I still stand behind what I have said. I still believe it. I still believe that death is inevitable for us all, that God never promises to bring healing but to tell a beautiful story in our death whether it is sooner or later, tragic or ordinary. But I am learning that having courage in the face of potential death gets harder the closer you get to it. Today I’ll receive the results of my latest MRI. If the scans look good (no tumor growth or tumor regression) then we continue with my monthly chemo regimen. If the scans look bad then we’ll have to pursue an alternative set of treatments. Back in early October it was easier to receive the news that the chemo/radiation combo didn’t seem to work because there was a fairly similar and not-very-invasive next step available (what I’m doing now). But the further we get down the line of available treatments the more nervous I get. So attempt number one didn’t work (surgery). Attempt number two didn’t work (chemo and radiation). And today we’ll find out if attempt number three worked. How far down this list of treatment options do I want to go? With each new attempt death becomes more and more of a reality–and if I were to be quite honest what scares me most about death is not the death itself. No, what freaks me out most is two things, one is leaving my family behind and the other is an odd sense of purposelessness in the present.

We’ll see. It could be that, as my mom jokes, the latest MRI will reveal that what they thought was a tumor turned out to just be a gnarly scab. (Oddly, by the time most of you read this there will already be an update with test results) Regardless of test results today I’m just tired. I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of being useless. I’m tired of my wife being tired. I’m tired of my kids being stressed. I’m tired of my dog eating my cats poop on top of my pile of laundry that we can never keep up on. I’m tired of feeling guilty at every single doctors appointment. From my oncologist, to my naturopath, to my physical therapist, to massage therapists, and everyone else I either have to lie or let them down when they find out that I’m tired of trying to eat healthy, of drinking the amount of water I need to, of doing my exercises at home, and…the list goes on and on of things I should be doing.

I hope and pray that it’s good news today, but it’s hard not to live in the potential reality of it being bad news.

(don’t worry friends and family, don’t freak out too much. I’m doing my best to give you an open and honest window into the ups and downs of my own personal experiences with cancer. One moment I feel great and the next I feel terrible. One moment I’m filled with hope and am an inspiration to the world and the next I’m banging my head against the wall and feeling worthless. I want you to see and be a part of both ends, of both extremes because its the reality of what all this is like. Thank you for walking with us in all this…even if its only through the virtual world known as the interwebs)

I remember as a kid there was a circuit breaker (ok, I don’t know exactly what it was, but it was a box up on a pole) connected to the power lines behind our house that would catch on fire and blow every couple of years. As a kid it was pretty exciting to have the power go out. We’d rush around and find our candles and flashlights. We’d put my lizard next to the fireplace to keep him warm. And I’d obviously run out and meet my best friend (and neighbor) Brent in the middle of the street to talk about how exciting it was…but it was only exciting for a while. Eventually it got kind of boring. When power outage turned from an exciting moment to a dreaded reality (albeit a short term reality) things got incredibly monotonous.

There’s something about those exciting moments that give us something to hold onto as meaningful.  Granted, a power outage doesn’t create any sort of huge or life changing meaning, but for a time I found great significance in preparing for our new reality: Lighting a fire in the wood stove, figuring out what to eat for dinner without an electric oven or microwave, and figuring out what to do when the candles burnt out. But once the initial phase of excitement is over, once that initial flurry of activity has passed it turns out that electricity is pretty awesome and you kind of miss what it had to offer.

In a lot of ways I miss being in the hospital. I even, dare I say it, miss daily radiation and chemo. In those moments it felt like I was fighting something, like I was in the midst of an epic battle where I was the warrior leading the charge. In many ways it was exciting being able to fight something so sinister as cancer. I found great meaning and significance in doing all those things that just might kick cancer in the ass (vitamins, acupuncture, radiation, chemo, physical therapy, etc.). Essentially it was me gathering candles and flashlights for the power outage. But now the power’s been out for a while and the electric company hasn’t given us a timeframe for when it’ll be turned back on. Now gathering candles and flashlights doesn’t seem so meaningful–now that the epic battles of being in the hospital, of learning to walk again, of daily chemo and radiation, etc. are done the fight just seems so…ordinary. Monotonous. Not exciting. Meaningless.

The epic battle has now become just an monotonous way of life. The battle of Helms Deep is done and now its just a boring scene up on a windy mountain top city (sorry for the awkward lotr reference). It’s not that there’s nothing to fight, because sadly we all know that the cancer’s still there. It’s just that now there’s no end in sight, there’s no urgent or pressing battle to be won, and all my flurry of activity to beat cancer is now being stretched out from months to years with no reprieve. Swinging my battle-axe was cool when it was a few months worth, but now that we’ve been doing this for seven months with a chemo schedule that goes out another eleven, swinging my battle-axe feels less meaningful and is just downright exhausting. How long can a dude, even the most awesomest of warriors, swing his axe?

AND SO…and so I’m left with our new normal (whatever the hell that is). I’m left with the monotony of normal as its coming to be defined. Physical therapy twice a week, blood draws once a week, acupuncture once a week, being sick ten days a month from chemo, doctors appointments one to two days a week, a gimpy leg, numb feet, constipation (did I say too much?), a stiff/numb stomach and back, clothes that don’t fit, pills pills and more pills…with no end in sight. None of the above things have any sort of end. They’re like the Energizer Bunny in that they keep going and going and going.

Having cancer has obviously always sucked, but at least at some point along the way it was exciting to be fighting against it. Now I’m just left with the monotony of normal and it turns out that I don’t really like it.