It's nearly 1 am and despite my exhaustion my brain is too wired to sleep. It's the strangest thing, to be given this news, then expected to go on like nothing has happened. Graham is out of town on a business trip and I can't shake the memories of nights alone when he was in the hospital the first time around. My mind would go wild with frenzied, anxious thoughts. I hate that we're going to be facing that again here soon.

We've had so much kindness poured out on us, so many prayers, well wishes, offers to help. And yet somehow this experience remains so isolating. The reality is, I'm not even ready to face this yet. I've aimed my frustration and anxiety at meaningless targets, because it's easier to be irritated at the cat's for shitting on the porch than it is to be mad at God for allowing this to happen. Again.

Cancer gives you tunnel vision. Every aspect of your life suddenly revolves around this beast. You can't make even the most mundane decision without first consulting the cancer card. It's not like some cheerful light at the end of the tunnel vision though. Instead it's a constant fear that rather than a reprieve at the end of the tunnel, it's actually the lights of a train barreling towards you. And it doesn't much care that you've got your wife and kids standing in the middle of the tracks with you.