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.