What humans fear the most is the unknown. Or so I think.

The unknown cause of his odd symptoms in the spring was frustrating, but that frustration disappeared when the tumor was found.

The unknown as we awaited the official tissue diagnosis in July was terrifying, but when the diagnosis came, the reality of a plan settled some nerves.

The unknown of how we would function for 6 weeks undergoing radiation in Rochester and the unknown of what radiation side effects he would take home, made us hesitant. However, the reality soon was that Mayo felt oddly comfortable.

The unknown of what it would be like to reacclimate back into the “real world” raised our blood pressure yet again, but it, too, is settling back down as we survive each day of the new normal.

Now, we face the fear of the unknown of what it will be like to take chemotherapy.

The treatment plan for Grade 3 astrocytomas is surgery (when possible), radiation, and then chemotherapy. So, that’s been our path. It’s no surprise.

Jason is set to take his first chemotherapy pill on November 17th. For 5 days every month until November 2026, this will be our routine. Radiation punched cancer in the mouth. Chemotherapy will kick it in the gut again, and again, and again, and again, and again – times 12. The goal is that this year-long beatdown will keep the cancer down long enough (hopefully “years”) so that new treatments, even possible cures, can be developed.

While Jason’s doctors have all set the expectation that he will tolerate Temodar well with minimal side effects, it is still chemo. It still creates anxiety. It still creates fear. It’s still an unknown.

On top of that there will be an unknown every few months awaiting another MRI report.

Is the tumor gone?
Did it grow?
Are their new spots?
Will he throw up from the pill?
When will his radiation fatigue resolve?

All unknowns, until eventually we know.

Thankfully, the history of the last few months proves one, of many, things. The unknown eventually becomes the known. This too shall pass.

By November 18th we’ll know what it’s like to take the first chemotherapy, and by next year’s November 18th we’ll know what it’s like to take the last. And then, assuming history repeats itself, I have to assume that we’ll have another little wave of fear of the unknown considering life back off of chemo.

I’ve said it before: if June-Susan knew what November-Susan knows, she couldn’t have handled it. She would have physically crumbled or literally lost her mind. Yet, here we are. I’m still standing, and I’m not crazy – at least not any more than before.

Each unknown has become known in its time, and will continue to be.

Each day has been gifted its daily bread, and will continue to be.

Deep breath. It’s been, and going to be, all right.

“Give us the bread we need today.” Matthew 6:11 (NLV)