The Waiting Room: Thoughts Before Treatment Begins

Treatment starts tomorrow.

I've known this was coming since the diagnosis in late August. I've had time to prepare—physically, mentally, logistically. I've assembled my nutrition strategy, stocked the supplies, organized support, written articles, and reached out for help.

But here's what nobody tells you about the waiting period between diagnosis and treatment: it's excruciating.

The Longest Start Line

I keep thinking about race day nerves. That feeling in the minutes before the gun goes off, when you're clipped in, heart rate climbing, and all you can do is wait. The preparation is done. The training is behind you. Now you have to do it.

This feels like that, but stretched across weeks instead of minutes.

Except it's not really a race. It's closer to what my father must have felt crossing the Atlantic and Pacific in World War II as a Merchant Marine. Or what my Uncle Ralph experienced before crossing the English Channel ahead of D-Day. They knew what was coming. They'd prepared as much as anyone could. Then they had to wait for the order to go.

I can't personally relate to war. But I imagine that waiting—knowing the battle is inevitable, knowing it will be hard, knowing some don't make it back—must have been its own kind of hell.

That's where I am right now. The start line for something I didn't train for and didn't want to enter.

The Medical Coordination Dance

I understand why treatment takes time to start. My medical team has been coordinating testing, scheduling radiation planning, aligning chemotherapy protocols, and ensuring everything is sequenced correctly. This isn't something you rush.

But understanding the reasons doesn't make the waiting easier.

Every day between diagnosis and treatment feels like time the cancer has that I don't. Logically, I know a few weeks won't make a significant difference in outcomes. Emotionally? It feels like I'm giving my opponent a head start.

The rational part of my brain knows my oncology team is doing exactly what they should. The scared part wants to start fighting already.

The Team That Matters

Just as in racing or most any other endeavor, teams matter. I've assembled a good one: oncologists, radiation oncologists, nutritionists, nurses, support staff—people who do this every day and know what they're doing.

It's comforting to know I have that team. To trust that they've seen this before, that they know the protocols, that they'll adjust when needed.

But the most important member of my team is Rita.

She's the one who goes to every appointment. She asks the questions I forget to ask. Who processes information when I'm still stuck on "you have cancer." Who researches side effects and nutrition strategies, and what to expect.

She's helping me get through this. But I need to help her through it too. We're both fighting this battle, even though only one of us has the tumor.

Emotional support for her is essential. This isn't something I can do alone, and it's not something I should expect her to carry alone either.

The Irony of Weight Gain

For the past two years, I've been methodically losing weight. Nearly thirty pounds have been lost through careful nutrition, increased training volume, and disciplined eating habits. I stopped eating late. I restricted choices. I focused on nutrient density over calorie density.

It worked. I got lean. I got fast. I placed at states and did OK at nationals.

Now my doctors are telling me to gain weight. To eat frequently. To not restrict food choices. To eat later in the evening. Basically, to do all the things I spent two years training myself not to do.

The goal isn't performance anymore. It's survival. Having extra weight means having reserves when treatment makes eating impossible. Having calories stored means my body can focus on fighting cancer instead of finding fuel.

It feels strange. Wrong, almost. Like I'm undoing all the work I put in.

But I understand the logic. This isn't about cycling performance. This is about having enough in the tank to make it through seven weeks of treatment and months of recovery.

So I'm eating. Frequently. Whatever sounds good. Later in the evening. Everything I stopped doing to get race-ready.

The goal now is treatment-ready. Different race, different preparation.

What I’m Hoping to Avoid

The doctors have been clear about potential side effects. Most are unavoidable—throat pain, difficulty swallowing, fatigue, and nausea. I'm prepared for those as much as anyone can be.

But there are two I'm particularly hoping to avoid: the feeding tube and hearing loss from chemotherapy.

The feeding tube is a real possibility if my throat becomes too damaged to swallow anything. That's why I'm focused so intensely on liquid nutrition. If I can maintain calories through shakes and soft foods, maybe I can avoid having a tube surgically placed.

The hearing loss is less controllable. Cisplatin, the chemotherapy drug they're using, is known for causing permanent hearing damage in some patients. There's no way to predict who will be affected or how severely. As someone who values music, conversation, and the sounds of the outdoors, the idea of losing hearing is frightening.

But it's also the kind of thing I can't control. Doctors monitor it. They adjust if necessary. But ultimately, you take the risk because the alternative—not treating the cancer—is worse.

These are the calculations you make. Which side effects are you willing to accept in exchange for staying alive?

Memories and Mathematics

My brother died from cancer. So have several friends. When you're facing a cancer diagnosis, those memories surface whether you want them to or not.

But other friends have survived. Some are years out from treatment, living full lives. Some are further down the path I'm just starting, showing me it can be done.

The math is complicated. Not everyone makes it. But many do. I want to be in the second category.

I think about my brother more than I expected. What his treatment was like. What he went through. How he handled it. Whether this will be similar or different.

There's no point in dwelling on it. Jim's cancer wasn't the same as mine. His treatment was different. But the memories are there, uninvited, reminding me that this is serious and the outcome isn't guaranteed.

The Unexpected Overwhelm

I'm pretty introverted. I tend to recharge alone. So the outpouring of support since announcing my diagnosis has been emotionally overwhelming in ways I didn't anticipate.

Messages from friends I haven't talked to in years. Support from readers I've never met. Gifts from clients like DSI. Product donations from companies like Tailwind. Offers of help from neighbors and friends.

It's humbling. And honestly, it's a lot to process.

I'm grateful. Deeply grateful. But I'm also struggling with how to respond adequately to everyone, how to acknowledge the support without feeling like I'm constantly talking about cancer, how to accept help when my instinct is to handle things myself.

This is something I didn't prepare for. I prepared for treatment side effects, nutrition challenges, and physical struggles. I didn't prepare for the emotional complexity of being on the receiving end of this much care. I'm learning to accept it. To say thank you without qualification. To let people help because they genuinely want to. To recognize that community support isn't something I have to earn or repay—it's what people do when someone needs it.

The Last Good Ride

This past Thursday, I had a great 40-mile ride. It was a beautiful autumn day—the kind of Michigan fall weather that makes you grateful to live here. Perfect temperature. Clear skies. The type of day that reminds you why you ride in the first place.

I rode defiantly and even set a couple of PR's. Fuck you cancer - you aren't welcome, you aren't staying.

Since then, the weather has turned cold and rainy. Dark clouds. Persistent drizzle. The kind of weather that makes you want to stay inside.

The timing feels like foreshadowing.

The pain in my throat has increased. Before, it was barely noticeable—just occasional discomfort I could ignore. Now it's a constant reminder that something is wrong. Every swallow. Every meal. Every time I talk for more than a few minutes.

It's like the cancer is announcing itself more loudly as treatment approaches and reminding me why I'm doing this.

I'm eager to start treatment. Eager to fight back. Anxious to get my life back—even though I know the process will be painful, inconvenient, and will probably mark a new chapter in my life rather than a return to the old one.

That Thursday ride might be the last one outdoors for a while. The last time cycling felt like cycling instead of like training for something harder. The last perfect autumn day before winter—both literal and metaphorical.

I'm glad I got it in.

What Comes Next

Treatment starts tomorrow. Seven weeks of daily radiation and weekly chemotherapy. Then months of recovery.

I know it will be hard. Everyone who's been through it says the same thing: it's rough. The side effects accumulate. Week one is manageable. Week seven is survival.

But I also know I'm as ready as I can be. I have my medical team. I have Rita. I have support from people who care. I have experience pushing through hard things.

I've spent weeks in this waiting room between diagnosis and treatment. Now it's almost time to start.

The anticipation is nearly over. The fight is about to begin.

Ready or not, here we go.

Next post: What the first week of treatment is actually like. Subscribe for updates as I document this journey.