Six Months Ago, Everything Changed.

But I'm still here!

The Word That Stopped Time

Six months.

It is hard to believe it has only been that long, and harder still to grasp all that has happened since.

It began with discomfort, then concern.

Then came the scan, and a word that dropped like a stone onto my chest:

Cancer.

Aggressive.

A large mass in my abdomen.

The doctor was calm, compassionate, and direct.

More scans were needed. A biopsy.

I needed to be hospitalized.

Whatever it was, it was not slow, and it was not small.

It was shutting down my kidneys

I do not remember much of the next few minutes.

My body was in the room, nodding, listening.

My mind had already gone elsewhere, rushing ahead to my family, to all the unfinished things, to her.

The Call That Broke Me

I needed to talk to Maria.

Before the fear took full shape, before the silence set in too deep.

Before I could start pretending I was fine.

The doctor offered me his office to make the call.

I stepped inside, closed the door, and dialed.

As the phone rang, I stared at the image on the screen.

The mass inside me. Dense. Unmistakable. Present.

Through tears, I looked at my cancer.

At the thing that now lived inside me. Somewhere in that moment, I saw my mother’s cancer too.

She had carried a tumor like this.

She fought it with everything she had: surgery, chemo, hope.

She fought hard, but in the end, the cancer was stronger.

Sitting there, phone in hand, I was no longer just a man with a diagnosis. I was a son standing in the shadow of a memory I had tried so hard to keep behind me.

Then Maria answered.

Her voice was upbeat “Hey Love!”

I tried to explain, but in my memory, I remember saying, “I have cancer" Holding back tears, I heard her.

The upbeat voice was now broken.

Shattered.

My heart broke with hers.

Telling her that I had cancer shattered something inside me that no drug, no scan, no needle had touched.

It was no longer a diagnosis confined to my body.

It had become something in our life, in our home, in her heart.

I could not protect her from it.

That broke me more than anything else.

Maria, My Constant

What happened next is what saved me.

Maria, my wife, my constant, has been the unshakable center of this storm.

She did not stand beside me as an observer; she stepped into the fire with me.

From the first moment, when the weight of my diagnosis threatened to break us both, she held steady. Eyes full of tears, hands full of strength.

She did not ask why. She asked, “What do we do next?”

Every day since, her care has been stitched into the fabric of my survival.

She tracks every appointment, every prescription, every shift in my body before I can find the words.

She has read the side effects I could not bear to look at, spoken for me when my voice was too thin, and carried a thousand small burdens no one else ever sees.

She watches the clock so I do not have to.

She wakes me gently when it is time for another dose.

She remembers to ask if I have eaten, even when I forget what hunger feels like.

In the infusion rooms, when I go quiet, when fear seeps in through the edges of my strength, she reaches for my hand without words.

A simple touch that says, "I am here."

She has cleaned my soiled body without hesitation, rubbed my back through long nights of nausea and pain, and looked at me with eyes that still see something whole.

Something worth loving.

Maria has never once asked for rest.

She has never made this about her, though it always has been.

She has carried the invisible grief that comes when the strong one falls, and somehow still made space for my healing.

She holds up our home, our family, and me, all while carrying her own silent weight.

She is not just my wife.

She is my co-survivor.

My fiercest advocate.

The soul beside mine, steady as breath.

If I have made it through these six months, it is because she never once let go.

The Strength of Our Sons

Ethan, Gabriel, and Noah have become something extraordinary during these six months.

Not just older, but wiser. Not just taller, but stronger.

They have watched their father become weak, thin, quiet.

They have seen things no young person should: hospital beds, IV bags, the hollow silence of fatigue.

Still, they chose to stay close.

They did not panic.

They did not drown me in worry.

They gave me space to be sick and still feel like a father.

They held onto humor when everything else felt heavy.

When I could not stand, they offered their arms like anchors.

I would lean into them, not collapsing, but trusting.

They never made me feel small for needing help.

They let me keep my dignity.

They have carried groceries, pushed wheelchairs, lifted my spirits, and challenged my stubbornness.

They have stood tall when the world threatened to fall.

I have always been proud to be their father.

Now, I am in awe.

Because in this fight, they have become more than sons.

They have become brothers to one another in a deeper way.

They have become guardians of something I didn’t realize I would need, my sense of worth.

The Stories That Carried Me

One of the quiet blessings of this journey has been the stories shared with me along the way.

Friends. Family. Strangers in infusion rooms.

All carrying their own versions of this fight.

All marked by courage, humor, honesty, and fire.

These stories matter.

I have watched people like Tim Krause tackle healing head-on, not with denial but with determination.

His words, his presence, his refusal to flinch, they have shown me what is possible.

We do not just survive this.

We rise through it.

We are changed by it.

We reshape ourselves.

These stories remind me I am not alone.

That there is no one way to fight,

but that we must never stop fighting.

Rebuilding

This illness has tested me in every way.

Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.

It broke me open.

Then it showed me who I really am.

Not the titles, not the roles, not the expectations. But the man underneath all of that.

The one who knows what it is to hurt, to be held, to keep going when everything says stop.

Slowly, I have started putting myself back together.

Not in a rush. Not in the same shape.

But piece by quieter piece. Asking God to lend a hand as the puzzle goes back together.

Where I Am Now

For the first time since this began,

I can say the cancer is quieting.

The scans are improving.

The numbers are falling.

The treatment is working. We are moving towards remission. But the road is far from over.

The next step is the hardest yet, a stem cell transplant. One more round of chemotherapy, is scheduled just after my 55th birthday.

Add a side of full-body radiation.

My immune system will be dismantled so that something new can be born.

A re-seeding of hope, one cell at a time.

This will hurt. This will suck and it will stretch every part of me.

But now, I do not go in with fear.

I go in with faith, in my Lord, in my doctors, in my body, in the people who have carried me this far.

Looking Ahead

Six months ago, the news cracked my noggin wide open.

Six months ago, I did not know if I would see this day.

But I have.

Not whole. Not healed.

But here.

Sometimes, that is more than enough.

Six months from now, if the plan holds, if the prayers land,

I will carry a new name: Cancer Survivor.

I will wear it not just as a badge of honor, for what I have endured, but as a mark of who I have become.

Let me be remembered not just for surviving, but for loving.

For showing up.

For never backing down from what mattered most.

The fight continues.

So do I.