You would think when returning from an appointment where they tell me I have, "many choices for clinical trials and there is always an allogenic transplant," that the news would filter through to my house.That I would not come home to the same magazine on the table, the same sock hanging flaccid and gray against the side of the laundry basket, or the same dishes in the sink. When I wake up in the middle of the night and realize that I can't breathe properly there would be a commensurate hole in the fucking house. That the moon would turn purple and emit sparks in honor of the occasion. I don't want to hear crickets outside, I want to hear jazz playing from the leaves. I want to have a choir of raccoons outside in military formation playing Mozart on their tails. I want to have the sky turn yellow and move closer. Instead, I lay here, the laptop glowing onto the same sheets I slept in last night, unable to face the idea of using the computer in the other room. I am the same person as yesterday, I had the same body yesterday morning, the same haircut, the same nose, the same smile, I just learned that there are small hotspots on the PET scan that could signify recurrent disease. Nothing has changed, everything has changed.