Getting a terminal diagnosis is really fucking weird.

Instantly you’re thrown into this bizarre new world — not alive like before, not quite dying yet. Just... living in the in-between. Which I suppose, really, we all are (sorry for the existential reminder.) 

Immediately after I was diagnosed, I was accepting and sprung into action. I focused on my burial, funeral, wtf to do with that IRA etc. I decided I was done with sunscreen and contemplated starting to smoke cigarettes for the first time in my life. I had a memorial playlist lined up and discovered that water cremation sounds a hell of lot less terrifying than the notion of going up in flames.

Looking back, it was easier to plan the logistics of my hypothetical death than it was to sit with my actual feelings. 

And then it hit me hard: Holy shit, this means my kids will probably have to face their adult lives without me. That’s when the grief really set in. I started writing letters and trying to pre-plan for future moments I might not be around for.

It's tough being a pessimist faced with a grim diagnosis. Do I try optimism now, this late in the game? Hope? That feels almost scarier than death. It's so much better to be surprised and impressed than disappointed and hurt – at least that's always been my philosophy (not a good one, I realize.)

So for now, I’m fighting to find some sweet spot between practical and present. I’ve long blown past the whole “death acceptance” phase.

I have way too much to live for.

Tubigan, Germany, where I'm going once a month for treatment. There are worse places to be stuck.