The Shock and the Starting Line
The sound of the monitor beeping was the first thing I registered. Then the familiar disorientation of coming out of anesthesia. I was still groggy on the hospital bed following what was supposed to be a routine colonoscopy, but the room felt heavy. By my side stood my wife, my partner of only five short years, her hand already gripping mine.
I opened my eyes to see my doctor leaning over me, her expression grim. She was holding her iPhone to my unfocused eyes, displaying a picture of the large tumor—the undeniable, horrific evidence of what lay inside.
“We couldn’t finish,” she began, her voice professional but cold. “There is a large tumor blocking the way. I have called a surgeon and an oncologist.”
She didn't wait for a response. She turned and left the room.
I lay there, the drugs slowly receding, the words and the horrific image hanging heavy in the sterile air: Tumor. Surgeon. Oncologist? But worse than the words was the sight of the woman I loved—the woman whose life was just beginning with mine—listening, sobbing, her tears falling onto my hospital sheet. Surely, this must be a bad dream—a lingering nightmare from the anesthesia. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the reality to be different when I opened them. But it wasn't.
That moment eight years ago was our unwanted starting pistol. The carefree path of our life in retirement had veered into an endless, unexpected marathon.
Eight years. It’s a statistic, a milestone, and a constant companion. This post is not a lament about the tragedy of cancer; it is a testament to the strength found in the journey itself. These pillars—Endurance, Perseverance, and Faith—converted a devastating diagnosis into a life of meaning and purpose. This is a long race, and this is how we learned to keep running.
🏃 Section 1: Endurance - The Long Race of Daily Life
A cancer diagnosis feels like you are handed a massive boulder and told, "You must push this indefinitely." The initial adrenaline rush of chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery fades, leaving behind the challenge of endurance. This is the grind: the relentless rhythm of appointments, the soul-sucking anxiety of quarterly scans, and the heavy, bone-deep fatigue that no amount of sleep can erase.
For me, endurance meant showing up for life even when I felt like a ghost of myself. It was the crushing emotional toll of setbacks—the treatment that failed, the recurrence that shattered a moment of peace—forcing us back to the drawing board, time and time again. This isn't the dramatic sprint you see in movies; it’s the quiet, often boring, discipline of doing the next hard thing.
The Team That Helps You Last
You learn that endurance is not a solo sport. Over these eight years, the people who have become my marathon crew have illuminated my path.
I am blessed with a wonderful medical team—physicians and specialists who treat me not as a disease, but as a whole person. They are the strategists, constantly looking for the next path forward.
And then there are the many nurses, aides, therapists, and technicians. My nurses, aides, and therapists have been my lifeline. Many have become close friends and my cheering team. They are the steady hands during treatment, the comforting voices during hard news, and the cheerful faces that make the infusion rooms, ERs, and hospital beds feel less like a clinical space and more like a community hub. They celebrate the small wins and provide the gentle care that keeps the body resilient enough for the next step.
My wife, family (son, daughter and grandchildren), and community of friends and neighbors offered incredible support by encouraging, cajoling, feeding, transporting (major thanks to Arlen, Tom, and Ellie), and supporting me. When the fear was overwhelming, they spoke faith into the silence. When I needed a firm nudge to keep fighting, they were the loving voices that kept me motivated. They remind me daily: Endurance is the willingness to see the beauty in an ordinary day, even if it follows an extraordinary treatment.
🧗 Section 2: Perseverance - Adjusting the Sail, Not Abandoning the Voyage
If endurance is the ability to stay in the race, perseverance is the refusal to accept that your old limits still apply. It is an active choice to fight back against the inertia of illness and the steady erosion of hope. I have learned that perseverance isn't about being strong every day; it’s about being willing to adapt and try again.
There have been countless moments when giving up felt like the only reasonable course of action. I remember days when the physical pain, the relentless nausea, or sheer exhaustion made even simple tasks feel like climbing a mountain. Those were the times when the inner voice of defeat whispered loudest.
The Triumph in Tiny Steps
Perseverance is where the victories shine brightest, because they are hard-won. I had to redefine what "success" looked like. If my goal was once to run a 5K, it became the perseverance to walk down the driveway.
- Learning to "Ask for Help": One of the greatest acts of perseverance is recognizing that asking for help is a strategic necessity, not a weakness. It takes strength to humble yourself and allow others to carry part of the load.
- The Power of the Pivot: When one treatment failed, we didn't dwell on the failure; we researched, consulted, and planned the next course of action. This constant state of strategic adaptation is the true muscle of perseverance. It's the stubborn decision not to let a setback become a permanent stop.
You cannot control the diagnosis, the tumor growth, or the side effects. But you can control your response. You can control the decision to get out of bed, to find a reason to smile, and to focus on the things the illness cannot touch—your relationships, your memories, and your spirit. Perseverance means adjusting the sails, accepting the storm, and steering your vessel toward the future, one small, determined movement at a time.
🙏 Section 3: Faith - The Anchor in the Storm
Eight years in, this is not a story with a neat, happy conclusion where the credits roll and the cancer is gone forever. The fight is not over. To this day, the accumulated effects of aggressive chemo, radiation, and multiple surgeries linger, manifesting in unending, incurable infections and chronic physical challenges that require constant vigilance and treatment. The marathon continues, and the finish line is not yet in sight.
So, above all else, Faith in our supreme Creator has become my constant, unwavering anchor.
When the body feels broken and the world seems unfair, it is faith that steps in to provide the essential stability that endurance and perseverance rely on. Faith is not a denial of the hardship; it is the deep assurance that holds you steady in the middle of the storm.
Finding Light in the Darkness
There have been moments of agonizing doubt, times when I searched for the answer to the question, "Why me?" In those moments, paradoxically, my faith became the clearest.
- The Power of Purpose: Faith allowed me to shift my perspective from "Why is this happening *to* me?" to "What is this teaching *me*?" It instilled a sense that my life, despite the suffering, still holds intrinsic value and purpose. This purpose—to love my wife, to appreciate the simple miracle of a sunny morning, and now, to share this story—is what the illness cannot touch.
- A Hand to Hold: Faith provides the perspective that I am never walking this path alone. It transforms the feeling of being lonely in a hospital room into the recognition that I am connected to a purpose greater than my pain.
Faith doesn't guarantee a smooth path, but it guarantees a source of light. It allows me to look at the continuous battle with incurable infections and chronic pain, and still say: "This struggle will not diminish the joy I choose to create today." It is the ultimate act of hope, providing the spiritual fortitude to endure the long race and persevere through every new obstacle.
🏁 The Steadfast Heart: A Call to Keep Running
Eight years ago, when I heard those terrible words on the hospital bed, I thought my life was being cut short. Today, I realize the opposite is true. My life was being expanded, redefined, and enriched in ways I never could have imagined.
This journey has taught me that strength is not the absence of weakness, but the *choice* to move forward, anyway. The marathon continues, but I am not the same runner I was at the starting line.
If you are reading this and find yourself on your own unexpected path—whether it’s a health crisis, a professional struggle, or a deep personal challenge—know this: You possess a strength you have not yet measured.
Don't focus on the distance remaining; focus on the effort of this moment. Find your anchor, ask for help, and choose to persevere. Life with a chronic condition is a long race, full of detours and painful hills, but it is also a beautiful testament to the resilience of the human heart.
✒️ Epilogue: The Unfolding Story Continues
The words above represent a journey of eight years, a testament to enduring faith and relentless perseverance. I started writing this post many months ago — a reflection on a life lived with a formidable foe. But as I neared its completion, life delivered another shattering blow, and I found myself reticent to publish it amidst the raw chaos of grief.
Just over a year ago, my beloved wife—the steadfast hand by my side on that fateful day in the hospital, my unwavering anchor through every storm—lost her own swift battle with a similar, fast-moving disease. The woman who dried my tears, celebrated my small victories, and personified my "why" for fighting, was gone. To say the world shifted is an understatement; it crumbled.
In the wake of this unimaginable loss, I've also encountered comments from some who, perhaps unknowingly, diminish the struggle by saying, "You don't have it as bad as others." And they are right, in a way—everyone's battle is one-of-a-kind. But the truth is, the challenge of a long-term, incurable illness affects every individual differently, profoundly, and continuously.
Extreme measures have marked my physical fight. The second recurrence of my disease resulted in major surgery four years ago, leaving my lower abdomen empty of all organs. I now live with two ostomies, which present their own profound physical and emotional difficulties to manage daily.
So, no, the battle is far from over. It evolves. It demands new forms of endurance, deeper wells of perseverance, and an even more profound reliance on faith—not as a shield against pain, but as the very ground beneath my feet.
This is not a story that ends with a neat bow, because life, in all its brutal beauty, doesn't work that way. It's an ongoing narrative of resilience, love, and the quiet, stubborn choice to keep going, even when the losses are unbearable and the physical demands relentless. My story continues, one breath, one step, one act of faith at a time. And in sharing it, I hope to honor my wife's memory and illuminate the unwavering human spirit that persists, no matter what.
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