It’s a few weeks later now.
The questions haven’t stopped—but something has shifted.
We’re getting closer to answers.
I’ve pushed.
I’ve advocated for myself—something I never do. I’ve asked the uncomfortable questions, refused the easy reassurances, and stayed in the room when it would’ve been simpler to nod and leave.
There’s been a scan.
There’s been a referral.
It’s progress.
The referral lands on my birthday, which feels oddly poetic in a dark-humoured way. Another year older, yes—but also another year still here, still standing, still demanding to be heard. I’m not walking out of this without answers. Not this time.
When I went through oncology hell, Raise Your Horns by Halestorm was my anthem.
And here we are again—horns still raised.
Only now, I’ve got even more to fight for.
My Tills.
My moon cat Billie.
My boys.
The plans that are no longer abstract dreams but things with edges and weight and keys and walls. A future that’s close enough to taste.
Nothing is going to stop me getting this sorted.
Not dismissal.
Not delay.
Not fear dressed up as politeness.
I’m tired—but I’m not done.
I’m scared—but I’m not backing down.
This time, I stay until the answers come.
I hope.
And if hope falters, I’ll borrow defiance instead—and raise my horns anyway.