A Pint, a Scan, and What Comes Next

June 29, 2025

Sometimes I worry about posting too much, about saying too much.

I’ve always got a lot swirling around in my noggin.

Some of it finds its way here.

Some of it gets saved for other projects.

Some of it just floats, unspoken, and unwritten.

I try to be mindful of your time, your space.

But if you're still reading, thank you.

It means something to me that you are still on this bumpy ride with me

Right now, the bone pain from my last shot is manageable.

It’s not the awful combo I had last time with the gout.

I still, have reminders from other things along the way. Little nerve flares near my beltline from the shingles, brief sparks of starlight that catch me off guard.

Chemo, though,

that’s an everyday weight.

It lingers in my limbs, in my appetite, in my spirit.

The medicine that fights also wears me down.

Some days it is hard to walk without going very slow, with much needed breaks.

Some days I need the assistance of an arm or a wheelchair.

I know these struggles are only temporary, and I’ve still got plenty of fight left in me. (Just a small window into my process: I wrestled with this sentence far longer than necessary. At first, I used the word “temporal.” Then I leaned into the imagery of a passing storm. It was several sentences and almost two paragraphs. In the end, I chose something simpler. Short. Honest. Sometimes less really is more.)

Monday brings a PET scan.

Tuesday, a follow-up with my oncologist.

That will be a big day, likely full of decisions.

It could mark the beginning of my transition to Baltimore and whatever comes next.

Earlier this week, I got a pint of blood.

A quiet donation from someone I’ll never meet,

but whose gift might give me the strength I need right now.

I’ve been a bit anemic, so we're hoping this jumpstart helps.

So that's the latest.

Thanks for walking alongside me.

Here is something I wrote for the stranger who gave the blood donation that helped me out

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To the Stranger Who Gave Me Their Blood Today:

You gave my body strength.

A chance to heal.

A chance to stand and walk without help.

You gave my body a boost,

restoring what chemo has stripped away.

What the medicine must destroy to save me,

you helped rebuild,

quietly, anonymously,

without asking for anything in return.

I watched the bag drain,

slow and steady,

into me through a tangle of tubes and pumps,

a deep red lifeline

from someone I’ll never meet.

I whispered thanks.

Not out loud,

but the kind that sinks deep

and stays.

Maybe you gave blood on your lunch break.

Maybe you’ve done it dozens of times.

Maybe you’ll never think of it again.

But I will.

Because today,

your blood gave me more than numbers on a chart.

It gave me the energy to lift my head.

To take steps without leaning on another.

You don’t know me.

But now, in some strange and cosmic way,

we are connected.

Your cells are moving in me,

quiet, constant, faithful,

carrying me forward

when I could no longer carry myself.

I don’t know how to repay that.

Maybe I never can.

But I’ll remember.

With every steady step,

with every day I get to stay,

I’ll remember.

Thank you.