(I Won’t Let a Maybe Steal Today)

Doctors speak in data. Our brains hear destiny.

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Dear friend in the waiting,

I was sitting in the chair when the words changed.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just enough.
The labs were fine. The positives were reviewed. And then the doctor opened the scan results. “The size has increased.” The room didn’t shift. The lights didn’t flicker. But something inside me moved from finished… to not yet.
That’s the moment no one trains you for. Because medicine is trained to answer the question. But waiting happens before the answer. And waiting can feel unkind.
When you hear, “We need more testing,” it isn’t just information. It’s a doorway. Your brain doesn’t wait for clarity. It starts writing endings. Some brains run toward worst-case scenarios. Some go into research mode. Some shut down.Some over-function. Some immediately reframe it into purpose. Some try to solve it before it exists.
In uncertainty, our strengths often show up first.
But sometimes what we call strength is also our reflex.
The problem-solver starts solving. The optimist starts reframing. The protector starts preparing. The researcher starts researching. None of those are wrong.
But if we move too quickly, we can skip the simple human moment of:
This matters.
Grief needs about ninety seconds of oxygen before it settles. Sometimes we try to control it. Sometimes we try to spiritualize it. Sometimes we try to out-think it.
All of those are ways of escaping the unkind middle.
Clarity is kind.
But clarity is not always the diagnosis. Clarity is also understanding what is happening inside you while you wait. I can’t give you clarity about your results.
But I can offer clarity about what happens to a human mind in the waiting.
Doctors speak in data.
Our brains hear destiny.
When we hear “It has grown,” our brain hears,
What does that mean for my future? And then it scans:
Should I have felt something? Did I miss something?
Is there something I should be doing? That isn’t panic.
That’s your brain trying to close a story that hasn’t been written yet.
The unkind week is not unkind because it is empty.
It is unkind because it is unfinished. No plan yet.
No full answer yet. Just possibility.
And possibility can feel heavier than certainty. Even hard certainty.
In the waiting room inside you, there are two common exits. One is catastrophe. v “I won’t see my grandkids grow up.” “This is the end.” “My life is over.”
The other is forced positivity.
“This is meant to be.” “It will all work out.”
“I’ll meet new people.”
Both are attempts to get relief. The middle is steadier.
The middle says:
I don’t know yet. And I am still me.
If the what-ifs get loud, write them down.
What am I afraid to miss?
Birthdays.
Concerts.
Ordinary Tuesdays.
Quiet mornings.
The sound of my people in the kitchen.
Fear often points to what we love. Instead of shoving those thoughts away or letting them consume you, honor them. Write them down.
On another page, write what that fear reveals:
Family matters.
Presence matters.
Time matters.
Health matters.
Love matters.
If the diagnosis is hard, that list becomes your fighting words.
Not shouted in denial. Not rooted in fear.
Whispered when you’re tired.
You fight for birthdays not yet celebrated.
You fight for mornings not yet lived.
You fight for the people who call you by name.
On the heavy days, when courage feels thin, you don’t fight for a diagnosis. You fight for what you love.
That list is not about fear. It is about devotion.
And devotion is stronger than panic.
If the results come back clearer than you feared, it is okay to breathe.
It is okay to feel relief. It is okay to pause and say,
I don’t want to forget what this week taught me.
You can take that same list and ask:
Am I living aligned with what I said matters most?
Uncertainty has a way of sharpening our vision.
Relief is an opportunity to live with that sharpened clarity.
It is okay to think through possibilities.
It is okay to have a plan in the back of your mind.
It is okay to prepare your support system.
Preparation is not panic.
But preparation does not require you to abandon today.
You cannot symptom-check your way into certainty.
You cannot research your way into peace.
The next right thing has already been scheduled.
Until there is something to respond to, there is nothing to solve.
Outcome clarity answers the question.
Process clarity steadies the person.
You may not control when the answer comes.
But you can choose how you stand while you wait.
In the in-between:
I refuse to quit my life early.
I refuse to pretend nothing matters.
I will prepare without panicking.
I will hope without hiding.
I will let grief have its oxygen.
I will not let a maybe steal today.
And until I know more,
I am still allowed to be fully alive.

With grace,
Donna

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Songs Written in the Waiting

Sometimes a reflection becomes a song. Sometimes the waiting writes several. These songs were written during the days between a scan and the answers that follow. Each one reflects a different step in the emotional journey of waiting.

Opening ReflectionThe Waiting Room (Preface Intro)This spoken introduction sets the tone for the space between a scan and the answer — the waiting room inside all of us.

1. Reflection

Maybe Won’t Steal Today

This song reflects the moment when you first realize the answer isn’t here yet — and you decide not to let uncertainty steal the life that is still happening today.

Quit My Life Early

In the middle of waiting, the question becomes how you will live while the story is still unfinished. This song is the decision: I will not quit my life early.

3. Perspective

Data and Destiny

Doctors speak in data. Our minds hear destiny.This song sits in the tension between medical facts and the stories our minds begin to write.

4. Determination

The Answer Isn’t Here Yet

The final step in the waiting is quiet determination.The answer may not be here yet, but courage shows up anyway.

The waiting room does not get the final word