Day Zero

December 31, 2025

Here is my last check-in for 2025. Notice to all my readers, I use two curse words within the last few paragraphs, skip those if you may be offended, you won't miss out on the main part of this post. (I’ll give you a prompt to stop reading.) I needed to use a word to put an exclamation point on my thoughts, and this is the only word that would some up my thoughts.

This week started with three days of chemotherapy, beginning two days later than planned. Treatment finally started on the 26th. Each session passed quickly and mercifully, without any embarrassing moments or unexpected drama. Still, chemo has a way of leaving its mark quietly. The familiar malaise arrived without ceremony, settled in, and refused to leave.

By my off day on the 29th, the fatigue had fully taken hold. It followed me into the 30th, when I checked into the hospital. The effects were cumulative in the way only chemo can be. My body felt heavy. My appetite disappeared. Even drinking felt like work.

Maria watched all of this closely and made sure I ate and drank anyway. We are too close now to let a bad decision or a moment of stubbornness derail what we have fought so hard to reach. Those two days were spent mostly sleeping, resting, and letting my body do what it needed to do without interference.

I cannot fully explain the level of anxiety I have carried over the last few days and even today. It does not scream, nor disable, but it hums. It sits just beneath the surface, steady and persistent. At the same time, there is relief. We are only hours away from receiving my T-cells. After 357 days of scans, needle stabs, biopsies, treatments, setbacks, and waiting, this moment feels monumental.

Fear and hope sit side by side, neither willing to leave. They exist in a tense truce, each aware of the other, each shaping how I breathe, think, and wait. Above them hangs my familiar “show me” attitude, a quiet skepticism that refuses to fully lift. It is not cynicism, exactly, but a hard-earned caution, built from months of detours, delays, and lessons learned the long way. I want to believe fully, to surrender to optimism without reservation, but experience has taught me to watch, to measure, and to wait for proof. So I stand here balanced between what I want to trust and what I have learned to brace for, holding both without letting either take control. I am a “true son" of Missouri.

Last evening, my D&D friends played our annual holiday season game. I felt a real pang knowing I would miss it. Those nights matter to me more than people probably realize. Still, hospital check-in was always going to take hours. Some traditions have to pause. Some moments wait, even when you wish they would not.

I will be completely off work until late January. The risk of neurotoxicity makes that necessary, and in a strange way, it grants me permission to do something I am not naturally good at: focus entirely on healing. I miss the comfort of my office and the familiarity of my coworkers. I miss the rhythm of work and the sense of normalcy it brings. But for now, my only job is to get myself well enough to return to that version of life.

Today started early. Testing began at 6:30 this morning and ran straight through until about 11:30. In those few hours, I had multiple visits from neurology, a visit from occupational therapy, constant check-ins from nurses, more blood work, EKGs, and time with both my PA and my attending. It was a lot. A steady stream of people, questions, assessments, wires, and monitors. Exhausting in its own way. But I am through it now. I am upright, steady, and about to get in the shower before we start prep for the return of my T-cells.

Check-in and testing blur together after a while. Labs. Neurological exams. IV lines. Questions layered on top of questions. One part of the neuro exam had me counting backward from 100 by sevens, which sounds simple until you are lying in a hospital bed, hyper-aware of every pause. Another part had me identify a lion, rhino, and a camel. I was the best ever at this. I knew them all. Better than the patient that was in this room before me, better than any patient in this room before me. :) (Sorry, political humor.)

Around two this afternoon, I will get my T-cells back.

The use of a curse word is coming up if you will be offended, stop reading and I’ll write more next year!

It feels like a strange, hopeful, and fitting way to put a period and close out this clusterfuck of a year. Ending this year with a new beginning feels right.

Finally after Maria left the hospital last night, I laid in my bed listening to a mix of my favorite Billy Joel, Prince, and the Dave Matthews Band songs I needed their music with me. Something familiar. Something steady. A reminder of who I am beneath the hospital gown, the IVs, and the fear. A reminder of the parts of me that are still untouched by any of this.

I am ready now.

Because, Baby, I am a Fucking Star!

P.S. A shout out to my Brother - Marcus, who had called as I was finishing up this post. Thank you for the years of friendship and love! Your call came at an excellent time today!