before their humans ever do. Lately, I find myself thinking about mortality more than I used to. Not because I think I’m going to die. I don’t. I believe I’ll get through this. But if I said I didn’t sometimes ask myself what if—I’d be lying.

This isn’t me being pessimistic. It’s just… real. I know some folks will want to stop reading here or think, “Aaron, don’t go there.” But naming a fear doesn’t make it stronger. It just makes it less lonely.

For the first time in my life, I’m writing a will. I’ve got a meeting on the books next week. It feels absurd—like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s grown-up clothes. I don’t have a ton, but I’m leaving it to my older brother—not to inherit everything, but to decide what should be done with it all. If there’s anyone I trust to be thoughtful and grounded, it’s him. He’s always had this quiet maturity—never shaken, never overrun by emotion, just clear-headed and calm in the moments that matter most. That kind of wisdom doesn’t come from age alone. It’s just who he is. We’re wired differently, but I’ve always respected the hell out of that.

I’ve also found myself thinking about regret—not the kind that clings to me now, but the kind that might visit me at the end, whenever that is. My buddy Dean and I have been talking a lot lately, sparked by a book we’re reading called Dying with Zero. The big idea? Spend your time, money, and love now—on the people who matter. Don’t hoard it all for some mythical “later.”

That stuck with me. Giving is my love language. Not in some big, flashy, rom-com kind of way, but in real, grounded moments: shared meals, thoughtful gifts, showing up when it matters. That book put words to something I’ve always believed deep down. Dean and I have half-joked, half-planned an adventure for next year: bespoke linen suits, his ‘65 Cobra, and some winding roads through Europe. Maybe it’ll happen. Maybe it won’t. But dreaming about it feels better than saving for a day that might not come.

As the sun fully disappears and the stillness settles in, I realize what I do want to leave behind. Not a legacy. Not a name carved into anything. Just something that helps people who are walking through what I’m walking through now.

That’s why I’ve been working on an idea for an app.

It started small—a sketch on a napkin, a note in my phone. The idea is to guide people through the overwhelming, silent moments of a medical crisis—especially cancer, but really any serious health issue. Those moments between the doctor visits and the scans, when fear creeps in and clarity is nowhere to be found. The late-night questions. The early-morning uncertainty. The times when you don’t even know what to ask.

My brother has been that guide for me—a literal geneticist with world-class oncology contacts. Not everyone has that. But maybe they could have a digital version. Something human. Something steady. Something that says, “Here’s what you might be feeling. Here’s what you can ask. Here’s what you can do.”

It’s still early. I’ve roped in friends who are smarter than me, better developers, more creative minds. It’ll take time. But if we do it right, it might be just enough for someone going through this without the support system I’ve been lucky to have. A kind of scaffolding. A poor man’s roadmap. A lifeline, even.

The app won’t cure anything. But it might keep someone from crumbling under the weight of not knowing where to turn next.

The sun is gone now. Tugboat is still snoring. And my brain is sketching user flows and edge cases, thinking about how this thing could work, what it might do, who it might help. That’s how I know I’m going to be okay. As long as I can turn pain into purpose, I’ve got more left to give.

I don’t need to be remembered. But I do need to help someone before I go.

That, I think, is why I’m going to be around for a while.

It’s been nearly a week since my last post, and judging by the outpouring of messages checking in on me, I assume most of you did the math and realized chemo round three went… poorly. Maybe I got a little cocky after the first two weren’t so bad—thought I’d be an outlier who breezed through the whole thing. Or maybe it was the 18 pieces of bacon I had Saturday morning. Who knows.

Whatever the reason, things went south fast. By Saturday afternoon, I was nearly bedridden, and I stayed that way until around Thursday morning, when—for reasons I still don’t fully understand—I thought going into the office was a good idea.

For five straight days, I couldn’t eat. Not like, “oh I’m not hungry” kind of not eating. I wanted to eat. I knew I needed to eat. But for the first time I can remember, I just… couldn’t. Which, if you know me and my love of food, is really saying something.

I’ll do my best to explain why—because saying “I had nausea” doesn’t even begin to capture what was going on. Yes, my stomach was upset. But chemo is also messing with my taste buds. Everything now has this underlying metallic tang, like I’m licking pennies before every bite. Even water tastes off.

Imagine marinating all your meals in a bucket of spare change, and you’re in the neighborhood.

I tried a few things, but the only food that tasted remotely normal was an aggressively sharp cheddar cheese from Antonelli’s. I had originally assumed I’d get by with smoothies or milkshakes—easy calories, right? But nope. Another unexpected joy of chemo: I’ve developed neuropathy in my throat. If I try to swallow anything above room temperature, it feels like my chest is getting stabbed with tiny needles.

Room-temperature smoothies and milkshakes are not a thing one does.

Eventually, I managed to get down small bites here and there—a breakfast taco, some chocolate, a protein drink, and just enough Gatorade and water to keep from dehydrating completely. I tried to avoid throwing up, mostly because I didn’t want to lose the fluids I had managed to keep down. My body, however, did not appreciate the effort. I still lost the fight a few times—usually while brushing my teeth.

Pro tip: if you’re nauseous, don’t use an electric toothbrush. Learned that the hard way. Brushing in the shower made cleanup easier, though. Gross, I know, but I’ve never spared you details before—no point starting now.

At this point, you might be asking, “Why didn’t you just take some meds?” I did. They didn’t do much. And when they did finally kick in, they brought their own set of side effects. I’ll spare you the specifics, but suffice it to say: water can come out of more places than you’d like.

I don’t know if this third round is as bad as it’s going to get—I really hope so. Maybe it’s a cumulative thing, my body not bouncing back fast enough between treatments. Either way, I get why people say the treatment is worse than the disease. And truthfully, I don’t even think my regimen is as intense as what many others go through. Which is… sobering.

Today’s Friday, and I was genuinely happy to get back to work. To see friends. To feel normal. I’m trying to stay positive. This is my first major setback, and all things considered, I still don’t have too much to complain about long-term.

I’m deeply grateful to everyone who’s reached out or offered to help. One of my good buddies—someone I really admire and consider one of the more Godly men I know—told me this week that giving others the opportunity to help is a gift. That stuck with me.

The truth is, I want to take people up on their offers. I just don’t always know what I need beyond prayer. But if you’re looking to do something: I can always use book or TV show recommendations. I could use help watching Tugboat when I travel. And I’m sure other things will pop up that I can’t predict right now.

Asking for help doesn’t come naturally to me. My default setting is to offer help, not to need it. So this whole shift is… hard. But I’m working on it. Just know, if I ever call you at 2 a.m. with a ridiculous request, assume it’s chemo brain and feel free to say no.

Right now, I’m trying to put some weight back on—I lost over 15 pounds this week, which is not ideal. I’d love to get back to working out next week. In the meantime, I’ve got some real-life tasks to handle: cleaning a wrecked apartment, washing some very sad bedsheets, and studying for a grad school final that’s due in two weeks.

It feels good to have goals that aren’t just “eat” and “don’t throw up.” I’m hoping this weekend marks a return to something that feels like normal.

So keep the prayers coming. Call anytime. Text all the time. And I’ll try to write more often so no one has to do a wellness check when the blog goes quiet for a few days.

It’s Saturday morning, and I’m still in Houston—same hotel, same view of MD Anderson, and somehow, I ended up in the exact same room I was in when this whole thing started. Only a month has passed, and already, it’s been one hell of a ride.

Back then, I remember staring out this window wondering if these folks were going to be able to save my life. That question still lingers—and probably will until this story finds its end, whenever that may be—but right now, in the short term at least, things are looking good.

I just got my latest blood test results, specifically for something called Carcinoembryonic Antigen (CEA). It’s a protein found on the surface of some cancer cells and is used as a tumor marker to monitor treatment progress. When I started this journey, my CEA numbers were pretty high. Now, they’re back in the normal range. It’s just one data point out of many, but it’s a damn good sign that things are working. So today, even though chemo has left me tired, messed with my taste buds, and made my fingers a little tingly with neuropathy, it’s a good morning. A really good morning.

I wanted to start this post with the good stuff, then shift into the absurd, and hopefully finish with a solid gut punch to the feels. So here goes…

Yesterday, at the start of my chemo treatment, they went through the usual pre-procedure checklist. Standard questions—most of them boring and repetitive. Naturally, my brain looks for ways to answer them in novel, stupid ways. Most of my responses get ignored, but when they asked how my cancer fight was going, I said, “Just waiting for my background check to go through so I can end this fight quickly.”

Turns out, that raises some eyebrows.

Apparently, that kind of joke gets you visits from a therapist and the hospital chaplain.

I spent a decent part of the afternoon explaining that I was kidding, I don’t have a gun, I’m not getting one, and I have absolutely no intention of harming myself. One person even asked if I actually thought a gun would help in my fight. It took most of my willpower not to say, “Sure, if I shoot myself in the ass—because that’s where the tumor is, and I really don’t see any other way that could possibly work.”

But I bit my tongue and answered as politely as I could: it was just a joke.

I guess there’s a line I’m not supposed to cross with dark humor… but let’s be honest: I’ll probably forget all about that by the next visit.

And when the conversation inevitably comes up again, maybe I’ll skip the joke and just say the real reason I’m not quitting any of this: I’m my momma’s boy.

And that matters.

My mom—who is probably a little embarrassed that I’m writing this—is the strongest person I’ll ever know. She raised four kids on her own, including a diabetic little terror (who, to be fair, didn’t settle down until… well, let’s say 40). All while caring for my dad as he died of cancer. There was a time when we were all crammed into a small house and didn’t have enough room for everything—including the hospice bed my dad needed. So my mom gave up her own bed and slept on the couch. Night after night. Because that’s what she did for her family.

After my dad passed, she fought a life insurance company that tried to screw us over in a way that makes me hope they have a reserved suite in hell. And somehow, she managed not to drown any of us over the next 15 years while shepherding four wild monsters into the kind of adults we can be proud of.

And in between all that? A thousand other big and small sacrifices I couldn’t begin to name without turning this into a 300-page novel—and even then I’d probably leave something out.

So yeah—if I’ve got even half her strength in me, I’m not going to do something short-sighted and rob myself, or the people I love, of the chance to see just how much of a momma’s boy I’ve grown into.

That’s it for now. I’ve got room service on the way. They had to confirm—twice—that I did in fact order 18 slices of extra crispy bacon and a latte. So now I’m just waiting in this hotel room, looking out at that same view, and hoping my stomach understands how strong my mom made me—and doesn’t go and do something stupid like try to evacuate the bacon. And if it does? Well… I might just reconsider that gun in this one instance.  Bacon is no joke!

I haven’t written in a few days—not because anything’s wrong, but because, well… nothing is. Life has been weirdly normal. And I’m learning that “normal” is its own kind of gift.

Still, I know silence can sometimes sound like worry. So let me say this clearly: I’m okay. Things are good. Round three of chemo is in two days, and yeah, there’s some quiet anxiety humming beneath the surface. Not because I’m afraid, really, but because I don’t want to break the streak. So far, my body’s held up well. I’d like to keep it that way.

But if symptoms show up, I’ll deal with it like I always do—with dumb jokes, a corgi who only sort of likes me, and whatever version of a smile I can manage that day.

Right now, I’m writing this from bed. Tugboat is curled up at my feet, snoring like he’s had the rougher day between the two of us. It’s rare for him to choose my company, so even though he treats me like a vending machine with legs, I’m kind of loving this moment. There’s something quietly beautiful about sharing space with a little loaf of bread who doesn’t even know he’s comforting you.

Lately, people have asked how I’m doing mentally. The honest answer? Pretty good, most of the time. I’m not spiraling or lost in dread. I still laugh too much. I still complain about dumb stuff. I still end up explaining to Tugboat why the Amazon driver isn’t here to murder us both.

But I also think a lot more than I used to—about life, about death, about all the shit in between (pun absolutely intended).

And while I truly believe this cancer will one day be just another weird chapter in my story, I’ve had to accept that it could also be the end of it. That’s a hard sentence to write. We all know we’re going to die. But knowing you might get a more specific expiration date if things go sideways… that’s something else.

Strangely, though, I don’t see that thought as a burden. If anything, it’s changed how I see the world.

Because I’ve started noticing everything. Really noticing it. The small things. The overlooked things. The beautiful, everyday things that have always been there but never really registered.

Like the walk to my favorite coffee shop.

Every morning, I head out with Tugboat, listening to Judah Smith’s devotional and making my way to Nate’s. That walk used to be just a bridge from my bed to my desk. But now? Every breeze, every crack in the sidewalk, every wave from the yoga people next door feels intentional. Alive. Like God is whispering, “You’re still here. Pay attention.”

And I do. I pay attention to the smell of espresso and warm pavement. To the joy of that first sip. To the ridiculousness of Tugboat refusing to walk in a straight line. It’s all small and it’s all sacred now.

Food has changed for me too. Cancer doesn’t let me eat solid food often, and for someone who used to borderline worship food, that’s been hard. But on the days I can eat, I don’t reach for anything fancy. I reach for history.

Cornbread. Buttermilk biscuits. Frito pie.

These aren’t just comfort foods—they’re pieces of my past. Bites of childhood. And now, they taste like something more. Something earned. Something remembered. My taste buds are changing, and maybe so am I. I never used to feel grateful for biscuits. Now I do. Deeply.

Another unexpected joy? Working out.

For years, I dragged myself to 5 p.m. workouts with Dean, John, and Yanelle. I hated every minute of it. It was hot. It was hard. It was a lot. But now? I’m trying to rebuild the strength chemo keeps stealing, and those workouts have become sacred ground.

It’s not actually CrossFit—calm down, Ed—but we use the gear, and we move our bodies, and we sweat. A lot. And my friends don’t let me off the hook. They push me. They won’t let me hide behind the word “cancer.” And I love them for it. Even when I’m tired. Even when it sucks. Especially then.

So yeah. It’s been an uneventful week. But I’ve come to believe that uneventful is just another word for grace. This week didn’t have a dramatic twist or a breaking point or a medical revelation. It had coffee. And cornbread. And a corgi. And laughter. And workouts that made me feel a little more like myself again.

And it had you.

Because whether you’ve texted, called, checked in on my mom, sent a prayer, or just quietly kept me in your heart, you’ve made this weird and uncomfortable adventure a little more bearable. A little more beautiful.

Thank you for being part of it. For walking with me, even if from a distance. For helping me see the small things clearly.

I’m grateful. More than I know how to say.

I hadn’t planned to write much this week. Tuesday hit me hard — the first truly rough day since starting chemo. I got slammed by a wave of nausea around lunchtime that didn’t let up until evening. It was the kind of day that made me hesitate to post anything at all because I’ve been trying to keep this blog optimistic, and Tuesday just didn’t fit that tone.

But if I’m being completely honest, it wasn’t just about tone — I also didn’t want to acknowledge that things might get harder. Up until now, I’ve been lucky. The side effects have been manageable, and I’ve been able to keep a sense of normalcy in my life. But feeling that sick made it real in a new way. It forced me to confront the possibility that chemo might not stay this manageable, that it could get tougher. And that was a thought I wasn’t ready to sit with — much less write about.

Thankfully, I work for a company that allows the flexibility to work from home, and I needed every ounce of that grace on Tuesday.

But Wednesday? Wednesday brought something so unexpectedly good, I found myself nearly speechless.

Let me back up for a second: I work at General Motors — and have for nearly 12 years now. It’s been a wild ride full of incredible opportunities, amazing colleagues, and work I’m proud of. When this cancer “adventure” is behind me, I hope to transition into the security space at GM under our new CISO. It’ll be a challenge, especially while finishing my master’s during treatment, but it’s one I’m excited to tackle.

Anyway, back to Wednesday — and why I’m even bringing up work in the first place.

I had the chance to chat with the SVP of GM Software. He’s got a million demands on his time, so I was grateful he took a few moments to talk after I reached out to offer help with a few small issues I genuinely enjoy working on. As tends to happen, we veered into life conversations — easy, casual, the kind I love.

Toward the end, I mentioned how thankful I am for one of GM’s best benefits: the company car. I drive to Houston every two weeks for treatment, and having a reliable vehicle makes that trek so much easier. He asked if my car had Super Cruise—GM’s self-driving technology—and I told him it didn’t, though a few generous coworkers had offered to trade cars with me so I could try it out. Just another example of the kind of people I’m lucky to work alongside.

When the SVP asked if I’d like a car with Super Cruise, I assumed it was a symbolic offer — a kind gesture from someone with far bigger things on his plate. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

By the next morning, I received messages from both the SVP and our CIO letting me know that a new car was waiting for me at the office — equipped with Super Cruise. I was stunned. Nearly in tears. The gesture, and the kindness behind it, hit me hard. Our CIO is one of the most respected and beloved leaders at GM — someone you want to work for because of how genuinely good she is — and knowing she was involved made it all the more meaningful.

I know the SVP and our CIO did a lot to make this happen, but I also know they didn’t do it alone. There were others behind the scenes who helped make this switch possible, and while I may not know everyone by name, please know that I see your effort — and I’m so deeply grateful. It’s the kind of quiet support that speaks volumes, and it matters more than I can say.

In the grand scheme of things, it might seem like a small gesture. But practically and emotionally, it made a world of difference. If you’ve never used Super Cruise, it’s a hands-off, feet-off-the-pedals driving experience that sounds futuristic until you try it — and then you wonder how you ever lived without it. For someone like me, coming home from MD Anderson with a chemo pump strapped to my side, it’s not just convenient — it’s a lifeline.

But more than that, this experience reminded me of something bigger: the goodness of people. Titles, positions, power — none of it matters when someone chooses to show up, to help, simply because it’s the right thing to do.

There’s so much noise out there, so many stories that chip away at your faith in humanity. I just wanted to share this one — a reminder that the good is still out there. Sometimes quiet, sometimes unexpected, but always powerful.

It’s about 6 a.m., and Tugboat is lying on the floor next to the bed, staring at me like I’ve failed him somehow. The list of possible infractions is long—maybe I didn’t wake up early enough, or maybe I just exist in a way that displeases him this morning. It’s hard to say.

I tried to write this post last night but got too tired to finish. That’s probably the first clear side effect I’ve noticed from chemo: fatigue. I’m sleeping more during treatment—for better or worse. Still, if this is the worst of it, I’ll take it. It feels strange to use the word “lucky” in the context of cancer, but I’ve always believed in silver linings.

Yesterday, I disconnected my chemo pump for the second time.

The first time was… a bit of a disaster. There was an alarming amount of blood coming from the chemo line—the one that connects directly to my heart. There were a few moments of panic, disbelief, and a growing sense that something had gone very wrong. It’s not the kind of thing you forget. So this time, I made sure to avoid the mistakes that led to that mess.

Still, in typical fashion, there was a complication. Wouldn’t be a proper update without one.

I’d made it all the way home from MD Anderson without the saline flush or the anti-clotting medication required to safely disconnect from the port. You need to flush the line and then prevent clotting—because, obviously, you don’t want a clot traveling to your heart. Kind of important.

I called the hospital. They called pharmacies. I called pharmacies. No one within a hundred miles had it. Because of the holiday, the earliest I could get it was Tuesday. At one point, the only real option seemed to be driving all the way back to Houston—an idea that was only slightly more appealing than ripping the thing out and hoping for the best.

Fortunately, a friend of a friend—who also has a chemo port and happens to be a nurse—had exactly what I needed. Total lifesaver.

By that point, I was more than ready to get the tube out. Having a line connected directly to your heart is… unsettling. I prepped everything carefully, determined not to repeat my previous mistakes. And for the most part, things went smoothly.

Mostly.

I forgot to remove the air from the saline syringe before connecting it. Somehow—through luck, divine oversight, or sheer grace—I avoided injecting an air bubble into my heart. I’m still not entirely sure what would’ve happened. Google’s range of answers goes from “nothing at all” to “instant death.” Which is always fun to read mid-crisis.

One of those moments where the phrase “What’s the worst that could happen?” deserves a pause.

It’s still surreal to realize that there’s a tube running from outside my body directly into my heart—and that this is, somehow, the safest and most effective way to receive treatment. I can’t help but wonder who first pitched this idea. How do you convince someone to let you stick a line into their heart to deliver poison, with the promise it might heal them? That person was either wildly persuasive… or a master of the dark arts who used voodoo, hypnosis, or some unholy combination of both to get someone to agree. Either way, I’m grateful they did—because I’m not sure what the alternative would’ve been.

Round two is done. Tugboat is still mad that I interrupted whatever vacation he thought he was having while i was gone. But I’m home, the pump is off, and for now—hope is still holding steady.

A little over eight hours ago, I wrapped up my second round of in-person chemo at MD Anderson. I’m spending the night here—mostly out of caution, unsure how my body would react this time around. So far? Honestly, pretty uneventful. I still have a chemo pump attached to a tube that goes straight to my heart, tucked inside a fanny pack that now feels like an unfortunate fashion statement. I doubt I’ll ever get used to that part.

But here’s what has improved: the awful mechanical churning sound that came with the pump last round, the one that made me nauseous, has been silenced. Credit goes to my oldest friend Zac, who sent me a white noise machine shaped like a marshmallow. It lives inside the fanny pack now, drowning out the chemo noise with soft, whooshing peace. Brilliant, Zac. Truly.

This time, I came to Houston alone. Not because no one offered—on the contrary, the support has been overwhelming—but I wanted to see if I could do this solo. So far, I can. We’ll see how long that lasts. At some point, I’ll need help. Definitely around surgery time.

Until then, people seem to really want to help by watching Tugboat, my dog. He’s living his best life right now. My friend Leah is house-sitting this weekend with her dog Peaches—Tugboat’s bestie—so he’s got 48 hours of nonstop dog party. I offered the same to him myself, but he still prefers to curl up in a closet by himself rather than hang out with me—his food-dispensing manservant.

The hardest part of treatment right now isn’t physical. It’s informational overload. There’s a blood marker called CEA—carcinoembryonic antigen—that helps monitor how the treatment is going. Sounds useful, right? And it is. But also? It’s a fresh slice of psychological torture. Before each chemo round, they draw blood. The CEA results land in my patient portal the next day, and for the next 24 hours, I refresh the page like a backup quarterback waiting to see if he’s been cut. (Football metaphors are weirdly common at the hospital, so my brain’s just rolling with it.)

Also difficult, in a much dumber way: I cope with humor. But chemo nurses have heard it all. So when I drop what I think is a novel line, I get the kind of polite, half-hearted laugh usually reserved for office birthday cards. Like when people call me “A-A-Ron,” thinking they’re the first to come up with it. I laugh politely. Every time. Because I’m a gentleman. But originality is dead.

So naturally, I’ve resorted to dark humor. My brother kept that impulse in check last time. He’s the smarter one. But he wasn’t here today, so I unleashed the full force of my broken brain.

Case in point: every time a nurse scans my wristband, they ask me to confirm my name and birthdate. This time, I clutched my head dramatically, winced, and said, “Every time I try to recall anything about myself, my brain catches fire and I lose the ability to see.” I thought it was hilarious. They… did not. But hey—at least it was clearly original.

When they asked how the fight was going, I said I’d applied for a gun license so I could make it a one-sided fight. Still no laughs. Tough crowd.

(Just to be absolutely clear: I don’t own a gun. I’m not planning to get one. This is a joke. Please don’t call my mom.)

Anyway. Round two? Pretty quiet. Tomorrow I’ll drive home, probably listening to something soothing.

Today, I revisited one of my favorite episodes from The Memory Palace by Nate DiMeo. I’ve listened to it a few times before, but I came back to it today because it always hits me in the right way. The episode is called “Wake,” and it tells the story of Tim Wakefield, the knuckleball pitcher who spent 17 years with the Red Sox before dying of cancer at 57.

The episode ends like this:

“You throw the ball.
You hope for the best.
You don’t control where it goes.
I am better off having watched him throw.”

Those four lines? They’re the perfect metaphor. For baseball. For cancer. For life right now. And I am better off for having heard that episode.

Listen to “Wake” here → https://thememorypalace.us/wake-2/

I’ve noticed something lately with a few of my closest friends. Since my diagnosis, when we talk, they start shrinking their own struggles—minimizing them, brushing them aside, or not even bringing them up at all. I assume it’s because they don’t want to seem like they’re comparing their problems to mine.

And honestly? That’s stupid.

Let me be clear: they aren’t stupid. Not at all. They’re thoughtful, kind, considerate people who are trying to protect me in the best way they know how. But the idea—that your problems are somehow less important because I have cancer—is just… stupid.

I know some of you are reading this right now. And you know who you are.

Everyone has something going on. And just because mine comes with a scary label doesn’t mean yours suddenly becomes less real, less painful, or less deserving of attention.

One friend in particular (who would absolutely kick me in the head if I named her—and she could, because her legs are approximately eight feet long) has been struggling with self-esteem. It kills me to know that. And what makes it worse is that she didn’t want to talk to me about it… because of cancer.

Seriously?

Let me tell you about this woman.

She’s a statuesque blonde—fit in that effortless, unfair kind of way that most people would secretly kill for—but somehow, she never makes anyone feel less than around her. She’s got these ridiculously kind eyes that make you forget what you were saying, and a smile that literally makes guys on the Town Lake trail stop mid-stride, spin around, and walk past again hoping they’ll get another shot at being the reason she smiled. I’ve watched it happen. Repeatedly. It’s kind of hilarious.

But what really gets you is the rest of her. She’s kind. Like genuinely, deeply kind. The kind of person who listens when you talk and actually hears you. She’s thoughtful, humble, and has this quiet empathy that just makes you feel seen. And if you did want to be jealous, good luck—because she makes it impossible. She’s strong, too—not just physically, though she absolutely is—but in the way she carries herself. Solid. Sure of who she is. Able to handle whatever’s in front of her.

And the wildest part? She can’t see any of that. Because of her self-esteem struggles, she doesn’t view herself this way—which blows my mind. Like, truly blows my mind. I see her so clearly. I wish she could see herself even half as clearly.

I hate that she’s hurting. I hate even more that she feels like she has to bottle it up around me—like somehow my cancer has earned a monopoly on pain.

Because here’s the truth: in the grand scheme of things, my problem is no bigger or smaller than hers. If either one of us ignores what’s eating us alive—whether it’s cancer or self-doubt—things get bad. Real bad. The outcomes of neglect can be terrible for both.

But maybe the part that cuts the deepest is this: when people hold back their pain, I get robbed of the thing I love most—the chance to help someone I care about.

And look, I get it. I’m not always going to have a solution. Like my buddy in Chicago with the degenerative back. Aside from sending him bourbon (which, let’s be honest, I do consider a helpful contribution), there’s not a lot I can fix there. But he still keeps it to himself now because he thinks my situation is “worse.”

That’s that same stupid thinking again. (Not calling you stupid, my friend. Just your logic.)

He’s one of the smartest people I know—miles ahead of me in brainpower—but even smart people fall into this trap.

So here’s the real point of this late-night ramble:
Your problems matter.
Your pain matters.
Your voice matters.

Just because I have cancer doesn’t mean I stop being a friend. I don’t stop wanting to be there for you. Just like you show up for me—again and again—I want the chance to show up for you.

Don’t let stupid cancer change the way we love and support each other. If you were open with me before, keep being open now. Whatever it is—self-esteem, back pain, relationships, finances—I still care. I still want to care.

I’m writing this for one particular, amazing friend—the same one I mentioned earlier—who I know will read this tomorrow. And I hope when she does, she really hears me: your pain matters, too. I want you to reach out more, not less. Let me be there. Like I always would’ve been. Like I still am.

But this isn’t just for her. It’s for every friend who’s convinced they need to “protect me” from their struggles now. Please don’t. That’s not how this works. That’s not how we work.

Let me show up for you.
Let me keep being me.

And if you’re someone who’s been praying for me—first, thank you. That means more than I can say. But if you’ve got room in your prayers, send a little her way too. She needs it. Maybe more than I do right now.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk on problems.

It’s been a relatively quiet week on the cancer front. No major developments, no surprises. Just the slow, strange countdown to chemo round two, which starts Friday morning.

I’m not exactly excited. But I am curious—to see if this round goes as smoothly as the first, to see if the lack of symptoms continues, and to check another one off the list. Progress, even when it sucks, is still progress.

The thing I’m really dreading is this: they’ll be accessing my chemo port while I’m awake for the first time. Last time, I was good and drugged when they did it—zero recollection, zero discomfort. This time, I’ll be fully conscious and expecting something that probably feels like getting stabbed in the chest with a thumbtack. A very precise, well-meaning thumbtack. How’s that for a visual?

With not much else to report in Cancerland, I won’t bore you with the everyday monotony of life in between. But I do want to share a couple bright moments that meant the world to me this week.

First, I got to see my friends Ryan and Liz—wonderful people I met back when I attended a church in North Austin, where Ryan was a pastor. They had a birthday party over the weekend, and just spending a few minutes talking with Ryan was good for my soul. There’s something about being around men of faith that centers me in a way I hadn’t realized I was missing.

While chatting with Liz, she showed me a pair of navy heather socks she’s knitting for me. Turns out one common side effect of chemo is cold hands and feet, and she wanted to help. I wish I could explain what that moment felt like. They were so simple, so thoughtful, and so beautiful that I nearly cried right there in front of 50 strangers. They just radiated love and care in a way that was almost too much—in the best possible way.

The second thing that hit me this week was the sheer volume of love I’ve received. It’s hard to describe. I think most of us wonder, at some point in our lives, who would actually show up when things get hard—when you’re sick, scared, or just need help. For me, the answer has been: everyone. Literally everyone. I don’t say that as a feel-good exaggeration. I mean it.

Friends, family, old coworkers, people who mostly just know me as Tugboat’s owner—they’ve all stepped in with kindness, prayers, food, support, and small things that don’t feel small at all.

It’s been overwhelming in the most beautiful way. And it’s reminded me that even in a world that can feel loud and dark and messy, there’s still so much good. So many people carrying light. So many little kindnesses that matter more than they know.

Anyway, this is starting to sound like the kind of post you’d see on Instagram with a softly lit background and the word “grateful” in calligraphy over the top. So I’ll wrap it up here.

One final note: while I deeply appreciate all the friends offering to “help” by drinking my good bourbon in my honor—that’s not the kind of support I’m cashing in on just yet. But give me time. Once I’m through this and cleared to raise a glass again, I’ll be calling in those offers. And we’ll share it together.