Invictus--we did it.

I love you Mom.

"I am the master of my fate. 

I am the captain of my soul."

I don't know what to say here, other than that I'm likely to ramble, and that the last 24 hours have been a blur. I've been fighting a nasty bout of the flu, and came close to changing my appointment in Ann Arbor--but they insisted I come. 

So I went, expecting the worst. 

My body was too, apparently. I shivered, constantly, in a way I never had before.

My temperature was up. 

Heart rate through the roof. 

I ran through every possible negative scenario in my mind:

How would I break the news to the people I love?

Am I ever going to live without this in my life? 

Am I mentally equipped to deal with another setback?

Is cancer going to kill me?

I fight back tears as I'm writing this, knowing how real those thoughts and concerns felt to me in that moment.

I remember words bouncing around in my head as we waited, fully aware of their dramatic nature. 

Words like inoperable. 

Relapse.

Terminal. 

I felt my dad, next to me, and couldn't imagine what this must be like for him...in another room, waiting to hear if another loved one was going to, possibly, hear the worst.

I thought of my family, and how I would have to put a positive spin on whatever was coming--they think I'm much tougher than I am--have to keep up appearances.

I thought of my best friends, and the words of encouragement that would predictably follow after I broke the bad news. 

I thought of the look on Emma's face, heartbroken, as I would have to tell her this wasn't over. 

This was the last thought I had, before the doctor came in and interrupted my melancholy thought catalog. 

Still shaking violently, she made small talk about my heart rate and about how I wasn't feeling well. I missed most of it. 

I couldn't take it any longer, I finally spit it out. 

"The Scan?"

All I could muster. 

Then, a bunch of unfamiliar words filled the room. 

Clean. 

Normal. 

Effective. 

No disease. 

I felt like I was dreaming. I still do. Only in the last hour or so have I been able to stop shivering. My fever finally subsiding. 

Clean. 

I could go on and on for pages about how this isn't exactly over--how it never will be. I will be in Cancer Clinics for follow ups and tests for the rest of my life--and like most things, there are no guarantees. 

But today, realist/pessimist Marcus is taking the day off. 

 Clean. 

FUCKING CLEAN. 

In this moment, I'm cancer free.

It's a place I always thought I would reach--but you're never totally sure. 

In the back of my mind, there was always a measure of doubt. 

This was the hardest thing I've ever been through. Physically, yes.

Mentally, though, is where the real challenge lay for me. 

The doubt--I'm happy it was there. That bit of doubt made everything in the past couple years more vivid, more beautiful, more exciting, and yes, more painful. 

When you don't feel that a long and distant future is guaranteed, little moments feel bigger. Everything is magnified. There were times it felt like I could stretch minutes into hours.

People are more important than things. 

Experiences more important than rest. 

Love more important than anything. 

I plan to do my best to continue living this way. 

We did it, everybody. 

We. 

Us. 

You.

My family, my friends, my boss, Emma and her family, my doctors, acquaintances and people I've never met but who reached out to me anyway--

we did it. 

Cliche or not, I don't believe, not for a second, that I would be here in this moment today, crying all over my computer, if it were not for all of you. The well-wishes, the donations, the visits, the phone calls and texts--just the love. 

I always felt it, and in the tougher moments, I leaned on it. 

I know I've said it countless times on here, but I really am the luckiest man on earth.

You guys are my heroes. 

You all, plus some pretty incredible science, world class doctors, a refusal to leave some very important people behind, and an even stronger refusal to let someone else in my group of friends wear the crown of "best golfer," are what made today happen. 

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. 

I'm still not. 

Attitude isn't everything. That's bullshit. But it is a thing.

It matters. Just like the science, doctors, and the research that got me here. 

When I didn't have the right attitude, I faked it. When I couldn't fake it, I leaned on you guys. When I was confident, I let my bravado-default take over. When I was scared, I made jokes. When I was uncertain, I read all the e-mails, comments, notes, and texts from you. 

I love all of you. 

This isn't over for me. It's still a long road. 

But today, we're not going to think that way. 

We're going to keep living with that scrap of doubt that makes everything more beautiful. 

Today--for now--we did it. 

We. Did. It. 

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.





It's been a long two years. Snapshot of all my different "looks."

Couple days prior to surgery:

Post Surgery:

Chemo, round 1: ABVD

After ABVD, before relapse:

On Salvage Chemotherapy:

Just Checked in for stem cell transplant:

Recovering from transplant:

Almost 100 days since transplant:

Day #100:

And to finish, a picture of Day 1 of the rest of my life. 

I'm keenly aware of how incredibly lame it is to take a selfie while crying on the ride home from the hospital, but I wanted to capture that moment so that I could remember it. It was powerful. 

I was thankful. 

Relieved. 

Proud. 

Lucky. 

Happy. 

Reflective. 

Optimistic.

Motivated. 

And Loved. 

Thank you all. 

More to come.