The View From Right Now

It’s been almost three weeks since my last chemotherapy treatment, and I am feeling… so many feels.
Like, Costco-sized feelings. In bulk.

On the bright side, I haven’t had a night sweat in five whole days. FIVE.
That alone deserves a parade. Or at least fresh sheets that don’t feel like they were wrung out by a lifeguard.
I feel better. My mind is a little clearer. I’ve even started tiptoeing into that dangerous mental neighborhood called “Life After Cancer.”
You know—the place where people make plans. And assumptions. And maybe even buy concert tickets more than a month out.

But then there’s the other hand.
I’m still tired. A lot.
Like, do one thing and need a lie-down tired.
My motivation seems to have a strict one-activity-per-day policy, and my brain shuts down the moment exhaustion shows up—which is often and without notice. Concentration just packs up its little suitcase and says, “Nope. I’m out.”

And then there’s the third hand.
Which I don’t technically have, but my anxiety has graciously supplied.

This hand is busy worrying.
Worrying that I’m not cancer-free yet.
Worrying while I wait for a test that hasn’t even been scheduled because insurance is apparently on a scenic route.
Worrying that even if I am cancer-free now, what about next year?
This was my second round—does that mean I get a punch card? A loyalty program? Do I do this forever?
Will it be a long life?
A shortened one?
Is all this mental ping-pong the reason I sometimes feel completely frozen, like my body just hits the pause button?

Probably.

The truth is, the view from right now keeps changing.
Sometimes it’s hopeful.
Sometimes it’s foggy.
Sometimes it’s downright scary as hell.

But here’s the thing I’m trying to hold onto: right now is not the whole story.
Right now includes dry sheets, a clearer mind, and small signs that my body is still trying—still healing.
Right now doesn’t require me to solve next year, or the rest of my life, or every possible outcome.

Right now just asks me to sit here.
Breathe.
Do one thing.
And trust that the view will change again.

And maybe—just maybe—the next version will be even better.