Pardon the interruption

Bob and I saw an afternoon showing of The Odyssey this weekend. It wasn’t as Nolan intended. The only theater in Texas with the holy grail of IMAX + 70mm is in Dallas, at least 3.5 hours away. There is a Buc’ees on the way, which makes the drive tempting. But instead, we walked a half mile to our local Alamo Drafthouse and enjoyed it anyway. They have these fancy reclining seats, but I found myself with my arm on Bob’s armrest, leaning into him, touching his arm with my arm, invading his space. We held hands on the walk home and I held tight, squeezing back tears. I’m not a very emotional person for the most part. But all the little things have taken on so much more significance since his diagnosis.

Only Bob knows what it’s like to be going through what he’s going through. But I ask him all the time (4-5x/day, according to Bob), mostly about how he’s feeling. And he tells me. Then I worry. Is that a normal thing to feel/happen after________ (insert: lung biopsy, brain MRI, bone scan, blood draw, infusion, etc)? Should we call Texas Oncology? Ascension Seton? Go to the ER? Or just wait and see if it resolves on its own?

I’m a skeptic of Google, et al, as a source of clinical guidance in these situations. Even doctors don’t speak with the assurance and self-confidence that AI does. And honestly, I’ve gotten pretty good over the years at researching the shit out of these things using my own brain.

That’s what I did when all this started with that damned CT scan. A little digging told me it was a CAP CT (chest, abdomen, and pelvis) scan. No other organs besides the kidney and lungs were mentioned in the report. That seemed good, all things considered. I learned about the difference between nodules and masses. Turns out size matters. I dug deeper. The features in the lung could be an infection, inflammation, scar tissue – Bob had had a cold recently, so maybe? Or it could be bad. The kidney mass was described as a “solid heterogenous left renal mass,” which means it’s essentially “fat-free”, which sounds good, but as it turns out, is bad. Fat indicates a benign tumor. No fat increases the suspicion of malignancy. Something good, followed by something bad – this was the investigative roller coaster I found myself on.

Had I just jumped to the end of the report, I would have seen the radiologist’s conclusion, “consistent with renal cell carcinoma”. But still, silver linings: The tumor had not grown into the large veins leading out of the kidney; it wasn’t blocking the flow of urine; there was no evidence of disease in the right kidney, and people lead long and healthy lives with just one kidney. And to top it off, localized RCC is highly curable with good outcomes. I wanted to think positively and at this point, there was no more information to parse.

So we did all we could do for the time being, and crossed our fingers.

The possibility of metastases (aka stage 4) lingered, of course. I’ve come across stage 4 cancer a lot in my work life. Some are curable. Others are life-threatening. It depends on where it started, what organs it has spread to, what treatments are available, and the circumstances and health of the individual. Prognosis is not an exact science. But it’s methodical, based on decades of data and systematic classification. Which is how I’ve learned to think about it. And yet…

Let’s just say the uncertainty of those first 12 days took me to some very dark places. Places I found myself revisiting as we waited for the next set of results from Bob’s brain MRI and bone scan. I kept the worst-case thinking to myself. Bob often says he knows me better than I know myself. I hope for his sake, he took a break from being inside my head those first couple of weeks.

How I’m feeling

I wept – hard – at my friend’s 50th birthday party last weekend. There was so much love at every turn. Deep, caring friendships formed over various stages of life. Family members, young and old, in the midst of life-changing transitions. Memories, nostalgia, future plans, new chapters, hopes and dreams. I’m sure the wine was a factor as well. It was all so wonderful but also a poignant reminder of the fragility of life. My heart swelled and it was too much to contain.

But most of the time, I’m fine.

What I'm thankful for

My mom, now 95, has been in a senior living facility since 2018. Over that time, she has moved from independent to assisted living and is now in memory care. It’s what you imagine it to be, but also better.

She’s fortunate to be at a place where the emphasis is on programs and activities that nurture the soul, mind, and body. Some other places we looked had glossy brochures showing happy octogenarians enjoying outings and activities that in reality, most residents either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, ever participate in. It’s such a sham. And a shame.

This place has 24/7 clinical support for when folks need it. They have a staff that is trained to say “Let’s go…” A simple phrase that encourages engagement and participation rather than letting residents wither away in their rooms. When you’re there, you can feel how truly passionate and caring everyone is. I trust them to treat her with the dignity and respect we would all hope to be afforded in our old age.

Because of them, I have been able to prioritize Bob/us, which is exactly what I want to be doing.

A Memory

Disappointment. That was the name of my favorite horse (everyone’s, really) at the dude ranch, Peaceful Valley, where my family spent a week every summer when me and my sisters were kids and teenagers. There was also Prince, who liked to take his riders through the trees. Baby doll, a pretty white and grey dappled breed with a sweet face and an unpredictable disposition. Bounce, who was reserved for only the best riders – it was always an honor to make this list. And then there was Macho who was anything but. An old lady who farted when she walked, you only got this horse when you crossed Art Kitzman, the owner, patriarch, and manifestation of all things Peaceful Valley.

Peaceful Valley was in Bandera, Texas, aka, the “Cowboy Capital of the World.” Aside from the twice-daily trail rides, we’d grab tubes and head to the swimming pool, or float down the river, stopping to enjoy the “jacuzzi” made of rocks and a good old-fashioned rope swing. We had hayrides and made s’mores around the campfire while freaking each other out with ghost stories about Goat Man, who was known to wail eerily as he wandered from cabin to cabin (spoiler: it was a wet, knotted string pulled through a hole made in the bottom of a Folgers can). We set off dangerous fireworks and gathered at a neighboring ranch to do some boot scootin’ and watch a cancan show. It’s where I learned the phrase “yellow and black, friend of Jack; red and yellow, kill a fellow” because life in Peaceful Valley depended on knowing the difference between a kingsnake and a coral snake. My suitcase for the week was an old beer crate, spray painted and stenciled with my name.

It never occurred to me that this was any different than how other kids spent their summers. I think that’s the most country I’ve ever been.

Since living in Austin, Bob and I’ve heard Willie sing “On the Road Again” live more times than we can count. We’ve eaten chicken fried steak at Moonshine. Taken two-stepping lessons at the Broken Spoke. And played chicken shit bingo at C-Boys, where, if you’re there in December – and lucky – Santa shows up on a horse. Inside the bar. No joking. This is Bob’s version of what it means to be country. Bless his heart.

What I'm looking forward to

I have a date with a pool and some gal pals this Wednesday, which I’m pretty psyched about. It’ll be a nice counterpoint to the dentist appointment I have the same morning.

In October, we hope to introduce some (more) out-of-town friends to Hot Luck Festival. Previously held over Memorial Weekend, this year it’s sandwiched between ACL, F1, and the Texas-Florida home game (Hook ‘em Horns). Bob and I are veterans of this 10-year old indie foodie fest started by local legend, Aaron Franklin, where dozens of pitmasters showcase their live-fire bona fides. Food & Wine acquired the festival this year, so we’ll see how that changes things. It’s always hot. And probably will be again.

Generally speaking, I’m looking forward to growing old with Bob.  

Something I recommend

Ditch the scrolling, doom and otherwise, and pick up a book instead. I promise you’ll feel better. My favorites so far this year:

Buckeye by Patrick Ryan – An orphan, seances, an impulsive kiss, WWII, lots of secrets. A sweeping epic told over 4-ish decades.

Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doer – From the author of All the Light We Cannot See, another one of my favs. Five characters spread across past, present, and future timelines, their lives bound together by a fantastical ancient Greek manuscript. Took me two tries but I’m glad I went back.

Dear Monica Lewinsky by Julia Langbein – ML plays the part of a saint that helps a middle-aged woman navigate the feelings she still has for an older man she had an affair with when she was 19. A fun romp that takes you through old churches throughout the countryside of France.

Overstory by Richard Powers – Ok, so Obama recommended it before me. And actually, I read it last year. But by god, is it good! Another sweeping epic told over time and through multiple characters, ultimately connected by their collective fight to save the nation’s last remaining forests.

Other authors I have gone back to time and again: Erik Larson. Ann Patchett. Barbara Kingsolver. E Annie Proulx. Dave Eggers. Madeline L’Engle. 

What I ate

Last Friday, Bob and I sidled up to the counter bar at Kitsu Nori for sushi, handrolls, and a chocolate twinkie. I’m pretty sure we were among their first customers when they opened the restaurant in December 2025, and it’s become a go-to for us ever since. It’s in the neighborhood, has great food and cool, unassuming vibes. Plus, it’s owned by Paul Qui, a Top Chef winner and James Beard recipient.

When we lived downtown, Paul Qui had a food truck, Thai Kun, across the street from our condo building that we would get take-out from, sometimes several times a week. There’s a story about me crying one night when I wasn’t able to get my Thai Kun fix. I’ll just leave it at that.

Random thought

Bob’s cancer has me thinking a lot about cancer. I mean, more so than usual, which is saying something. See, my mom had cancer. My dad had cancer. All 3 of my sisters have had cancer. My stepdad had cancer. My brother-in-law had cancer. Several friends, colleagues, friends-of-friends, friends-of-family, and so on and so forth, have had cancer. In most cases, they lived to tell the tale.

I also think about cancer for my job. A lot. Technically I’m in pharmaceutical advertising. And yes, it’s true, I’ve had a hand in creating some of those TV commercials with the long list of bizarre side effects that are so easy to parody. But most of the time, I’m creating things that help healthcare providers deliver the best care possible for their patients; and help empower patients (and caregivers) to be their own best advocates so they can live a healthy and full life, one that isn’t defined by their disease.

I have spent countless hours poring through investigational drug protocols, clinical guidelines, peer-reviewed research articles, and patient forums. I understand why mechanisms of action matter, what to look for in the data, why no treatment is quite as good as we’d like to be, what patients really want, and the herculean effort it requires to improve the status quo.

To be sure, there is a lot of scientific mumbo-jumbo. It can feel technical, cold, impersonal. But man, when you talk to the people behind the science, the humanity of it all shines through. They are uncompromising in their commitment to advance medical science and relieve human suffering. Yes, these companies are in the business of selling drugs and making money, but they are undeniably also in the business of Hope. Hope that this new way in, this new clinical understanding, this emerging field of science – this new drug – is going to make a difference, that it’s going to make things better. This is what gives Hope a chance. It’s not just a feeling or a point of view. It’s a scientific imperative.