Sunday, September 20, 2026, 11 AM

Two days before the next radiation oncology appointment and I’m not sure how to take this one.

I’m still fighting cancer, and I’ve been with this doctor since my diagnosis. I haven’t gone against his wishes in my 40-month battle with the disease.

I believed in him so much that when he sent me to a medical oncologist for the Lupron injections and Xtandi pills I thought it was my best course of action. But he had also sent me to a specialist in radiation oncology who deemed I needed to stop all treatment and see where the numbers went before he’d consider Brachytherapy.

Banana Ball at CoPa

Kind of laughing now.

I wanted badly to see Banana Ball at Comerica Park this weekend, but a while back, when they held the drawing for tickets, I wasn’t selected. It makes me wonder what their process was because, oddly enough, whenever our Detroit Tigers have made the playoffs, I’ve been selected for tickets.

My thought is that too many out-of-towners entered.

But my heart wasn’t too broken, considering it’s rained all weekend. I still would have liked to attend, but StubHub’s ticket prices were outrageous. And with a trip to Boston looming, there was no way I was going to pay what they were charging.

Medical and Radiation Oncology

When I last visited my medical oncologist, he called the same radiation oncologist. With me in the room, they spoke about taking me off the medication even though the planned timeframe hadn’t been met.

My medical oncologist wanted to give the treatment more time, while my original radiation oncologist agreed with his counterpart that I should come off of it all.

This is where I disagreed.

My PSA and testosterone numbers were—and still are—way down with the three-month injections and daily pills. So I kept asking myself, why not continue the course?

Sure, the cancer may still be present, but the treatment is keeping my PSA and testosterone suppressed. If the numbers are responding, why stop before the planned treatment period is complete?

There was another thing that bothered me.

The specialist didn’t have my entire chart when he made his recommendation. He didn’t have the second biopsy from late last year or this year’s PET scan as part of the information he was reviewing.

And that’s a pretty big piece of the puzzle.

That’s what I want to talk about when I walk into that appointment Tuesday. Not because I think I know more than my doctors. I don’t. But because I’ve lived through the last 40 months of this disease, I’ve watched the numbers, I’ve gone through the treatments, and I’ve earned the right to ask questions about what comes next.

Not this Cabana

Unexpectedly, the dreams came roaring back this week.

If you’ve been following me for any length of time, you already know who I’m talking about.

It seems to happen before appointments. I don’t know why, and I’m not going to pretend I have some deep psychological explanation for it. But there she is again, showing up in my dreams when I’m already carrying enough into another medical appointment.

The first two dreams were different. She spoke to Maya in both of them and told her she had better be good to me. The third though, it was different.

She came to me for advice. And then I woke up. That’s it. No answer, explanation or conclusion. Just asking me for advice and me waking up before I could say a word.

Seriously? My subconscious couldn’t even let me finish the conversation?

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know.

What I do know is that dreams have a way of dragging people and places from the past into my present. And this week, apparently, my brain decided it wasn’t done with this particular chapter.

Which brings me to the title of this section.

Not this Cabana.

On June 3, 2025, Jan and I went with the seniors to Little Caesars Arena to see Barry Manilow. And, of course, he sang Copacabana.

Different cabana. Not even the same CoPa and somehow, that song title became the perfect place to hang a very real, very unresolved dream.

And if you’re wondering whether I woke up thinking, What the hell was that? Absolutely I did with prayerful hopes that the woman involved will never become Lola.

Don’t Go Breaking My Heart

After talking it over with Maya, she offered me some advice about the dreams.

She reminded me that I’ve been living with cancer for 40 months now and that’s a long time to carry something like that in my head. The appointments, the treatments, the numbers, the uncertainty and, yes, the things my subconscious decides to bring back.

She told me not to put too much weight on the dreams themselves.

“They’re dreams, Pookie,” she said. “Your mind is processing everything you’re carrying. You don’t have to figure them out.“

She’s right, and I’ve known it all along. Then she reminded me of her friend Mark.

Recently, her and I attended a fundraiser for him as he fights his own battle with cancer. We were there to support him. But standing there that night also reminded me of something I’ve learned through my own fight.

Cancer gets into your head. It changes your mindset, makes you think differently about time, tomorrow and the people you love. It follows you into your sleep.

Maya’s point was simple: don’t let what happens in your dreams take away from what is happening in your real life.

Now when I look at this photograph of us at Mark’s fundraiser, I know she’s right. There we were, standing together and supporting someone else who is fighting the same damn disease. Life is happening and that’s the only reminder I needed.

I can’t control every thought that crosses my mind. Nor can I control every dream and sure as hell can’t control what Tuesday’s appointment will bring. But I can control what I do when I wake up.

Keep living and moving forward.

That was Maya’s advice. And honestly? I think I needed to hear it.

Monday, September 21, 2026, 8:30 AM

Xtandi

My sleep was a bit erratic last night. Par for the course, I suppose, after the past few months since the addition of Xtandi to my 19-pills-a-day regimen. Most of which deal with my heart disease.

Taking all those medications means I have to stay on top of my fluids, so I drink a lot of water throughout the day to avoid getting dehydrated.

Of course, there is a downside to drinking that much.

Sooner or later, it has to come out.

And apparently, my bladder doesn’t care what time it is.

That’s one of those little realities of cancer treatment that probably doesn’t make it into the brochures. You can talk about the big stuff—scans, PSA numbers, testosterone, radiation and medications—but sometimes it’s the little things that end up disrupting your sleep.

Ted Lasso

Back in 2021, after my colectomy surgery, someone told me Ted Lasso was a good show for me to binge while I recovered. So, I did. And somewhere between the laughs, the ridiculousness and the life lessons, I became addicted to it.

Last night, I started Season 4, where Ted returns and finds himself coaching a women’s team. And now I’m watching Ted differently than I did the first time around. Maybe that’s because I’ve changed.

The show came into my life when I was recovering from major surgery. Now I’m watching it during a long ass cancer battle, and another radiation oncology appointment sitting on tomorrow’s calendar.

Funny how a television show can follow you through different chapters of your life and somehow keep teaching you something new.

Believe. Be kind. Ask for help. Keep moving forward.

And the biggest lesson of all: You don’t always have to know how the story ends. You just have to keep showing up for the next chapter.

Ego Death and Resurrection

There was a line in Season 4, Episode 3 of Ted Lasso that stopped me last night:

“It brought forth complete ego death and yet total resurrection.”

I had to pause for a minute. Because I’ve been thinking a lot about those two words lately: death and resurrection. Not literally. I’m still here. But there are parts of the person I used to be that aren’t here anymore.

Cancer has a way of stripping things away. So does major surgery. And through it all, you start seeing your relationships differently. You begin to realize how much of your life you’ve spent trying to be what everyone else needed you to be, losing sight of what you needed for yourself.

Five years later, I’m still watching the show while fighting cancer and preparing for another radiation oncology appointment. And somewhere along the way, I’ve realized that I’ve changed. I’ve lost pieces of myself I thought were permanent. Some of them I miss; others I don’t.

But I’ve also found pieces of myself I didn’t know were there. That’s the resurrection part. I’m not returning to the person I used to be. However, I’m…

Becoming the person I am now because everything happened.

Maybe that’s why Ted Lasso keeps finding me at different points in my life. The show hasn’t changed nearly as much as I have, but it’s taught me that sometimes you need to let the old version of yourself die before you can finally figure out who you’ve become.

Complete ego death. Total resurrection.

Yeah, Ted. I think I understand that one.

Lassoing Up a Christmas Tree

If you’ve been here any length of time, you know I’ve been setting my Christmas tree up early for years now.

When I was diagnosed with cancer, I was taken aback and needed something to inspire me outside of my writing. It wasn’t about Christmas. It was about having something in front of me that reminded me there was still something to look forward to that’s good in the world.

Later that first year, in 2023. I began asking friends to choose ornaments for it. And boy did they. Through the years I probably have a few hundred ornaments in storage. But this year I’ve downsized from the six-footer to a four-and-a-half-foot tree. Obviously, there will be fewer.

Over the weekend, I set it up and here it is tied to a short video with Maya’s favorite Christmas Song by one of her favorite musicians.

Some people might look at a Christmas tree going up in September and think I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. 😂

But I know what that tree means to me.

It’s a reminder that even when life throws something at you that you never saw coming, you can still find something that gives you a reason to keep moving forward.

And this morning, as I look at those lights flashing, I’m reminded of something else.

I’m still here.

🎄 Keep believing. Keep moving forward. Keep the lights on.

Tuesday, September 22, 2026, 7 AM

Appointment Day

It’s been three months since I’ve seen radiation oncology, and that’s one of the reasons I chose to stick with my medical oncologist’s recommendation. The length of time between appointments bothers me. It seems to me that the further the appointments are spread out, the greater the chance there would be for the cancer to spread if I’m taken off treatment.

My PSA and testosterone numbers are looking good. I had them checked last week as requested. They currently are less than 1 for PSA and 41 for testosterone. That’s something to feel good about as I venture to his office this morning.

But with those numbers come a shitload of questions about why he would want me to take a different direction with my treatment.

Her ‘Pookie’

I’m not sure where her nickname for me originated, but when I saw Maya’s message and song choice for this morning, all I could do was smile.

“Get up. Breathe. Have your coffee. Take your questions with you. Listen to what the doctor says.

And whatever happens in that room, you don’t have to face it as the same person who walked into this cancer fight 40 months ago.

You’ve changed and learned. You’ve also found someone who stands beside you.

Plus, you’ve still got that ridiculous little Christmas tree shining in the background. 🎄

So, Pookie…

Remember, I Love you❣️

In all honesty, being with her is like being with a twin. Intelligent, funny, serious, softhearted, a great communicator, inspiring—and so damn kind.

There’s something about finding someone who just gets you. And when she calls me Pookie? Yeah, I smile.

For All Mankind

He stole a ship to save a friend’s life. Then he died of cancer after having a drink with his teenage grandson in a Space Bar and Grill on Mars.

How poetically sad.

I would’ve done the same.

But…

Really, universe. I wasn’t looking for any of this. What the hell are you doing? I, for one, will not abandon my friend, either.

Stay the Course

I walked into radiation oncology with a shitload of questions. And I honestly wasn’t sure what I was going to hear.

I had been preparing myself to ask why I should come off the hormonal therapy when my PSA was less than 1 and my testosterone was 41. I had also been carrying around a fear I couldn’t shake: If there was still residual cancer somewhere, could coming off the hormonal therapy give it an opportunity to grow and spread to my bones before we caught it?

So, I told him. I told him exactly what I was afraid of.

After reviewing everything and talking with my medical oncologist again, he decided he wanted me to stay the course. He explained that he wanted to take me off the hormonal therapy. But if there is residual cancer still present, staying on the hormonal therapy could help keep it suppressed because it wouldn’t be getting the hormones it needs to grow.

He also explained, again, why the two-year mark after radiation matters. During the first couple of years after radiation, PSA can sometimes bounce around as the prostate responds to treatment, making the numbers more difficult to interpret.

In my case, though, the bounces were too erratic and, at times, too high without coming back down the way they should have. That’s what led him to order the second biopsy.

He had also spoken with the other radiation oncologist. That recommendation had been based on my first biopsy and PET scan, along with the fact that I hadn’t yet reached two years since completing radiation therapy.

After reviewing everything again and talking with my medical oncologist, he agreed that I had made the right choice following my medical oncologist’s recommendation.

So here we are.

I stay on the hormonal therapy for 18 months to two years.

He wants me to come back and see him in a year. By then, I’ll be approximately two years into the Lupron treatment and just a few months short of two years on Xtandi.

I walked out being told to stay the course. That’s one hell of a difference. And for today, that’s enough.

I’m still fighting.

The One Who Sat With Me

This photo is a few months old. But it captures something that has been part of this cancer journey for the last six months.

She has been the only person who has sat with me while I’ve been to an appointment. And it happened before any of our journeys. Even before our trip to Mackinac and her ring. But like before, I sat at the hospital alone once again today.

Yet, I carried my questions into that room, had the conversation I needed to have, and walked out with a different plan than the one I thought I might hear. I wish she could have been sitting beside me today.

But that’s okay.

Because in two weeks, I’ll be sitting beside her again.

In Boston.

There has been a hell of a lot of pain in this story. But there needs to be some joy, too. And right now, I’m looking forward to mine. ❤️

The cancer story isn’t over. Neither is the rest of my life.

Stay tuned.

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Real Talk, 3:16