Road Trip. Waiting for a phone call.

930 miles down. Many more to come.

17 hours in the car is a great distraction when you're waiting on a pretty important phone call. 

Especially when driving through the endless nothing that is southern Illinois, Missouri, and Arkansas. 

Little rock was pretty cool though.

Especially when driving to see the Spartans play in a national semi-final.

Especially when wasting time goofing around with my co-pilot/navigator/best friend.

Especially when in a few hours, we'll arrive and begin celebrating 100 days since the stem cell transplant. 

The phone call is looming and it has a place in the back of my mind pretty constantly--but I'm ready for whatever comes. 

Either way, it'll be a celebration:

A celebration of some great news.

Or a celebration of an adventure with a bunch of people I love, in a strange place, watching a special team, ignoring bad news and staying optimistic about the future.

It's just a game. 

It's just a road trip. 

It's just 34 hours of quality time with her. 

They're just distractions.

it's just a phone call. 

And it's just cancer. 

Some things, like who I'm with and what I'm doing, in this moment, are much more important. This game, this trip, and this girl--that's where my head is now. 

I'm enjoying the moment. 

The phone call will come, and I'm ready for it--then I'll get back to the important stuff.

It's just what you allow it to be.

Merry Christmas

Cancer is the cousin Eddie of diseases. It lives in an RV and is unwelcome at all times.

"Have you checked our shitters honey?"

Just a quick thanks to everyone who's ever read this, shared this, reached out, sent thoughts, etc. I try and write this as if only I will read it, and the result is me being more honest and open than I think I otherwise would. 

Still, would I do it if I didn't know there was an audience? Unlikely. I face this with clearer eyes and in a more optimistic way because of this blog and because you read it.

You put up with my anger, complaining, frustration, bad words, failed attempts at wit, and overuse of pictures.

You all make a shitty situation more tolerable, and I wouldn't be where I am or how I am without you all. 

To my family--I love you. Thanks for being everything. You all have this strange talent of being present when I need it, and giving space when it's necessary. You've all been perfect.

Special thanks to the Fernandez family, you guys are too good to me. 

Your daughter is okay too. 

By "okay," I mean the best thing that has happened to me since I can remember. 

All I want for Christmas is good news on the 28th (PET scan) and a Spartan W...IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!

Updates soon. 

We're gonna be the Jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nut house.

434 days have passed--I hate this place.

This is wild. 

I've been in this seat before. I spent my first day of Chemo here, wrote about it, and started this blog. Through all of the treatments following that day, for whatever reason, I was never here again. 

I wore the same green and white. 

I had a beard then.

I haven't been here since that day. 

But now, as I restart a years worth of Chemo today, I'm in the exact same spot, with the exact same surroundings. 

Time has passed. 

434 days. 

10,416 minutes. 

37,497,600 seconds. 

Much has happened in that time span. Good days, bad days, people, places, victories and failures. 

It feels like yesterday that I was here. 

It feels like years ago. 

I've changed. This place hasn't. 

An elderly woman nearby was just told she wouldn't be going home today, and needed to be admitted to the hospital immediately due to dangerously low blood counts. 

She is thin, weary. She has been at this for a while. I feel awful for her. 

Her husband is stoic, strong. He has questions that the nurse can't answer, so he's frustrated. 

There's a teenage girl receiving treatment, her friends joined her. They're all on their cell phones and giggling and having a good time. They bring at least a measure of levity to this heavy place. 

Her father is seated nearby, looks stressed as he tries to converse and laugh with them. 

Others are asleep. 

Others are tossing and turning with pained expressions, trying to find a tolerable position. 

An elderly man is alone. His straightforward stare is piercing. He looks hearty, new to this. 

He looks like he absolutely hates this place. 

I'm with him. 

Last time I was here, the space and the people in it served as a cold but needed reminder that I was facing something serious, that I wasn't special, and that it was time to focus, and take all of this head on. 

This time, I just hate it. 

I don't look like the others in here. 

I look around, and I see death and discomfort. 

I see optimistic visitors and pessimistic patients. 

I see a place of healing and treatment in a world where both come at a price. 

Physical, mental, financial. 

I'm not special. It's not that I don't belong. 

It's that I don't want to any longer.

I'm sick of belonging. 

I'm tired of the heaviness of this place, and I've only been here for an hour. 

I have it better than everyone here, I would presume. I'm sure my diagnosis is better, positive my treatment is lighter, and sure I'll be here for a shorter duration. 

I'm not better than them--that isn't why I'm "sick of belonging"--and being around it makes me feel terrible for them. There's a strange sense solidarity--even if it hurts. 

I just have this sense, right or wrong, that I've done my time. 

I've paid my dues. 

Somehow earned the "right" to be anywhere but here. 

It's wrong.

This is a bullshit way of thinking. 

I'd come here every day until forever if it kept me healthy and around to experience all the things I want to. 

I don't mean to complain.

My life at the moment is wonderful in so many ways. 

In almost every way. 

I'm just angry.

Angry that this fluorescent-lit, saline smelling, life saving dump--is a reminder of the one thing that isn't. 

434 days of belonging. 

There's no way of knowing exactly how many more days have to pass before I can move on from this. 

Until I can say I belong to a new group(s): 

In remission. 

Survivor. 

No amount of time is too long for me to wait for that.

I'm not too tired to continue or too disillusioned to care.

Apathy is not something I'm capable of.

It's not a moment of weakness. It's just a combination of experiences that add up to frustration. To hate.

I'm not done. I'm fine.

I'll come here forever if I have to, so 434 is a blink of an eye. 

When I'm done tonight, I'm going to walk by the old man with the stare, shake his hand and say "fuck this place."

I have a feeling it will be well received. 

Here's to 434 more. 

Chemo, round 1904830924132841287

I was originally scheduled to begin this new chemo on December 2nd. For a number of reasons, it's been pushed back twice. The delays have been welcome, but I'll begin next Tuesday. 

I've been thinking about it a lot lately. 

It's a 30 minute infusion. Short. The drug is supposed to be lighter on patients than the drugs I've been on before. It's more of a preventative measure than it is reactive. 

The science behind it is extremely strong. There is no doubt this is what is best for me. 

And yet, I really, really wish I didn't have to do it.

These are wasted thoughts and emotions. Woe is me. Why me? I wish life were more fair blah blah blah. 

As aware as I am of the waste that it is--worrying about or dreading or wishing away something that is beyond my control and is happening--I can't help myself. It's just a kick in the nuts. 

I thought I was done. That was mistake #1. 

"No more chemo, ever, hopefully. I received my last dose of this process earlier this morning. 

It was exciting and shitty all at the same time. Exciting because of the obvious--I

Might actually be done with willingly injecting poison into my body."-Me, on September 21st, in Ann Arbor

Idiot. 

This will never be over. That just isn't the way it works. This a lifetime sentence. 

Even after I'm officially in remission, and life returns to "normal," I'll be in a cancer clinic multiple times a year for all kinds of a tests and checkups. I'm at risk for numerous other cancers and health complications simply due to the drugs I've been exposed to. 

To some extent, whether the disease is active or not, I will "have cancer" in my life forever.

That box will be checked on every form I fill out from now until the end. 

More treatment, and specifically, more chemo, was always a possibility. 

Hell, in reality, it was more than a possibility. 

It was statistically probable, even if I didn't realize that until now. 

It's not a mistake I'll make again. 

I've been told before to expect a certain chemo drug to be "easier on me" than others, and they weren't--not at all. 

I've been told that resuming normal life and work and the rest wouldn't be affected by certain drugs--that also wasn't true. 

So what I'm saying, is my skepticism is founded in experience.

It's a years worth of chemo. 

And of course, all of this could change drastically depending on the results of my PET scan on the 28th, which I suppose is to say:

In cancer and its treatment and its outcomes, certainties do not exist, save for one:

without treatment, you don't stand a chance. 

So even if I don't feel like it at the moment, I'm lucky to be doing more chemo. 

I'm lucky that treatment options exist for me and I'm phenomenally fortunate that at the moment, the prescription is a preventative measure. 

Every time I'm in Ann Arbor, I see people who I know would love to trade places with me. 

So I know I'm being selfish. 

I'm in a good place. 

Life is good. I'm feeling better. I'm getting out and about. 

I'm back in the gym, attempting to resemble a human, rather than a tube of play dough.

Less that--more this:

I'm doing well. Chemo, and the thought of it, just sucks. 

The mental grind got to me. It happens. It has to, this shit is heavy. 

I'd like to say I "win" every time I think about all of this, but that would be a lie.

I'll be ready next week, and the reason why is simple:

What other choice do I have?

Bring on the drugs.

Sports.

"I feel bad for people who don't like sports.

“Especially people with cancer who don't like sports. I'm sure they can find other things to distract them, but I have a hard time imagining they work as well as the games this weekend have for me.”

I wrote that on October 26th of last year, after a big Spartan win. 

This win was slightly bigger, and the same is still true. I feel bad for people who don't like sports. Not because they don't have other fulfilling hobbies, but because the excitement this team and the run its been on has brought me has to be unique to sports. The highs and the lows and the stress and the relief.

A distraction like no other. 

Experiences I'll never forget.

And for a few hours on the past few Saturdays--what Cancer? What Chemo? What upcoming PET Scan?

Just the Spartans. My family. The girl I love.

And victory. 

Onward.