Day Eight (AM) - Awake with the Weight of It All

January 15, 2025

It’s 5:00 a.m., and I’ve managed a rare 4.5 hours of uninterrupted sleep, a small mercy gifted by modern medicine. Yet here I am, awake and consumed by a flood of emotions and thoughts, each one louder than the last. My mind is locked in a relentless cycle, dwelling on everything that hasn’t gone right in the past week.

I crave control—the kind of control I’ve always relied on, where decisions are clear and solutions come effortlessly. But now? Control feels like a distant dream, replaced by a constant state of waiting. Waiting for answers, for progress, for something—anything—that feels like forward movement. And I’m failing at it. God, please grant me patience.

I want this chapter to end. I want these invaders out of my body, this battle to cease. My wife, who tries so hard to be strong, can’t hide the tears I know she’s shedding for me. Seeing her struggle to stay composed breaks me in ways I can’t describe. And my own body, once my ally, feels like my enemy. The betrayal is profound—it fights against itself instead of healing. We used to be a team, my body and me. Now, it feels like we’re at war, and I never even agreed to the battle.

Deep down, I know this is the fear talking. The anger. The exhaustion. It’s twisting reality, amplifying my pain and insecurities. Memories I’ve tried to bury bubble to the surface—the most haunting one being my mom’s battle with this same disease. Watching her fight so bravely, only to lose, is a wound I thought had healed. But now, it’s raw again.

I’ve spent so much energy trying to project strength, trying to convince everyone—including myself—that I’m in control. That I’ve got this. But the truth? I’m scared. Deeply, painfully scared. I trust the doctors, the science, the plan. But the unknown is suffocating. And no matter how many times I tell myself to take it one step at a time, the fear lingers, refusing to let go.

Still, I cling to hope because I know there’s so much more life waiting for me. So many memories to create, milestones to reach, moments to savor. But that hope feels fragile when I see my reflection—dots of needle scars, bruises, swelling, all stark reminders of the war my body is fighting.

This morning, my mind drifts to comfort, to nostalgia. I’m craving Khao Mun Gai (Poached Chicken and Rice) and Tom Pak Gaad Dong (Mustard Green Soup with Pork)—dishes my mom would make when I was sick. Each bite of her cooking was infused with love and warmth, a reminder that I was never alone. Today, I find myself longing for that comfort in ways I haven’t in years.

I spent nearly an hour searching local menus, desperate to find something that tasted like home—not the watered-down, Americanized versions, but the real thing. No luck. The ache of missing her cooking is compounded by the ache of missing her presence. It’s a longing that feels almost unbearable.

Later, I’ll have an ultrasound on my kidneys and bladder to see how the stents are working. It’s the only concrete thing on my calendar, yet it feels like another endless box to check. These tests, these procedures—they’re all pieces of a puzzle I didn’t choose to solve, but I have no choice but to complete.

The hospital room feels like it’s draining me, not just physically but emotionally. It smells of antiseptic and exhaustion, of lives lived and battles fought before me. It’s a stark contrast to the fresh air, sunlight, and life I thrive on. This room feels like a vacuum, pulling the vitality out of me and leaving me yearning for my own bed, my own space, my freedom.

I’m tired. Tired of this fight, tired of this waiting, tired of being tired. But even in this weariness, I know I have to keep going. I have to dig deeper, find strength even when it feels impossibly far away. Because life is still out there, waiting for me—beyond these walls, beyond this fear, beyond the unknown.

So I’ll hold on to hope. I’ll take it one hour, one test, one breath at a time. And I’ll keep reminding myself: "I can do this all day."