Life in the Stupid Lane

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.

My buddy at work, Jeremy, always says, “Don’t speak that evil into existence.” It cracks us up every time. He’s a good dude. I never really bought into that kind of superstition… but maybe I should’ve—just a little.

In my last post, I rambled on about how I wasn’t going to subscribe to this whole “new normal” thing. I think I might’ve spoken too soon. This next part might be TMI, but I’m not exactly shy, and honestly, what’s the point of going through all of this if I’m not going to be brutally honest?

Earlier this week, I met with my new nutritionist. We hit it off right away—turns out we’re both from San Antonio and even went to the same high school. Small world. When we got into the nitty-gritty of my chemo diet, she told me I’d need to steer clear of most vegetables, pulpy fruits, and whole grains. Basically, a “fat kid diet” was on the table to help me keep weight on. Apparently, your body burns a crazy number of calories just existing on chemo. Who knew?

When we talked specifics, I mentioned that I’d been randomly craving bean and cheese tacos lately—real-deal, hole-in-the-wall kind of tacos. I was thrilled to find out I could go nuts with those. They’re soft-ish, calorie-dense, high in fat—basically a green light in my current condition. So I went for it. And by “went for it,” I mean nine tacos a day for three days straight. Like a man on a mission.

Now, had I paused for half a second, I might’ve remembered that I hadn’t had tacos in 11 months. I might’ve considered the fact that some of my internal organs don’t have cancer and maybe deserved a little heads-up. But no. Full steam ahead.

By Friday at 11 a.m., I was in a level of pain I didn’t know existed—ping-ponging between praying for relief and contemplating death. Okay, slight exaggeration. But it was really bad. Turns out shoving a mountain of tacos into a body with a partially obstructed intestine isn’t the move.

For the next 10 hours, I lived in some weird zone between agony and regret.

And here comes the real TMI: when the meds finally kicked in, they worked a little too well. I spent the next 14 hours making bathroom trips every 30 minutes like clockwork. From 8 p.m. Friday to 10 a.m. Saturday, I rotated between the bathroom and my bed, with occasional pit stops in a hot bath just to break the cycle. Not sure why baths helped, but they did. And by that point, I was too delirious to care about whether soaking in hot water was making me more dehydrated.

Eventually, the relief came. Not in the form of death, thankfully. Although dying on a toilet did cross my mind, and the thought was both darkly hilarious and wildly depressing. It’s strange where your mind goes when you’re sleep-deprived, dehydrated, and in pain.

So what came out of all this (besides… you know)?
– A ridiculous story
– A 12-pound weight loss in 12 hours (seriously)
– And a newfound respect for Jeremy’s “don’t speak evil” philosophy.

Today’s Sunday, things are more or less back to “normal,” whatever that means. While I was going through all of this—again, pun fully intended—I stumbled across a clip of the comic Matt Rife. Regardless of what you think of his comedy, he said something that stuck with me: “If you can find the light in whatever dark situation you’re going through, and you can laugh at the things that should make you miserable—including yourself sometimes—that’s how you win at life.”

I’m paraphrasing (cutting out some of the cussing for my mom’s sake), but the point made me smile—especially as I sat down to write this. Because the absurdity of it all is funny. Even when it’s not.

Since starting treatment for what is now officially stage 3C colorectal cancer—I think that’s the first time I’ve written that out fully—I’ve met with a number of medical professionals. It’s sometimes hard to keep straight who I’ve talked to and what their roles are, but there are a few commonalities in their language, no matter their position.

First, they all talk about cancer as a battle, and since I’ve touched on that before, I’m going to leave it alone. Second, they all talk about the plan for curing this, which I really love. They rarely say “treat it,” which I have to assume comes from some kind of training on the psychology of language around cancer during “treatment.” That one doesn’t really bother me. It’s probably doing some good I’m too dense to realize.

But the third one—well, the third one is that when I talk about the issues I’m experiencing, the weird stuff—like how the port feels, how I can see the line running under my skin to my jugular vein, the diet I’m subjected to, the random cravings for bean and cheese tacos, or the odd things in the night that make me wonder if they’re cancer-related or just the result of sleeping weird for the last three hours—they all refer to it in some form as “the new normal.”

I kind of hate that.

I don’t want this to be the new normal. I want it to be a temporary abnormality—something that, by the end of the year, will be remembered only by the scar on my chest and the dark jokes my little brother keeps making daily. The only “new normal” I really want to adopt is using cancer as some form of excuse to get into—or out of—things for as long as I possibly can. Other than that, the new normal looks a hell of a lot like the old normal, just with my medical deductible reached a lot sooner in the year.

To prove that to myself this week—maybe also out of sheer obstinate stupidity—I did what I’d been wanting to do for weeks: I squatted heavy at the gym and sweated my ass off (no pun intended). Normal for me is boring, and that’s how I like it. It’s getting up early and taking Tugboat out for a walk, grabbing coffee on the way back, going to work, hitting the gym, meal prepping or ordering takeout, watching dumb TV, studying for grad school, and reading before bed.

The only thing that’s abnormal in that routine right now is the way I eat—thanks, mostly-liquid diet—and the fact that my range of motion at the gym is still a bit limited by my current surgical wound as it heals.

I sincerely hope that my new normal ends up looking a whole lot like my old normal. Which will probably have the side effect of making this blog kind of boring, filled with too many entries about CrossFit-style workouts I do with my friends.

Round 2 of chemo starts next Friday. So here’s to more normality…

It’s been nearly three days since my first chemotherapy session ended, and I’m happy to report that the side effects I was warned about have been relatively mild—all things considered. Nausea and fatigue have popped in intermittently, but not nearly to the extreme I had imagined.

On Saturday afternoon, I disconnected my chemo pump—a little gray device about the size of an old-school Game Boy, housed in a very functional-looking black fanny pack. It had a long, clear tube running from the pump, under my shirt, to a chemo port just below my right collarbone.

I had gone through a quick training session on how to properly disconnect it, but true to form, I didn’t retain all the instructions. When the time came, it felt more like a movie scene where the good guy has to cut the right wire to disarm a bomb. Spoiler: I cut the wrong one, and it quickly turned into something more out of a Saw movie than Mission: Impossible.

With some distance from the ordeal, I now realize the mistake was not clamping the port line correctly after disconnecting the saline flush. That let a solid, freaking crazy spray of blood shoot out of the line. I can see now why they recommend having someone help you with these things. But, like most things in life, I’m stubborn and terrible at asking for help—so I just sucked it up and did it myself. Sort of. I didn’t pass out or die or anything, so for a first attempt, I’m calling it a win.

Once everything was cleaned up, I got my first good look at the incision on my chest from where the port was placed. I wasn’t ready for that moment. It’s not a bad-looking wound—it’s small, really—but I wasn’t prepared for how much it would symbolize. It’ll be a forever reminder of this whole ordeal, right there in the mirror every day. Most of my other scars are out of sight, which makes the memories that go with them easy to forget. Not this one. 

In that moment, my inner monologue decided to try and help by quoting The Replacements, with Keanu Reeves. In that movie he plays a scab quarterback during an NFL strike, and toward the end, his team is about to score for the final time in the movie. In the huddle, his teammates look to him for something inspiring, and he says, “I wish I could say something classy and inspirational, but that just isn’t our style.” He pauses, then adds, “Pain heals, chicks dig scars, and glory lasts forever.”

That’s what my brain offered me while I stood there, staring at my new most prominent scar. I’m not entirely sure what that moment was supposed to mean, but it felt right, and it still makes me smile. Interpret it however you want—you’re probably right too.

After all that nonsense, I was encouraged to find I had enough energy to get two workouts in since the port came out. They weren’t hard, but they were satisfying. A small victory. I never thought I’d look at my buddies suffering through burpees, rowing, or deadlifts and feel jealous—but here we are. I think I’ll be back at it soon. I just need that scar to seal up first. Then we’ll see what’s possible.

Another bright spot? I still have a pretty healthy appetite—even if my cravings are a bit bizarre. Right now, I can’t stop thinking about Taco Bell. Specifically, bean and cheese burritos. I have nothing against Taco Bell, but the intensity of the craving makes me wonder if the cancer has spread to my brain. Still, I’ve driven there… twice. So maybe it’s just chemo brain and nothing more.

And then there’s Tugboat.

You hear all these stories about dogs becoming extra sympathetic when their humans are sick—never leaving their side, being all loving and attentive, blah blah blah. Tugboat? Not so much.

While I was away for treatment, he stayed with my friends Vince and Janice, who live on a different floor in my building. When I went to pick him up after four days of chemo, he did everything in his power not to come home. He made it very clear that the luxury resort life at Vince and Janice’s place was vastly superior to life with me and my IV bags.

When I finally got him home, he sat at the door and cried for two hours—pausing only to glare at me for ruining his vacation. Even now, as I write this and he’s snoring at the end of my bed, I swear he’s cursing me between the breaths.

Still, I’m glad to have him nearby. There’s something indescribably comforting about that little jerk. Even if he’s mad, even if he’s betrayed, even if he’d rather be down stairs eating filet mignon and watching Netflix, there’s a peace that settles in when he’s close. Like his snoring keeps out some kind of creeping darkness that might otherwise sneak in.

I don’t really know what I expected to happen in the first 36 hours of chemotherapy. I guess I envisioned myself draped over the rim of a toilet, vomiting constantly—like a 20-something after a long night of drinking on 6th Street.

So far, that couldn’t be further from reality. My nausea has been mild at its worst and nonexistent most of the day. I am worried it’ll get worse once I disconnect the pump in about 18 hours, but the truth is, I don’t really know what comes next. Everyone reacts different according to my medical team.

I carry the pump in a fanny pack, with a plastic tube that runs from it, up under my shirt to the chemo port above my right pectoral, just under the skin. A doctor put the port in on Wednesday, and it’s still tender to the touch. When I think about all of this in its entirety, it disgusts me as much as it amazes me. Medicine is kind of wild. The idea that I’m pumping poison into my body—through a self-contained pump—in the hopes that it kills the cancer before it kills me… that’s sobering. Sadly, not the kind of sobering that helps with nausea, but sobering nonetheless.

The pump makes a churning sound as it pushes the drugs into my system, and every time I hear it, my stomach turns. I think it’s psychosomatic—everyone tells me I can’t actually feel the drugs going in—but when I hear that sound, I feel something. And it’s unpleasant.

Last night, that churning made it hard to sleep. It was the only thing with me in the dark of my bedroom, until I found a white noise YouTube channel that plays rainstorms. That drowned it out enough to let me sleep well. Tugboat would’ve hated that sound—he’s terrified of thunder—so part of me was glad he stayed with neighbors while I rested, even if I did miss having him at the end of the bed.

It’s been strange, waking up a few times in the night and not finding him there, snoring like a fat little loaf of bread. That sound—his snoring, like the storm white noise—is comforting. I missed it in those brief moments between waking and falling back asleep.

But I’m thankful he’s able to stay with friends. Honestly, I find myself feeling grateful for a lot right now. For my people. My older brother—the stoic one who always shows up to do the things that don’t come easy to me—has been a godsend. My mom, even in all her anxious worrying (the kind moms do no matter how old or capable you may be), has been praying constantly and mothering even more vigorously than usual. That’s always welcome, even when I don’t show it.

And the friends—checking in, offering to help with the little things that I know I’ll start to need help with as this drags on and maybe starts to take more of a toll—that’s deeply moving. I can’t thank them enough. Every text, every offer, every little note of concern has meant the world. Even if I’m slow to respond, even if I don’t always express it in the moment—I am grateful.

Because of all of this, I’m able to sleep well tonight. Lights off, in my own bed, with thunderstorm white noise, mild symptoms, and some real optimism about tomorrow. When this pump comes off, I’ll get a small break from this chemo crap and a brief return to something that looks like normal—for a little while, at least, until I do it all over again in two weeks.

But until then… tomorrow is going to be a good day.

Well, the unknown wasn’t that bad after all—probably not too surprising.
That being said, a chemo port completely sucks.

They made a small incision somewhere near my collarbone on the right side of my chest. I can’t really tell exactly where it is because of the bandages, but I know it’s there—and that there’s a device under my skin. When I stand up, I can feel gravity pulling on it. It’s not painful exactly, just awkward and weird-feeling.

Tomorrow morning, I start chemotherapy. I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to have poison pumped directly into my heart. I keep saying that, because it still feels wild to me that that’s what’s actually going to happen.

Still, I’m holding out hope for some of the less talked about side effects—the ones I almost certainly imagined while on anesthesia. You know, like being able to see seven seconds into the future, developing perfect pitch, or suddenly knowing how to paint. That’d be cool.

There were a few bright spots today that I really appreciated. My mom’s best friend—who we’ve always called Aunt Eliane—was kind enough to take me to the surgery. I hadn’t read the location info carefully, and it turned out I needed to be at the Woodlands campus, which was an hour north of where I was staying. On the drive, we got to talk—really talk—for the first time as adults, for more than just a couple of minutes.

She shared stories about my mom, my dad, and my Uncle Calvin, who died in a plane crash before I was born. I knew he was a pilot flying missions for missionaries when he died, but I never really knew any details about his life beyond the highlights. Hearing about him like that was a silver lining to an otherwise crappy day, and I was really grateful for it.

I heard someone say that no good story ever happens when everything is going right. I liked that.

Things are going okay right now, all things considered. But even if that saying holds true, I still hope this ends up being a good story—because of the hard parts, not in spite of them.

We’ll see where this story goes. But for now, I’m just out here looking for all the silver linings I can find. It’s late-ish, and tomorrow is the start of another new adventure.

I’m scared of the dark.

I have been ever since I started having issues with my eyesight back in 2005. When I’m in an unfamiliar place, I tend to sleep with the lights on—like in a hotel at MD Anderson.

I’m back at MD Anderson for the second week in a row, getting ready to have a chemo port placed tomorrow. The day after that, I start an aggressive chemotherapy protocol.

By all accounts, I should be terrified. And I think, deep down, I am. But I’ve been doing a pretty good job of not letting myself feel it—not really. Not yet.

Today alone, I fielded no less than a dozen calls from nurse practitioners, clinical specialists, doctors, and other well-meaning professionals. They all walked me through what to expect in the coming days. One talked me through the port procedure—how they’ll cut me open and attach a nickel-sized device to one of my major arteries so they can run a line straight to my heart. You know, so they can pump poison into me more easily. That one will haunt my dreams for a while for sure…

She also went over all the risks, most of which sounded like plot points in a SAW movie.

Then came the chemo prep—and the complete bonkers  list of side effects.

You know those drug commercials where they casually list horrifying things like “Side effects may include…” and then list some of the crazies things you’ve ever heard in your life?  Yeah. This was like that. But worse.

After the first few—eyeballs melting, spontaneous combustion, an inability to survive without witchcraft—I just started tuning out. It was the only way I stood a chance at ever sleeping again.

If it’s not obvious by now, one of my best defense mechanisms is stupid humor. I crack jokes because it keeps me from cracking open. And writing this, it’s becoming clearer to me that I am scared. Not just about tomorrow, but about everything that comes after.

Like with the dark, it’s not what I can see that scares me—it’s the unknown.

What will life look like when this is all over?
What if it’s never over?
What if it is?

I’ve been telling myself I’m not that scared. And maybe on the surface, I’m not. But now that I’ve written it all out… I am.

So for tonight, I’ll sleep with the lights on.

My dad left me a Bible when he passed away in the mid-eighties. It’s my most prized possession by far. (Luckily, Tugboat—my judgmental little corgi—doesn’t read this blog, so he won’t be offended. First, for being referred to as a possession, and second, for not being my most prized one.)

On the inside cover of that Bible, there’s a childish doodle I made on 11/18/1984. I know the date because he wrote it in that day, for reasons I’ll never know. He died eight months later, on 7/29/1985.

The Bible is old and falling apart in places. Everything from Philippians to Revelation has come loose from the binding. I had always intended to get it rebound, but over the last few weeks, I’ve started to like its brokenness and age.

I’ve opened that Bible a lot lately, flipping through the pages at random. Yesterday, while doing it again, I came across a verse my dad underlined—Matthew 6:27. It says, “Who of you by worrying can add a single day to your life?”

I have to assume he read that at a time when he already knew he was dying and found some kind of peace in it. I did too, when I read it yesterday. It might sound campy to some, but I don’t think it was a coincidence. I doubt my dad knew I’d need that verse for a similar reason, long after he was gone. But I do believe it was put in front of me at this exact time to give me hope.

My friend Willis said something to me not long ago that really stuck. He told me that when things show up like this—when moments line up too perfectly to explain—it isn’t coincidence. It’s God. It’s His way of putting something in front of you because He knows what you need, even when you don’t. I’ve chosen to believe that, too.

Hope and optimism have always been two of my stronger traits—especially now. And why wouldn’t they be, honestly? I really only have two choices: I can either worry, or I can hope. If things go badly, at least I didn’t waste whatever time I had left being afraid of something I couldn’t control. But if things go the way I hope, it’ll be that much sweeter.

I know some people might read this and think I’m being ridiculous—or something of the sort. That’s ok, I get it. It doesn’t change how I feel. I’m still hopeful. I’m hopeful that tomorrow, when I meet my radiation oncologist and we move forward with the treatment plan, things will go okay. I’m hopeful that tomorrow is the next step in a shitty journey that ends well.

This post probably reads a little oddly, maybe a little rambling at times. But I wrote it for anyone and everyone who’s worrying. Have faith. Keep hope. Things will be okay—for me, and for you—whatever it is you’re hopeful for.

For now, its time to call it a night.  I want to watch the Last of Us so I can be reminded that no matter whatever comes next, its not likely to be zombies…