Dust, Blood, & Bone

I wasn’t ready, but strangely, I already knew. 
I looked over at my wife on the hospital bed and asked, “So what is it?” 
She paused—and I knew what it was before she could say it. 

“You have cancer.” 

I think I was already crying at that point. 
It was a rush of emotions, and as the seconds passed, memories came flooding in. 
It didn’t come crashing in. No dramatic episode. No collapse. 

I hate to admit it, but I believe it started with a speck of blood here and there—more than a decade ago. 

At first, I chalked it up to… HOT FRIES. 
That’s right—the cheap, spicy, awful corn snack from the local gas station I was addicted to growing up, usually chased with an Arizona Tea. I assumed I had developed hemorrhoids—but was too embarrassed to admit it. 

Funny how easy it is to make peace with something when you want it to be harmless. A little blood? Nothing Google couldn’t explain away. Life kept moving, and I convinced myself I didn’t have time to worry. 

Years went by. The blood would come and go—just enough to keep the doubt alive, but never loud enough to force me to act. I told myself I was too young, too busy, too invincible. 

For a while, I worked for my dad in remodeling and construction. Long days in old buildings, breathing in dust, paint fumes, chemicals, insulation—and God knows what else. We didn’t wear masks or gloves unless it was obviously necessary. Half the time, we didn’t even know what was in the stuff we were tearing out or putting up. At the time, it felt normal. Just part of the grind. But now, looking back—it’s hard not to wonder if maybe it wasn’t the hot fries after all. 
 
I kept it a secret all those years. But it was wearing me down in ways I didn’t want to admit. The pain was getting harder to ignore and harder to hide. It didn’t matter how many stimulants I took—the exhaustion felt heavier each time. 

Eventually, I couldn’t push through anymore. 

I woke up in a hospital bed after a failed colonoscopy. The doctor had just explained what they had found and what the next steps could be. It was like a foreign language. I didn’t comprehend or understand. He walked out of the room. The room was quiet other than the IV pump. My wife sat nearby. I looked over at her and asked, “So what is it?” 

She hesitated. But I already knew.  
 
How couldn’t I? I had always known.