Here it is, past 1 a.m. and I'm still up, can't sleep. My wife knows my motivations better than I know them myself sometimes, and she was right last night to note that posting to this blog and going on the radio isn't going to get my cancer treated any faster or better. I know that intellectually, but perhaps one reason I'm writing all this down is an emotional hope that it will help things go better, and quicker.
Anytime you have a disease or condition, your ears perk up at the possible miracle cures and innovative research, like recent indications that a metabolic pharmaceutical known as dichloroacetate (DCA) could cause cancer cells to self-destruct without the toxicity of chemotherapy (thanks Chris).
But I've learned after 16 years with diabetes that often those miracle cures don't pan out, or they take a long time to go mainstream. I can't expect anything miraculous to happen to my bowel cancer: in a very comfortingly medieval way, the solution is still to cut it out.
I was angry today, testy, as I should be some of the time. And then later I cried in front of my kids, which I haven't done very often. My fabulous, amazing daughters, who know that it's okay to cry, who've told me it's okay for me to cry, but who still shouldn't have to see their dad cry because he has cancer and he's afraid. But I am afraid. I'm afraid that I could die young. I'm afraid.