Foggy

A two-time cancer survivor reconstructs a single day of chemotherapy, hour by hour, from the journals he kept while showing everyone around him a different day entirely.

The symptoms arrived in the summer of 2022: fainting spells, night sweats, a heart that stuttered on stairs. It took ten months to get a name for them.

When the diagnosis finally came, it was cancer.

His second.

During treatment, he gave his family, friends, and colleagues a tidy schedule: chemo, work calls, walks, TV. He let their imaginations fill in the rest.

Foggy is the record of what that schedule concealed.

Its center is a single average day of treatment, rebuilt from midnight to midnight out of a year of journal entries. The hours are interrupted by twenty-five interludes, and they are not the ones a cancer memoir is supposed to have.

He volunteered with the children on the ward through their IVs when their parents couldn't be in the room. He watched the patient with an identical diagnosis a month ahead of his own, every side effect becoming a preview.

And the playlist, named Foggy, that set the cadence of his walks home.

What follows the day is the ledger of what remained: three hundred things he wrote down that he was grateful for, the lessons he trusts and the ones he still argues with.

It was written first for the people closest to him, so the disease could not also take their understanding of him alongside everything else.

Foggy promises no artistry, only authenticity, and in keeping the second promise it delivers the first.