They think Preston has cancer. Not just any cancer – stage IV colon cancer. They say there are metastases in his liver and lungs. They told him this over the phone.

Two weeks ago, he was having some stomach cramps and pain, so he went to the urgent care. I was proud of him – docs aren’t his favorite.

They thought it was diverticulitis. No biggie. Kind of a pain. They’ll do a CT just to make sure those little things on his lungs are pneumonia scars…

Hmm. Not diverticulitis. Let’s do another scan. This time with radiation. That will tell us.

“I hate to tell you this over the phone… you’re already an anomaly…you’re meeting with the oncologist next week…”

It’s basically horrifying. Not enough information to be optimistic – just enough to be dangerous. For the record, you should never, never turn to Dr. Google when you get this kind of information.

I’ve basically been living in a fog for 3 days – toggling between calm and determined, hysterical and terrified, and quietly devastated. I want my full 60 years from him. I feel like I’m supposed to get that. We have plans. We have Conor. He should get to see what he turns out to be.

On top of that, P feels crappy. Which sucks. Because he is so fun and wonderful. And I’m worried that he’ll be uncomfortable for a long time.

I am going to go to work tomorrow. I’m hoping I can hold it together, but it’s far from guaranteed. I really love my job, so maybe the distraction will be a good thing.

My family is incredible – only a couple of them know at this moment – I don’t know if I’ll ever make this public, either, but they’ve already been huge help. And they will continue to be. And I know that together, we’ll all make the best of this incredibly shitty situation.

It’s incredible how quickly your life can be turned upside down. I mean, you know on some level that it can happen at any moment. Nothing in life is guaranteed. It’s cliché. But. Still true.

But, god damn it, I still want my 60 years. So we’re going to fight for them.