Living at The Edge of Now

There are moments in life when we find ourselves standing on a seam — a thin, precarious place where two realities press against each other. I call this place The Edge of Now.

For me, living with terminal cancer has made this edge impossible to ignore. Outwardly, I am the same Thom people have always known: adventurous, lighthearted, full of plans, quick to laugh. But beneath that, I carry another reality — the constant awareness of illness, mortality, and the narrowing horizon ahead. Both exist together, and I can fall from one side to the other in a blink.

This series of reflections began as morning journal entries. I want to share them because they hold truths that don’t always make it into casual conversation — the truths that sit under the surface of my days. They’re about what it means to inhabit two realities at once: the outer life people see and the inner current I carry.

Over the next three essays, I’ll explore this edge from three perspectives:

1. The Edge of Now itself — how quickly the present moment can shift between outer reality and inner turmoil.

2. How others see me — the gap between what people assume and what I’m actually carrying.

3. When someone stays — the rare, unforgettable experience of being met in both my lightness and my struggle.

4. 
   

This is not only my story. All of us, in our own ways, live with edges between what is seen and what is hidden. My hope is that by naming mine, you might begin to notice yours.

The Edge of Now

Most people imagine life as a steady current, one moment flowing easily into the next. But for me, life feels more like standing on a ridge — a narrow place where I can fall to either side in an instant. That ridge is what I call The Edge of Now.

When I say I’m having a good day or a bad day, what I really mean is which side of that edge I’ve landed on.

Sometimes, it’s just a single point in time, rooted in the physical reality of the present: sitting in a chair, walking down a road, holding a cup of coffee. Outwardly, it looks ordinary, even unremarkable. But that moment is also a threshold. On one side lies the tangible, visible world — the bus ride, the meal, the conversation. On the other side lies the inner world — the weight of illness, the urgency of mortality, the private reckoning that never loosens its grip.

Other times, the edge lasts for days or even weeks. And unfortunately, those stretches are most often spent on the darker side. These days it’s no longer 50/50. The dark seems to be winning. There are mornings when climbing back up to the ridge feels impossible. The fatigue is too heavy, the slope too steep. On those days, I don’t climb at all. I sit in the darkness.

And yet, whether fleeting or prolonged, I live with both sides at once. I can tumble between them in the blink of an eye. One moment, I’m fully present. The next, I’m pulled inward, carrying truths too heavy to show.

Torres del Paine

I remember riding a bus through Torres del Paine, the peaks burning gold in the late light. To anyone watching, I was just another traveler admiring the view, relaxed and content. But inside, the light pressed differently. My mind drifted to a PET scan, to the shadow behind my eye, to the quiet math of how many more sunsets I might have. The beauty felt unbearable in its finiteness.

Then the bus jolted over a rut, dust filled the air, and I was back — watching a guanaco step across the road. Outwardly, a man watching a mountain. Inwardly, a man reckoning with his horizon.

Antarctica

On a zodiac in Antarctica, I leaned over the side with my camera, laughing at the sheer absurdity of ice rising like cathedrals from the water. I probably looked like the perfect expedition companion — curious, enthusiastic, fully alive. Inside, though, the stillness pressed hard. I thought of how long these glaciers would outlast me, how small and temporary I was by comparison.

Just then, someone shouted, “Penguins!” and I swung my camera toward them. Outwardly steady hands. Inwardly, a fragile heart.

Cape Cod

Even at home, the edge is there. I lean on the kitchen counter, steam rising from my coffee, sunlight climbing across the floorboards. To anyone else, it looks like a quiet, ordinary morning. But my eyes flick to the calendar, where an oncology appointment is circled in red. Bloodwork results sit unread in my inbox.

The warmth in my hands is suddenly a reminder that these mornings are finite. Then the kettle clicks as it cools, grounding me again. Outwardly sipping coffee. Inwardly counting days.

Uyuni Salt Flats

Crossing Bolivia’s salt flats in a jeep, I laughed with the driver at the impossible horizon, where land and sky mirrored each other. To him, I was all joy, swept up in wonder. But inside, the blurred horizon made me uneasy. What if my life dissolved like this — recognizable yet unreachable?

The driver turned up the radio, a lilting melody filling the cab. I swayed with the rhythm, my smile intact, the unease tucked back under the surface.

Hospital Waiting Room

Even in the most ordinary places, the edge is sharp. I sat under fluorescent lights, scrolling absently on my phone. To others in the room, I was just another patient killing time.

Then my phone buzzed: “We need to talk about your scan.” The sound of the vents, the tapping of a child’s shoes, the rustle of magazines — everything grew too loud, too sharp. When the call ended, I set the phone down. The shoes kept tapping. The magazines kept turning. And no one knew how different my world had just become.

The Rhythm of the Edge

This is the rhythm of The Edge of Now: one moment I am present, smiling, part of the visible world; the next, I am pulled inward, confronting the weight of truths I rarely share. Both sides are real. Both sides are mine. And I can fall either way in the space of a breath.

Living here is not about choosing one side or the other. It’s about knowing how close they are, how fragile the balance is, and how every moment holds both — the seen and the unseen, the steady and the storm.

There are days when the darker side swallows everything. On those days, there are no bus rides, no vistas, no laughter. Only the angst, the anxiety, and the depression that weigh far more than I can carry.

But the edge is still there. Waiting.

Next time, I’ll explore how this edge doesn’t just shape me but shapes the people around me — how they see only one side, and how much of me remains unspoken.