I’m a cocky mother fucker. With my champagne chilled and ready to uncork. With my celebratory blogpost, not typed yet, but certainly drafted in my head. With every second of my month tied up with things completely unrelated to cancer.

A cocky mother fucker.

Let me start by saying that ultrasound imaging sucks. It’s simply no good. Blurry and blotchy and confusing to read. Yet that’s what we’ve been relying on for the past two years because it has no risks associated with it: no radiation exposure, no further damage to the already damaged kidney. So, today, on the ultrasound, it appears that something’s there. Something that wasn’t there before.

We’re not sure — of course. We’ll need to schedule additional testing. First a GFR, to see where his kidney function is so we can determine which test to do next. Assuming his GFR is above 30 (and his nephrologist estimates it’s at least 60), then he’s “well” enough to be able to have an MRI or CT with contrast (oh, the irony). Either of those ought to let us know if this thing is nothing or if it’s something.

But let’s be real here. It’s always something. Every fucking time this happens, we invent a thousand scenarios to explain why it might be nothing. We imagine every possible rare or random “nothing” it might be. But it’s never nothing. Every fucking time, it’s always something and the something it turns out to be every fucking time is CANCER.

It’s always something.