Who would have thought that December 13, 2020, would come and that I would actually be alive? During my chemotherapy regimen, the cards were genuinely stacked against me, and yet, here we are … here I am.
Five years. Cancer-Free. Wild.
I should also add, who else would have known that five years after being officially cancer-free, I would be writing this as a worldwide pandemic rages on?
Over the past five years, I’ve had many thoughts about the meaning of life, life-after-death, purpose, health, neighborly love, and the list goes on. But over time, there were some thoughts about life that always came back.
They were from lessons that I learned while I was sitting on my hospital bed on the P-2 floor at Henry Ford Hospital with IV needles pumping fluids into my body. Lessons that I learned while I grieved, mourned, pouted, bawled, and fumed at the reality that life was no longer the same. Lessons that I learned while I emotionally broke down while driving in the middle of the highway exactly three years after I was diagnosed because of a separate trauma from the day I was told I had leukemia. Lessons that I learned while I grappled with the daily reminder that tomorrow, I could find myself in the same situation as on June 7, 2013, the day I was diagnosed. There were many lessons learned, reminded, discarded, and refined over the past seven years after being diagnosed with leukemia and over the past five years of being cancer-free.
Honestly, my mind is boggled as to why I am still alive. There are plenty of days where I wonder “why” in terms of God’s divine plan, He has kept me alive. Did I do anything to deserve this? Is this what divine grace is like? Why not the countless others who have not ended up with a similar fate as mine? There are so many questions.
But as I mark five years of officially being deemed “cancer-free”, I am extremely grateful. It’s an ever-potent reminder that tomorrow is never guaranteed, I am not invincible, and the places in which I put my hope are fickle — unless it is in Christ Jesus.
Today, I am reminded that I literally beat death. I had a staring contest with the reaper, scythe in hand, and for some reason, he blinked first and turned away. And with that, I am reminded today, yet again that I do not wish for anyone to have to stare death in its face. There is nothing noble about it. In fact, it is foolish to flirt with death.
Quite honestly, today, I am reminded as to why I’ve been so frustrated this entire year with the naivete of people who tout some strange form of “boldness” in going toe-to-toe with the coronavirus. Perhaps as a society and as a species, we have forgotten that we are but mere mortals. “All go to the same place; all come from dust, and to dust all return (Eccl. 3:20).”
Upon five years of being officially cancer-free, I am also scared.
A few weeks ago, I got off the phone with my nurse practitioner, Cathy. She is literally the woman who saved my life, from making sure I had the proper chemotherapy doses, to figuring out and solving the medical mysteries of the weird side effects my body went through during my treatment.
One time, I literally fell backward (caused by one of the weird side effects) and by the grace of God, Cathy bolted out of her desk chair and with that same desk chair in hand, placed it right behind me so I ended up sitting on it instead of crashing head first onto the floor, literally avoiding instant death. She is godsent. She is also retiring at the end of an amazing lifelong career as a nurse practitioner.
I cried by myself in my car after our phone call where Cathy told me the news. I mourned the future loss of the nurse who cared deeply for me in the darkest time of my life. I mourned the future loss of a friend who knew how to ask the right questions during my treatment. I cried because I was afraid. If the cancer comes back, would the new nurse practitioner be able to care for me just as Cathy did?
Five years of being cancer-free. Who would have thought that this day would come? I didn’t. The next milestone is to get to ten years. At this point, I’m projected to get cancer at a rate similar to any other guy who is a year out from turning thirty. So I guess that’s good news?
The fact that I am celebrating these five years of being cancer-free during the same year that we have a worldwide pandemic has some form of poetic humor to it. But it also points to me many great reminders as well:
With the backdrop of death, I am reminded of life.
With the backdrop of disillusioned invincibility, I am reminded of humility.
With the backdrop of faulty homes for our hope, I am reminded of the One in whom our hope is secure.
With the backdrop that “tomorrow will come,” I am reminded that “tomorrow is never guaranteed.”
With the backdrop of the end being distant, I am reminded that the end of seasons always arrives one day.
Thanks to all my friends, family, and my amazing wife for standing with me, running with me, walking with me, sitting and sobbing with me, all along the way.
Here’s to five years of being cancer-free and Lord-willing, many more.