Life in the Stupid Lane

I don’t usually write these updates mid-chemo. If I’m quiet, it’s usually a good sign—like, I’m vertical and life isn’t completely falling apart. But this week? Not one of the good ones.

I’ve made the Houston pilgrimage twice in a single week. First was Tuesday and Wednesday. Then again Saturday morning—chemo at 12:30, back in the car by 7pm. Drove myself home. Total genius move. Nothing like a solo seven-hour road trip after a poison drip to really let the existential dread marinate.

Physically, I felt okay. But mentally? I had way too much time alone to think about all of this.

Let me say this upfront, because it matters: the chemo is working. It’s doing the crucial job of keeping the cancer from spreading. That’s huge. That’s the line in the sand, and right now, it’s holding.

But the tumor itself? Not shrinking. Not growing either—but no visible change. And that part’s frustrating.

Last time I wrote, I mentioned that the tumor might be shrinking, just not in the “right” way. That was based on a conversation or two. Then I got the actual MRI and CT scan reports. And in black-and-white medical speak, they both say: “no significant change.”

So now I’m in that fun gray area between what I thought I was told and what the scans actually say. I’ve sent some notes to my surgeon to get clarification, but so far, silence.

Which left me with 400 miles of highway and a full tank of mental rabbit holes.

The first one: what happens if these next four rounds of chemo don’t budge the tumor? Answer: radiation. And with that, potentially, a colostomy bag—hopefully temporary, but still. That thought alone spun me out for a bit. I don’t handle stuff being stuck to me very well. IVs, glucose monitors, whatever—my brain doesn’t like it. The idea of a bag glued to my side catching waste? That’s a tough one to process.

Then came rabbit hole number two, courtesy of a single sentence in my MRI report: Mesorectal fascia: 2mm.

Translation: the tumor is just two millimeters away from breaking through the rectal wall. That’s not a buffer; that’s a breath. That’s where your thoughts go from, “Okay, we’re managing,” to “Cancer’s about to blow through the wall and set up shop everywhere else while I’m stuck in Houston traffic.”

And even though I know my body hasn’t betrayed me yet—that the chemo is holding the line—I still catch myself wondering: Is this the pain that means it’s spreading? Is this cramp something I should be worried about? Will I know if something breaks loose? Can I bounce back if it does?

There are no clean answers. Just the uncertainty.

And I try not to dwell in that space. But solo drives are where those thoughts multiply.

Eventually, I’ll put on music or an audiobook to drown it out. Buck-ee’s used to be my reward stop—grab something greasy and stupid—but now I can’t eat a single thing there. I miss their beaver nuggets like they were an old friend.

So instead, I blast the music. Grunge from the late ’90s and early 2000s. Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots, Social Distortion. Or I lean hard into The Gaslight Anthem and all of Brian Fallon’s other bands—The Horrible Crows, his solo stuff. It’s become my mental ripcord. I pull it when the spiral starts.

And tonight, I’m not driving. I’m home. I’m on my couch, chemo pump clipped to me, watching a sunset burn across the West Austin sky. It’s round five, and so far, I feel okay. No nausea. No crash. Just a Diet Coke in my hand (my one allowed per week), a few tacos still on the “approved” list, and a moment of stillness I didn’t expect to get.

People have come out of the woodwork to support me—old friends, distant friends, friends of friends. Some praying, some checking in, some just reading these posts. It all matters.

This week wasn’t great. Mentally, it was rough. But the chemo’s holding. The cancer’s not spreading. And right now, that’s enough.

Next time, I’ll talk more about what chemo actually feels like. A lot of people ask. But tonight, I’ll finish this Diet Coke, sit in this quiet moment, and thank God I’m still here—two millimeters and all.

Monday night, I drove three hours in the dark, through rain and silence, down Interstate 10 to Houston. I was heading toward two days of tests—an MRI, a CT scan, and some other dignity-removing procedures that have become disturbingly routine. I was hopeful. Nervous. Tired. A little numb.

Tuesday morning, I caught an Uber to the radiology building at MD Anderson. The campus itself is massive—sleek towers of glass and steel, the kind of place that screams cutting-edge medicine and billions of dollars. But the radiology building? That thing looks like it was forgotten. Beige walls, bad lighting, and a vibe so heavy it feels like the paint itself has given up. You walk in and the air just says, You’re not going to like this.

The MRI wasn’t bad, physically at least. It’s just a half hour of lying perfectly still while a giant machine thumps and clanks around you like it’s building a ship inside your skull. They gave me a pill beforehand to temporarily paralyze my intestines (sure, that sounds fine), and then I laid there alone, in the dark, with nothing but my thoughts.

It’s strange where your brain goes in those moments. I wondered how many people had come into that same room, hopeful, only to get news that wrecked them. How many had their lives rerouted right there in that tube? You start thinking about that stuff when you’re left alone long enough. You can’t help it.

Next was the CT scan, in the newer building—the big, shiny one with the massive cafeteria. That’s where you’ll find the Chick-fil-A. I assume it’s mostly for the staff. Can’t imagine too many patients, in between bouts of fear and nausea, are thinking You know what sounds good right now? A spicy chicken sandwich and waffle fries.

But then again… maybe they are. Because halfway through my own scan, while they were flooding my veins with contrast dye that makes your insides feel like they’re on fire, I started craving waffle fries too.

The contrast dye hits hard. It warms you from the inside out and convinces your body that you’ve wet yourself, which they kindly warn you about ahead of time. “It’ll feel like you’ve urinated,” they say calmly, like that’s a totally normal sentence. MD Anderson uses a stronger version than most places, apparently. Fantastic.

So I laid there, half certain I was peeing, half focused on imaginary waffle fries, and somehow that was enough to get me through it.

And then came Wednesday—and the part of the story I wish I could skip.

Before I got the results, my surgeon had to perform a flexible sigmoidoscopy. If you’ve never had one, lucky you. If you have, I’m sorry. It involves lying on your side in a thin gown, your bare ass hanging out in front of three women—one of them a visiting doctor from South America—while they insert a tube with a camera, a water spout, and what I swear feels like a damn air compressor… straight into your ass.

The air inflates your colon, the water rinses it, and all of it plays out in HD on a giant monitor while they casually talk to you like it’s just another Wednesday. And maybe it is—for them. But for me? It was four solid minutes of uncontrollable farting as my body expelled the air they’d pumped in. I had zero say in the matter. Just me, wide-eyed and mortified, listening to a steady soundtrack of shame while trying to pretend like none of it was happening.

Dignity? Gone. Vaporized.

At one point, I genuinely hoped I’d either die on the table or mentally retreat back to the waffle fry fantasy that got me through the CT scan. No such luck. Just me, a sore ass, a 40-inch flatscreen showing the inside of it, and three women doing their best to pretend this wasn’t wildly uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Fuck cancer.

Now, the part you’ve probably been waiting for—the results.

They were… mixed. Not bad. Just not what I wanted. The tumor is shrinking, which is a win. The chemo is doing something. But it’s shrinking wrong. Picture a donut. I needed the hole in the center to widen—that would mean the tumor is shrinking from the inside out. But instead, it’s just getting smaller around the edges. The hole is still too tight. Still too dangerous.

So instead of moving on to radiation, I’m doing four more rounds of chemo. If the tumor keeps shrinking, the hole might widen enough. But there are no guarantees.

We can’t do radiation yet because it causes swelling. And swelling, in my case, would require an ostomy bag. And if I’m being honest, I’d rather get daily scopes broadcast on Netflix than go that route.

So yeah. Chemo restarts Saturday. And while it is good news, I’m still feeling pretty down tonight. I’m giving myself a little pity party, going to bed with a sore ass, and—eventually—I’ll get those waffle fries.

But not tonight

It’s a gray, rainy Saturday night in Austin. The kind that begs you to slow down and think too much. And right now, most of my thoughts are fixated on Tuesday—the day I find out what’s actually going on inside me. Specifically, whether this crappy tumor (pun very much intended) squatting in my colon is shrinking, holding steady, or doing something more sinister.

For most of these first few months, I’ve carried a kind of steady optimism. Not just for me, but for the people around me. I’ve tried to be the guy who believes. Who stays grounded. Who keeps hoping. And honestly, it’s helped. I’ve seen how my attitude has lifted others, and that’s meant more to me than I expected.

But now, just days before I get answers, that optimism isn’t gone—it’s just… quieter. Not unshakable. Not unbothered. Just cautious.

Because Tuesday (or maybe Wednesday) isn’t just another checkpoint. It’s the moment that determines whether all this hope I’ve clung to is grounded or misplaced. And no matter how confident I try to be—or how much I tell myself I’m ready—the truth is, I’m scared.

I don’t expect bad news. There’s no specific red flag waving in front of me. But fear doesn’t need logic. Doubt doesn’t need a reason. It just shows up—slinks in like a shadow—and suddenly I’m spiraling, overthinking, chasing worst-case scenarios like they owe me rent.

So I distract myself. With everything I can.

Friends. Family. Books. Video games. The gym. Busywork. Dumb jokes. Memes. Anything that might hold the anxiety at arm’s length, even for a little while. Most of it works like emotional Tylenol—numbs the ache but doesn’t cure it.

And then there’s Tugboat.

Tugboat is my dog. Technically. But more accurately, he’s a short-legged chaos goblin with big corgi ears and absolutely no regard for boundaries. He’s relentless—demanding food, walks, treats, attention, and full emotional availability on a minute-by-minute basis. It’s raining this weekend, which means he’s even more insistent than usual. He cannot go outside to terrorize the neighborhood, so now he must terrorize me.

At one point today, I think he could tell I was anxious. So, in what I choose to interpret as a deeply selfless act of compassion, he launched one of his toys directly at my face. Multiple times. With great intensity.

Was he trying to distract me from spiraling?

Or was he trying to kill me so he could find a warmer, drier household with fewer existential vibes?

Hard to say. The line between empathy and mutiny is thin in Tugboat’s world.

I wish I had a more profound way to end this. Something tidy and wise that makes the waiting easier or the fear less real. But I don’t. What I have is this: I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got.

And if you’ve read this far, that probably means you’re someone who cares. Someone who’s in my corner. That means more than I’ll ever be able to explain.

If you’re the praying kind, I’d love your prayers. If you’re the hoping kind, I’ll take that too. Even a passing thought sent in my direction helps more than you might think.

I’m holding onto hope, however shaky it feels tonight—and trusting that God hasn’t stepped away for a second. I don’t always feel strong, and I don’t always feel calm, but I do believe I’m not carrying this alone. That’s been true every day so far. I’m counting on it to still be true when Tuesday comes.

So for now, I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep trusting. I’ll keep trying to dodge Tugboat’s flying toys. And somehow, all of that will be enough.

I haven’t posted in a while—mostly because nothing dramatic has happened (a nice change), and also because I figured no one really wanted to hear me rant about Tugboat being a jerk again. Apparently I was wrong on both counts.

Because today? Today brought actual good news.

Now, I know I usually bury the headline somewhere deep in a rambling paragraph about corgi betrayals or the existential weight of chemo snacks, but I’m going to do this one right:

MD Anderson called. They’re stopping chemo.

Not because the cancer’s taken some terrifying turn or because they’ve decided to give up on me and let Tugboat start choosing a new owner, but because… it’s working. The chemo is working better than expected. Well enough that they want to move radiation up by a few months to really shrink the tumor before surgery.

To be honest, when I first heard the nurse say it, I didn’t immediately process the good part. My brain kicked into survival mode: Wait, what? No more chemo? Is this bad? Are we skipping steps? Did someone lose a chart?!

But before I could spiral too hard, she kept talking: “You’re coming in next week for new scans and evaluations. The treatment is showing more success than we anticipated.”

Still, I hung up the phone feeling… underwhelmed. It didn’t feel like fireworks or champagne-worthy news. Mostly, I just fixated on the fact that I wouldn’t have to sit through chemo on the 4th of July. Which, you know, is something.

So I called my older brother and gave him the rundown. His immediate reaction?

“You’re an idiot. This is amazing.”

And while I argue with him constantly—sometimes just for sport—this time I couldn’t. He was right. This was good news.
Hurray.

Now, moving on to less life-altering and more emotionally complex topics: Tugboat.

If you’re new here, Tugboat is my corgi. If you’re not, you already know he’s a manipulative little loaf of judgment wrapped in fur.

These days I get two questions consistently

1. How is the cancer going?

2. How is Tugboat?

And honestly? The cancer’s responding better to treatment than Tugboat is responding to my existence.

He loves that I’m sick—not because he’s evil (probably), but because it means every time I go to the hospital, he gets a vacation. While I’m hooked up to IVs and losing my taste buds, he’s lounging at someone else’s house, being hand-fed, belly-rubbed, and told how handsome he is. I am, in his eyes, a mildly disappointing manservant whose main function is to refill the food bowl and then get out of the way.

He doesn’t like to be in the same room as me. He tolerates me. But send him off to stay with literally anyone else and suddenly he’s affectionate, loyal, clingy—basically everything you hope your dog would be.

Last time I was gone, a friend stayed at my place. She’s one of his all-time favorite people (which is a long list that notably excludes me). When I came home two days later, she had already left for work, and Tugboat thought she might be returning. He heard the door open, sprinted around the corner, eyes shining—fully expecting his beloved Ryan.

And then… he saw me.

He skidded to a stop five feet away. His face fell from gleeful corgi grin to what I can only describe as emotional betrayal, followed by a dramatic pivot and a slow, deliberate walk to the closet where he naps when he needs to disassociate from my presence.

People always think I’m exaggerating these stories. I am not. That dog is playing a long game. He knows exactly what he’s doing—and he keeps getting away with it. Mostly because everyone else finds it adorable. “Aww, classic Tugboat,” they say, while he glares at me from behind their legs, smirking like the little chaos goblin he is.

But—because life likes to be complicated—there are moments that give me pause.

Lately, I’ve noticed that he’s… different. A little more attentive. It might sound ridiculous, but when I’m struggling with some of the more personal, less glamorous side effects of cancer—like difficulty using the restroom—Tugboat is always nearby. Lying on the bathroom floor like some judgmental emotional support goblin.

And when chemo hits me hard and I can’t make it out of bed? He’s there too. Sleeping at the edge of the mattress. Not curled up next to me or anything sentimental like that, but close enough that I notice.

He’s still a jerk. Don’t get it twisted. The other night, I dared to move him slightly in bed so I could lie down, and he bit my foot. Bit it. Not hard, but in a way that said, this space is mine now and you are merely a guest in it.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe—just maybe—he does care. That he’s keeping an eye on me. Not out of affection, per se, but possibly so he can be first in line to inherit the apartment and begin vetting new owners the moment I croak.

Classic Tugboat..

I have a tendency to bury the lead in a lot of my posts, but I’ll spare you that this time.

It’s Tuesday evening. I disconnected my chemo pump Sunday afternoon, and—miraculously—I’ve been almost completely symptom-free ever since. I don’t know if that means the chemo is working well or not, honestly. But I do know I’m not sick, and for now, that feels like a win.

There are probably a few reasons for this. For one, the chemo drug cocktail changed this round. I also had a ton of people praying for me, and I really do believe there’s power in that. And, maybe most critically, I didn’t eat complete garbage this time right after chemo started. It turns out that shoveling in a massive pile of bacon may not be the best post-infusion recovery strategy. Who knew?

This round also came with some medication to help with nausea, but the side effects have been wild. I’m pretty sure I now know what acute narcolepsy feels like—because within minutes of taking it, I am completely and totally out. I also don’t normally dream—or at least I never remember my dreams—but on this stuff? Oh, I dream. And they’re vivid. And they’re weird.

One of the most recurring themes? Fighting.

I’ve always resisted the idea that cancer is a fight. I’ve preferred to see it as something you endure, something you move through—more process than battle. But apparently, my subconscious disagrees.

I grew up playing Street Fighter II—a fighting video game that basically consumed a few solid summers of my childhood. (If you don’t know it, just Google it. Explaining would take forever.) So when I’m knocked out by this dream-inducing drug, I find myself in the middle of Street Fighter matches—but instead of facing Ryu or Chun-Li, I’m throwing down with a bag of chemo, a stomach that wants to vomit on me, or some fever-dream version of a colon tumor.

It’s ridiculous. But it also makes me laugh. I wake up smiling, partly because the nostalgia takes me back to simpler, carefree days, and partly because in every dream—I win. I kick the crap out of chemo. I beat nausea. I send the tumor flying offscreen in that glorious slow-motion KO.

And hey, if attitude really does play a role in recovery, then I’m going to count these strange, triumphant dreams as a pretty decent sign of progress.

Another reason I’m feeling hopeful lately? I’ve been able to work out.

This is not a CrossFit pitch, don’t worry Ed. I’m doing way less than I used to, but I’m still moving—and that counts. Two days ago I squatted. Today I rowed until I was nearly out of breath and soaked in sweat. And I was so happy.

There’s a study my older brother shared with me that shows patients who exercise purposefully after adjuvant therapy have significantly better survival rates. So I’ve set a new goal: in addition to trying to finish my master’s in Information Security (I have a test this week), I’m going to train. Every day. Hard. As hard as my body will let me.

I know this post kind of rambled. I’m tired, sore, a little hungry, and pretty happy. Also, the drowsy nausea drug I mentioned? I took it about fifteen minutes ago, and I’m about two minutes away from passing out.

So if this made little to no sense—blame the drugs. (Honestly, it’s the first time in my life I’ve been able to blame something on drugs with a straight face. I’ll take it.)

Thanks for reading.

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.