Diagnosis day: ...you may ask yourself... Well? How did I get here?

I'm lying in the CT machine trying to remember my physics from grad school. Due to some odd blood work, I've been sent here by a hematologist/oncologist.

He suspects I have leukemia.

When you spin a magnet, you get a field.

If it's spinning clockwise then the direction of current is...

Or maybe it's counter-clockwise.

I'm trying to remember this while experiencing the overwhelming sensation that I've wet myself  as the contrast dye is injected into my arm.

It starts a a warm sensation in my throat and upper chest. Then spreads to my abdomen and finally my pelvis.

The tech said it would feel like I wet myself.

And by God it does.

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Dylon and I get in the car and head home.

Having heard the doctor say he thinks I have a fairly benign variety of leukemia, we joke that we're gonna go home and do some drinking to deal with this news.

We stop and run into the store to get supplies.

When we come out of the store there's a message on my phone.

(*paraphrasing here*) "Hugh, I didn't think you'd get the CT scan done today. But, after seeing it and talking to the radiologist, and seeing enlarged lymph nodes in your neck and chest, and with your enlarged spleen, I'm quite certain you have lymphoma. We'll need a biopsy to confirm and probably we'll put a port in for chemo at that time too. Give me a call to discuss what this means..."

We look at each other for a moment. My mind is churning and I'm silent.

Dylon's eyes go wide and she bursts into tears.

Panicky, hysterical tears.

Her voice is trembling, her mouth twisted.

She part screams "it'll be alright! We're going to be alright! ... Right?!"

I'm struck dumb by fear.

Questions.

I can't comfort her. I can't respond in the affirmative.

Finally I muster enough... what... energy?

I barely manage to say "Yes. It's gonna be ok. We're gonna be alright."

We pick up the kids. My small, beautiful children. Will I live to see them grow up? So many unknowns.

When we get home we park them in front of a video, something we never do. And then we call the doctor.

My first question: "Is this dangerous? Is this going to kill me?"

He replies that no, it won't kill me. It's a slow growing cancer that is very treatable. We breath a sigh of relief. He then goes into detail about how chemotherapy will proceed.

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Chemo has ended. I'm too sick and tired to continue working so I close my small personal training business and take the summer to recover while looking after my boys.

Desperate to not be a cancer patient anymore, to feel some normalcy, I've started going to a group ride that happens at 6am. I can't really keep up but I go anyway. Every week, I make it a bit longer before I detonate and get dropped. The idea occurs to me on one of these rides where I've made it a bit farther.

What if I could return to racing? My cancer is and will be well controlled for the forseeable future.

What if I could show myself and other survivors that it can be done?

So, here I am. I've been training since August. It's going well and racing season it about 7 weeks away.

I can't wait!