Five Days & Counting

Five Days & Counting

I should probably be more nervous than I am. A week from now I’ll find out how effective radiation and chemo have been, and that feels like the kind of thing a person is supposed to spiral about. But over the last week or so, I’ve settled into something that looks a lot like peace. Not denial. Not bravery. Just acceptance of whatever might be coming for me next.

On the sixth, I have three scans.

First up is a CT scan with dye contrast — the one that absolutely sucks. The techs always warn you ahead of time, and at MD Anderson they like to mention that they use a stronger contrast dye than other places. I don’t remember why they do that, because right after they explain it, the dye hits your bloodstream and your body feels like it’s on fire. Then comes the overwhelming sensation that you’re actively urinating on yourself while lying on the CT table.

You are not, thankfully, urinating. But at this point, if I were, it wouldn’t even crack the top ten list of dignity-robbing things that have happened over the last year. And I assume there are still some truly unimaginable ones waiting their turn.

After the CT scan, there’s a couple-hour window where I sit around the hospital watching thousands of other sick people move through the hallways. I always wonder how I look to them. I usually feel like I look healthier than most, but I’m also noticeably younger. Sometimes I wonder if that annoys anyone — if I look like I’m taking up space I don’t deserve yet. I catch myself wanting to shrink, to make myself less visible so I don’t upset anyone inadvertently. I don’t really know how I’d do that, though, so I just sit there and wait.

Later that day is a pelvic MRI without contrast. This one is new to me. I think until now my experiences have been limited to CT scans or being anally probed — a phrase I still refuse to stop typing, even though it remains the worst thing I’ve endured in this entire year of shit. I don’t really know what the MRI shows that the CT doesn’t, but I assume it has a purpose I just haven’t bothered to ask about yet.

The final “scan” is visual. An ostomy nurse will look at how I’ve been attaching my bags and will either tell me I’m doing something horribly wrong or stare at me in quiet horror as I explain what I’ve been doing. The bags are holding, but I am almost certainly using far too much adhesive caulk. When I remove them, I’m always surprised I don’t take skin with me.

Imagine getting waxed, but with super glue. That’s about right.

Whatever the ostomy nurse says, I’ll probably just point out that unless it’s really bad, this thing should be coming off sometime around March. That’s still the plan, as far as I’ve been led to believe, and it’s the thing I’m hoping for most.

On the seventh, I meet with all my doctors. They’ll have reviewed the scans and — ideally — they’ll tell me things look better than expected. Maybe some remaining treatments get expedited. Maybe the road shortens a bit. If you’re one of the many people praying for me, that’s what I’m praying for too.

Last week, I went to a friend’s house — a buddy who used to be one of the pastors at a church I attended years ago. They host an annual evening of prayer and asked if I’d come so people could pray for my health. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. I’ve always leaned toward the idea that prayer is private, shaped largely by Matthew 6:6, where Jesus talks about praying quietly and unseen.

But it turned out to be surprisingly comforting to have a room full of people spending their evening asking God to help someone they mostly just met.

I’ve been thinking a lot about prayer lately, even before that night. About its power. About its purpose. If God already has a plan, and my prayer doesn’t match it, is prayer pointless? Before I could even ask that question out loud, my buddy Ryan talked about prayer being something God places in your heart — something that aligns you with His desires and draws you closer to Him.

That’s at least how I remember it. There was a lot going on that night, and my mind wasn’t exactly locked in. But it made sense to me.

It’s also probably why I’ve found myself praying more — not just about my upcoming scans, but about my little brother. He’s had a hard year too, and lately that’s what occupies my thoughts the most. I don’t know if that’s because I’m using his struggles as a distraction from my own, or because that’s genuinely where my heart is being pulled, or because I’m just grasping for meaning in random events.

Honestly, it doesn’t really matter. It’s where my calm is coming from.

So tonight, like the last few weeks, I’ll pray for good news. I’ll pray for strength to handle it well if the news isn’t what I want. And more than anything, I’ll pray for my little brother as he tries to turn the corner on a shitty 2025 — yes, I’m using a colon cancer pun for someone else this time — and start 2026 on better footing than this year ended.

If you’re someone who prays for me, feel free to use that as a guide. If you’re not, that’s okay too. I’d still appreciate whatever version of a request to a higher power you’re comfortable with. I doubt God is particularly concerned with what anyone calls Him.

For now, it’s time for bed.

That makes it just four more days to go.