It's been a long time since I've been here. 5 years to the day, to be exact.
Long enough to forget my password, had to reset it. For a place I used to spend so much of my time, that was jarring, but appropriate.
10 years in remission today, and it arrived right on time. Much like my password to blogger.com, a reset was in order.
5 years ago I recall very much looking forward to the 5 year milestone because of what it meant medically as part of survivorship. Had it circled on the calendar. If you get to 5 years, the rates of remission plummet. When the day came, as I wrote on the blog that day, I felt scared--which was a surprise. It was a reminder that as good as life was 5 years into remission, and how Cancer was no longer part of my day to day life, it still lurks. Lingers.
Felt like a race against Usain Bolt, and that I was building a cushion for a nice head start--but that eventually Usain (Cancer) Bolt would catch up.
Today--I had no awareness of the 10 year anniversary until around lunch when a friend texted me to congratulate me.
To not see such a huge milestone coming surprised me, so I spent some time thinking about why.
Cancer, since 2014, has been such a massive part of my life. I have the scars, physical and otherwise, that remind me daily.
I still have appointments with my oncologist, though those are more and more spread out.
While pondering how this date got here so quickly and stealthily, I decided to head to this blog. I went back to the beginning, skipped a lot of the silly nonsense I posted to pass the time and distract myself, was reminded of some really special and really tough moments, but ultimately landed back on the big one--Invictus--the day I learned I was officially cancer free for the first time. I wrote that post in the passenger seat of my Dads car on the way home from Ann Arbor, because I wanted it to be fresh.
In that post, in my rambling nature, I wrote about what more bad news from the doctor that day would've done to my Dad, family, friends, and to Emma. I detailed the moment I heard I was officially cancer free. I wrote about the love and support from all the above and complete strangers that got me through it all--and I expressed gratitude for whatever lays ahead for me, even acknowledging none of it was guaranteed.
I wrote about my Mom and about her death. I wrote about how I spent time, more than I should have, contemplating my own death while sick:
I joke, but I'm not sure there is any cancer patient who doesn't contemplate the possibility of death. A negative person like me, and one who already lost a family member to the disease, probably more than others.
This happened a while ago, but I remember a day when I was feeling sorry for myself, contemplating death.
I even saw what I thought my funeral would look like (a bunch of drunk people on a golf course, please).
I thought about how I would want to go (not like my Mom).
Even thought out the small details down to the music and the food served after.
Dark--I know.
And then I had another thought, and I never contemplated death again:
I miss my Mom, more than anything--but I'm not ready to join her yet.
By the end, I promised to "keep living with the scrap of doubt (about living/surviving) that makes everything more beautiful."
And I did that, lived with cancer and my own mortality front and center--every single day, until April 9th, 2022.
What the version of me who wrote that blog post in my Dad's car never could have known (and actually thought was medically impossible) was that I'd have a family of my own. That I'd have a daughter, and she would bear my Mom's full name.
After Suzy got here, life truly began to feel "normal" again--in the best, messy, tired, stressful way. The joys and demands of fatherhood, family life, chasing a career, all began to occupy my daily life in the portions allowed for a person not terrified of dying of cancer, or of cancer returning.
The overwhelming Joy of seeing her and what surviving has brought me would strike me often, and I'd of course have moments to acknowledge that I am the luckiest person on the planet--but "normal" felt like a warm blanket. Usain wasn't chasing me anymore.
I was allowed, or allowed myself, to finally let go of so much of the weight of my experience with Cancer.
New stresses stepped in, sure--but they felt welcome. Life has been crazy. Fast. We've moved around the Midwest. Changed jobs. Lost people. Evolved.
And as as if I wasn't already lucky enough, Emma did the amazing all over again and Lou Calverley joined us on 10/17/25.
As you can imagine, every day since then has been a whirlwind as well. Joyous, tired, stressed, thrilled, you name it. Normal, not all of it happy, not all of it fun--
But none of it Cancer.
So today arrives. 10 years gone by--and cancer plays no role here other than the sight of my chest tattoo in the bathroom mirror. There is no room for it other than the occasional acknowledgement, like today.
My life, since Suzy joined us--is extraordinarily normal. What an accomplishment.
I'm healthy (mostly).
My wife is smart, kind and beautiful.
My children are happy, growing.
My home is filled with messes, laughs, dogs, laundry that may never be put away.
My family and extended family are thriving. I have great friends.
So, like my password, today was a good chance for a reset of my relationship with Cancer.
Today I'm cancer free for 10 years, and that's the thing I am least interested in of all. I have no time or use for it any longer.
My cup is otherwise full.
That feels triumphant.
Invictus.
