After years of fighting, I think it’s finally time to acknowledge that cancer is winning.

My CT Scan last week showed disease progression, with the current ones growing and new ones popping up, including my lungs. Needless to say, I am in a lot of physical, emotional, and mental pain.

The pain can be so excruciating that some days, I tremble in agony. People have had to carry me to the couch writhing in pain, tears flowing from my eyes, shaking from such an unstoppable force, begging for the pain meds to kick in quickly. My wife always feels so helpless. All she can do is rub my back, grasp my hands, hug me, and say words of encouragement. During the worst of it, I repeatedly whisper, “Sawyer and Finn! Sawyer & Finn! Sawyer and Finn!” — the names of my two boys. Their thought gives me the strength to endure the torture currently tormenting me.

The beauty and pain of Goodbye videos

As such, I had been making A LOT of preparations for my family, one of which is making goodbye and advise videos for my kids because, let’s face it: I likely won’t be around when they hit the milestones I was so looking forward to sharing with them.

I’ve asked my wife to show them these videos when they graduate, go to college, get bullied, get their first job, get married, or have their own kids (that’s if they decide to do so). For the one titled, “Congratulations on your wedding day!,” I held up a wine glass with water to toast them on their special day. It is such a beautiful and heart-wrenching exercise.

Despite my fate, I still consider myself lucky to have the opportunity to do this. A lot of people don’t because of sudden or unforeseen death. At least my kids will still hear my advice and always remember how much I love them long after I’m gone.

While capturing one of the moments I was recording one of my goodbye videos, my wife recently posted:

“I don’t know how he does it. I would not be able to record goodbye and milestone messages. He’s the strongest person I know. He will be restarting chemo infusions in hopes that it will buy us a little more time. Everything is just palliative intent at this point. It is such a hopeless, helpless, terrifying, and sickening feeling. I hate this so much. I’m not in denial but at the same time I can’t believe this is actually happening. Our life, which used to feel like a sitcom (occasionally a drama) , has turned into a sad Hallmark movie / horror film. It’s so hard watching him deteriorate and not be able to fix him. My greatest weapon the last few years was always being able to say “it will get better”, and mostly believe it. That’s been taken now, it won’t get better, only worse, and I have no words to explain what that feels like.”

She captured my feelings perfectly. I know she says I’m the strong one, but I beg to differ. She’s always been my beacon of hope when I could not see past the darkness. She’s been my tireless advocate and partner, always fighting to give me the best care. When I’m scared, she puts me at ease. She gives me strength when mine gets low. She is one strong woman, and I feel so bad leaving her and the kids too soon. It’s not fair; she did not sign up for this. Needless to say, I love her so, so much!

I can say the same for my mom, dad, and sister. They’ve been at my side, helping me with logistics, easing the pain and burden, despite the pressures of their lives. My mom fought so hard to keep me alive when I was born; it’s not fair that she will likely see me go first. My dad has been my idol, and I’m supposed to be the one taking care of him and my mom. It’s not fair for them, either. To my aunts/cousins who’ve been there for me throughout this whole thing, I thank them as well.

I’m not surrendering yet, and many people I know have been praying for a miracle for me, so who knows, right? But at the same time, I also have to make plans. At the very least, I hope to last long enough so I can at least spend Christmas with my loved ones this year.

One last fight to make more memories.

I thank everyone who has listened and gone through this ordeal with us these past few years. You’ve shown me just how much love we’re surrounded by, and you’ve shown me the true value of friendship. It’s a lesson I hope my kids will come to see.

Don’t worry; I’ll still be here a while. I’ll still be making jokes and smartass posts to keep me up, so you’ll still have to put up with that here and there. Send me jokes and messages; though I may not have enough time to respond to you all, know I always enjoy reading them.

Until the very last breath, I will continue living.

And oh yeah, #fuckyoucancer !

The news that I’d been dreading to hear finally came: The cancer has spread, and this time, it’s no longer operable.

This was not the first time I’d been subjected to such frightening news. Since my diagnosis two years ago, I have had several close calls, but this time, it’s different. This time, it appears that my pursuit for a cure has all but evaporated. This time, the odds are really stacked against my favor. This time, it seems my days are truly numbered. I just don’t know how long. Months? A year? A couple of years? I don’t even know yet.

How did I get here?

In a way, the cancer never really came back. It was always there. The doctors and all their treatments just were never able to contain it in the first place. Back then, as grim as my diagnosis was, there still appeared to be plenty of runway left to actually win this battle. “Stage 3b Colorectal Adenocarcinoma” was the diagnosis then. Back then, my oncologist and surgeon still talked of the possibility of a cure.

I was so full of hope back then. At least it wasn’t Stage 4 yet, right?

Well, now, it’s Stage 4, despite enduring crushing chemotherapy, radiation therapy, and multiple painful surgeries and recoveries. It has now spread from the original rectal area and up to my pelvic region, invading several lymph nodes in the area and deeper into my peritoneal area (an area in the abdomen/pelvic region filled with nerves and arteries).

Coupled with the “hotter” activity in my pre-sacral area — somewhere deep in my tailbone area also laden with nerves which we still hope is just from an ever-growing effect of radiation damage — , my oncologist and a few other surgeons have pretty much concluded that surgery is futile at this point; that the spread is likely substantial enough and located in areas so complex that it makes surgery in their opinion impossible, or at least moot. They haven’t seen any definitive “hotspots” in my liver or lungs yet, but it doesn’t mean they are not already there.

We are still in the process of fighting for reconsideration, but it seems their minds are made up.

“Let’s get you into chemo soon and we can re-assess this later.” Somehow, that statement just sounds like a way to placate us. For the record, I don’t blame my doctors one bit. They’re doing all they could and I would probably come to the same conclusion if I were in there shoes.

Now what?

Despite this, my wife bravely reminds me my fate is not sealed. Even if the odds have now plummeted, there is still a slim chance I may survive longer. I will immediately undergo even more punishing chemotherapy, more brutal than the first one, perhaps for the rest of my life, but at this point, only to extend my life for as long as possible, and maybe, just maybe make the cancer retreat enough that surgery will once again be possible.

So, is there hope? I have to think so. It’s a very faint candlelight flickering in the storm, but one I’m desperately hoping will keep enduring. Hey, they technically haven’t seen anything in my liver yet, right?

I feel like a knife just got thrust into my heart, and it’s being twisted slowly.

I want to wake up. Every morning when I wake up, I keep wishing everything was just a bad dream, well, until the tingling in my pelvic area and tailbone reminds me it’s not.

I am terrified. I feel utterly heartbroken. I am angry.

Why me? Why, despite living as good of a human being as possible, have I been handed this fate? There are plenty of assholes out there who don’t care for their own body, who take advantage of other people, or who delight in the pain of others. Why can’t they take my place? As my wife puts it, life doesn’t work that way.

Indeed, life is not fair

It hurts. The news that my days with my loved ones are numbered hurts way more than the physical pain I am feeling. The physical pain I can endure; the unfairness of the situation is what makes it unbearable.

My poor kids

I am utterly crushed and outraged that my kids, who I love so dearly, will likely be deprived of a father very early in life, maybe sooner than I think. They are not even old enough to process death yet. My 9-year-old son tells his mom that maybe if he can find a four-leaf clover, it might make my cancer go away. My almost 6-year-old boy says that he will keep giving me hugs and kisses until my sickness goes away. I wish it were that easy. I cannot tell them how grave my situation is.

Kids are resilient. I am sure they will grieve and get over it, but they will be scarred for life.

The fact is, they will be put at a disadvantage. There are still plenty of things that I, as their father, can teach them all through life and plenty of opportunities for us to bond. Now, we’re all being deprived of that chance.

I looked forward to having adult conversations with them, taking them on all sorts of grown-up treks and adventures, cheering them on when they graduate and achieve great things, embarrassing them in front of their dates, consoling them in times of heartbreaks, meeting their kids (or not if not having kids is their choice), warning them of the craziness they will face in life. All those things I may never have a chance to do for them.

And what would Father’s Day be like for them? Will they always be jealous of seeing other kids with their dads on that day? How cruel. I only hope that the world will be kind to them.

Please be kind to my kids.

If my fate is indeed sealed, please give them enough leeway, kindness, and understanding to cope with life. They will need all the support they can get to bounce back. But perhaps not. I know they’re a lot stronger than I think, and I am sure I’m underestimating their resolve (Sorry kids, this is just your worry-prone dad talking).

For now, all I can do is remind them these words while I’m still around: “You are a lot stronger than you think! I hope you won’t need to find that strength but when you do, always remember that YOU ARE A LOT STRONGER THAN YOU THINK!”

Will I still grow old with you?

When I look at my wife, I feel enormous gratitude, love, and guilt. Throughout all this, she’s been my bedrock, advocate, caregiver, and beacon of hope and strength, despite everything else that she’s gone through, including the recent death of her sister.

I want the world to know how lucky I am. She is tireless, stubborn, and strong, and even when the glimmer of hope is faint, she keeps reminding me of it. I just feel bad that I may not be around long enough to help her with things.

When I made my vow on our wedding day that I look forward to growing old with her, through sickness and in health, I meant it. I still desperately want to keep that promise.

My first family

And what of my aging parents? Wasn’t I supposed to be the one taking care of them along with my sister? Yet, despite their age, they are still so utterly devoted and willing to help care for the kids and myself at a moment’s notice. The same can be said of my wonderful, wonderful sister, with whom I’ve shared many memories with. I still want to share inside jokes with her through our senior years. Last night, I hugged her in tears, asking her to be strong for our family.

I always read about how cancer is perhaps a way to test us. If that’s indeed the case, then my goodness, what a cruel, sadistic, and unfair test it is.

No regrets

Despite all of this, I have no regrets. I truly have lived a very charmed and, in my opinion, close to a perfect life up until cancer hit.

By all accounts, with the exception of this disease, I am a very lucky individual.

I have achieved most of my dreams, my family and I managed to get out of the grips of poverty and into a new life full of opportunities, one that led me to meet countless individuals throughout my life that gave me a ton of wonderful memories. I got a job and career I’m happy with, a house in a fantastic and friendly neighborhood, and have visited a lot of delightful places. Yes, I did get to visit Disneyland with my family many times.

More importantly, I am surrounded by the love and support of many wonderful, inspiring, and amazing friends and family, and in some cases, complete strangers, from near or far. I want you to know that your love, words of encouragement, thoughts, and prayers are felt and deeply appreciated!

This is not a goodbye letter

While the tone of this journal is somber, I am not saying my goodbyes. Not yet.

Rest assured that I will continue to fight, fight the biggest and toughest battle of my life until they tell me I can no longer do so.

Who knows, perhaps in a couple of years, I will still be here. Two years: That is my goal. And, if by some miracle, I am still around a few more years after that, we can look back at this journal and talk about how silly I felt.

The ancient Romans have a saying: “Memento Mori”

“Memento Mori,” or translated in English, “Remember you must die.” The point of this reminder isn’t to be morbid or promote fear, but to inspire, motivate and clarify.

Life becomes more meaningful and holds more value if it’s finite. It’s a call to make every moment count.

And so, I leave you with a call to make your moment count

You still have time. Hug your dear ones. Tell them you love them. Stop worrying about the most mundane things. Forget about your net worth. In the end, it won’t matter. Swallow your pride and say “I’m sorry.” Learn to let go and forgive. Be kind to each other. Avoid these Top 5 regrets of the dying. You still have time. Do it. Now.

If you made it this far, thank you for listening.

As I told them about my childhood, they seem fascinated by the fact that my family and I used to live in a shack barely the size of our dining room and kitchen. It was less than 380 square feet, smaller than a two-car garage, which contained the entire living space including the bedroom and kitchen/living area.

I remember living at the foot of someone else’s home. The walls were made of bamboo and patches of tin and plywood. The roof was also made of rusty tin. It would leak when it rained. There was no floor; we walked on earth & dirt. A full-sized coconut tree grew from the middle of our bedroom and through the roof. “Santa” used to hang his meager presents on that tree. Sometimes, we would hear loud bangs on the roof that startled me at first but I later learned it was just coconuts falling on our roof. No big deal; we got used to it.

Underneath our bamboo sink lived a pig that used to eat our scraps. Lizards lined the outhouse. At bedtime, I could hear cockroaches & mosquitoes flying in the dark and rats scampering all over the house. A small open sewage canal acted as a moat between our humble home and the unpaved street below which all lead to a nearby river that was notorious for flooding.

An interesting childhood

I’ve seen some things and lived through various calamities. I survived floods, fires, plus water and food shortages. I still have vivid memories of witnessing a military coup unfold before my eyes, watching the skies of Manila from our roof as American F-4 jets buzzed the skies taking down rebel forces flying WWII-era planes. It was one of several coups I witnessed growing up.

I’ve seen murdered bodies on the streets and survived getting mugged at knifepoint several times. Still, I lived to tell the tale.

I recall our family moving from one shared dwelling to the next, renting makeshift rooms in a house or apartment with other relatives or families. Even throughout my high school days, our family of four lived in someone’s covered driveway, next to a polluted creek. It had no bedroom so my dad built a makeshift wall made from pieces of discarded cardboard tubes. The only thing that separated us from the street outside was a small patch of the driveway and a cheap iron lattice gate which barely offered any privacy. Some public bathroom stalls provided more privacy.

There were times we were so broke that we tried to distract ourselves from feeling hunger, but we survived. We were still the lucky ones.

I remember wearing clothes from remnants made by my mom, laying on a homemade bed made by my dad, sleeping inside a mosquito net, wading through flooded streets on the way to school with shoes that were falling apart. We didn’t have enough money to buy the toys I wanted, so I often made my own from magazine cutouts. One of my prized possessions was an old J.C. Penny catalog which I stared at for hours drooling over G.I. Joes, He-Man, and Knight Rider toys. There was a radio flyer wagon in it that I always dreamed of owning but it seemed that’s all I could do: Dream about it.

Despite our challenges, I was thankful because my parents worked hard, enough that my sister and I still considered ourselves well cared for. I bore witness to the extreme poverty of people less fortunate than us…and there were A LOT of them!

We were still the lucky ones.

The promise of America

We all dreamed of coming to America someday. I dreamed of going to Disneyland, attending an American high school, and pretending to be in an American teen movie.

I wanted to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge and admire the Statue of Liberty in person. I fantasized about playing in the snow, owning a piano, strolling along Hollywood boulevard, and making new friends from other countries.

I wanted to eat Kellogg’s cereal for breakfast every day, watch Nickelodeon’s “Double Dare” game show live on set, visit a real old Western saloon, watch surfers, make a trek to Arlington National Cemetery to visit the grave of the soldier I was named after, see the set of “Back to the Future,” run slowly on the beaches of Baywatch, and visit a NASA facility. My list was endless.

A tough road for immigrants

We waited decades to get through the immigration system, which was quite rigorous and demanding. As a teen, I recall getting evaluated for a physical exam and herded into a large room full of what seemed like a hundred other applicants waiting to be processed. It was a complete physical exam where we were required to strip, with nothing separating us from the main room other than a piece of curtain. My young mind felt a sense of humiliation at that moment, but I kept telling myself this was all going to be worth it.

The interview at the U.S. Embassy in Manila was a make-or-break deal for my entire family. We had already gambled a lot and bet everything on this one shot at a new life. We were all nervous even though we had nothing to hide. We knew that we were still at the mercy of the person on the other side of the glass window. My heart raced & my hands trembled every time the consular officer asked me a question. I stared intently at her hands as she stamped our documents.

Luckily we passed!

A new life

Fast forward several months later, and we finally made it to America after a lot of patience, sacrifice, tears, and hard work. As I stepped out of the plane at San Francisco International Airport for the first time, I recall pinching myself thinking, “We finally made it. We’re here, and it’s freezing!” It was summer. My tropical body had yet to acclimatize.

It was bittersweet. We left virtually everyone and everything: friends, relatives, possessions, and achievements. We started a new life from scratch with what was literally inside a few suitcases.

From day one, my parents told us never to take things for granted and to always remember where we came from. They told us to work hard, not be a burden to anybody or society, remain humble, and always be grateful.

We left our tempest-tost home but found a new one, teeming with a lot more promise and potential. It wasn’t easy coming to a new land with nothing to your name and feeling like an outsider but with sheer hard work, perseverance, determination, and the friendship and hospitality of many throughout the years, we built a home that was stronger than ever.

The Philippines will always be near and dear to me, shaping my childhood and how I deal with adversity but it was America, this fabled land of opportunity, this new Camelot, that brought our dreams within reach.

An American dream fulfilled

Since then, I’ve fulfilled most of my dreams. This included meeting my beautiful wife and having our own little family, owning a car, and living in the home of my dreams in a fantastic neighborhood, with the job I’ve always wanted.

I thought I would be an outcast. Instead, I’ve been blessed with the friendships of many throughout the years.

I’m fortunate enough to no longer have to worry about going hungry again, getting too broke, or not getting any medical help. Except for Arlington and Nickelodeon, I’ve fulfilled the items on my list and more. I may not have been able to afford the toys I wanted as a kid, but at least my kids don’t get to say the same. I’ve always wanted a radio flyer so instead, I bought them one. I still cannot forget how that moment felt. It was as if I was the one riding that radio flyer for the first time. I hope my story will inspire them.

In the end, we were the lucky ones.

The flame on that golden lamp

I know immigration in America is and has always been a sensitive topic, so I won’t get into its politics. I simply wanted to share my own story hoping that people here don’t take things for granted. America is far from perfect and those that say she is are kidding themselves. To this day, the great American experiment continues and is a work in progress. However, despite its ups and downs, the fact is America still remains a beacon of hope and bearer of dreams for many around the world. Sometimes that beacon can shine so bright, it can light the skies all the way across the globe. Sometimes, it’s barely a faint glimmer but it’s a beacon nonetheless. I hope Americans don’t let the flame on their golden lamp flicker out. It would be a shame for that beacon to extinguish itself for good.

“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

This poem means more to me than you will ever realize.

It’s been a while since I wrote about my cancer journey. Since then, I’ve been through radiation (after getting chemo) and now, most recently, surgery.

As if having cancer in itself wasn’t enough, throw in a pandemic, a recession, and civil unrest — each with their own sets of challenges — into the mix and it’s been quite a wild journey indeed. I think we can all agree that late 2019 and 2020 so far has been a crappy year for all of us. If all the dinosaurs came back to life tomorrow and started rampaging across cities all over the world, I wouldn’t even be surprised anymore. What day is it and what chapter of some ancient prophecy are we fulfilling today?

But I digress. Today, I wanted to fill you in on my cancer journey amidst this chaos.

Zap!

After 9 cycles of pure chemotherapy (Phase 1 of my treatment), I had to start radiation (along with some lesser degree of chemotherapy) just a few weeks later. This would be Phase 2 of my battle. My body was still reeling from the effects of FOLFOX when it started getting bombarded with radiation daily.

So, what was it like to go through radiation therapy?

The machine itself (like the one pictured above) doesn’t really trigger any pain…at first. I got to lay there as I listened to some James Taylor & Jewel. Nice, huh? At the same time, the machine rotated around my pelvic area, slowly burning the tumor with focused radiation from within.

It felt almost like being in a spa, except instead of getting massaged to sleep, I was getting my insides slowly microwaved. Worst. Spa. Experience. Ever!

It was not until later when I started experiencing the cumulative effects of chemo+radiation that I really started feeling the pain. This included pain/burning sensation internally, including in my colon & rectal area, intestine, etc., bladder pain and issues, tender skin, neuropathy, GI issues, swelling, scarring, fatigue, nausea, diarrhea, etc. And that’s just to name a few. I can only imagine the side effects the Chernobyl frontliners experienced, which was 10x worse. *Shudder*.

Welcome the pandemic

It was also around the same time when the Coronovirus pandemic hit the fan, and boy, did it hit hard fast! Reports that older folks, and those with pre-existing conditions and compromised immune systems, were of higher risk of contracting the virus & eventually dying quickly spread. Of course, who’s part of that demographic? Yup, cancer patients. “Come on, man! Can’t I catch a break?” As much as I wanted to stay home to limit my exposure, I had no choice but to travel to the clinic daily to get radiation. Every trip to the clinic and hospital was pretty nerve-wracking.

“Great!” I thought. “Add it to the list of things trying to kill me.”

Needless to say, it was a tense period, and still is.

After about a month and a half of a$$ burning, I was done. While I won’t miss radiation therapy, I will miss the conversations I had with my fellow patients, nurses, & technicians. Most patients who come here were 60 & older, and I couldn’t help but be concerned for their safety during this pandemic. Dealing with cancer is already very frightening and exhausting in itself.

Enter the Great Lockdown

It was towards the end of my radiation therapy when quarantine and lockdown orders started getting imposed throughout the state. While the entire world was trying to get used to the concept of getting quarantined in their homes, I felt at ease. In a way, having cancer has prepared me for this. Up until this point, I’ve already been quarantining myself for several months due to my compromised immune system.

Stay inside, you said? No problem, Commandant!

A long-awaited break!

Before I could get surgery, my body needed to fully heal yet again. This time, it was a more extended break, and for the first time, I felt like my energy was fully coming back.

My doc gave me the green light to go back to work…and man, how I missed going to work! It felt great to be back. I missed the action and craziness, I missed feeling productive, I missed my co-workers. As I’ve mentioned in my past updates, I consider myself lucky for finding a company that supported me throughout my journey, from the CEO down to the employees. This helps a lot especially if you’re in a situation such as mine.

Work offered a sense of normalcy that I hadn’t felt in a while since this ordeal started.

And what do you know, Zoom meetings are now all the rave! Of course, I exploited that situation quite a bit:

But, just like that, it was over as soon as it started.

I got news about a month and a half into work that it was time to schedule my surgery. Sigh.

Phase 3 is about to start.

Enjoy it while it lasts

I figured now was the time before my surgery to enjoy as much activity as I can with my kids and family. I took this opportunity to enjoy what was to be the beginning of our summer, amidst a pandemic. Practicing a healthy dose of social distancing, we went on walks, bike rides, music sessions, and hikes, and enjoyed some pool time.

Day of surgery

June 2 was the day that I had to go under the knife to remove the tumor in me and re-route my insides. It was going to be my first major and most invasive surgery ever — made even more challenging by the threat of Covid-19 and the restlessness in the community due to civil unrest.

Thanks to Covid, I was also informed that I will be isolated in the hospital for several days with absolutely no visitors allowed, not even my family.

I knew that it will be a tough recovery ahead, both physically & psychologically. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious but I was ready. I was ready to see that chunk of flesh & finally look at the demon that’s been tormenting me from the inside.

I’m a worrier by nature so I tried so hard not to psyche myself out. What helps is the love and support of my wife, kids, and family and all the well wishes everyone had been sending my way.

And just like that, it was done.

Surgery went well but recovery had been excruciatingly painful and challenging. It’s my first surgery where I had to be intubated into a ventilator; the thought of having a machine breathe for you will always be freaky.

Waking up from surgery as the anesthesia wore off was almost unbearable! I was crying in pain. They had to sedate me to calm me down but pain meds only last for so long. It was tough to sleep at night. I had no appetite & hadn’t eaten any solid foods for days so I got really weak but worked hard on regaining strength.

Reality set in

In addition to removing the tumor, I underwent what is called a temporary “loop ileostomy.” Part of my small intestine had been temporarily re-routed and is now sticking out of my belly where digestive waste can be managed externally. It will be like that for several months to allow my rectal area to heal. This disfigurement is temporary — it will get reversed several months from now — but it’s a reality that is still tough to swallow.

It’s weird to see it like that & quite depressing, to be honest, but as my wife says, “Just associate it with the tumor being out.” Perspective.

Loneliness in the ward

Every morning I was in the hospital, I got poked by a needle for labs & twice a day I got the pleasure of getting heparin shots to the belly. Those shots were so painful that I imagine it’s what a murder hornet sting feels like while they inject acid into your body. Those shots were to prevent blood clots.

They also yanked out my catheter & that too was painful. I think I loudly cussed out Mickey Mouse during that process. Mickey: The most likable character in the history of the planet. I cussed him out!

If there was a song well suited for this moment, it would be R.E.M.’s, “Everybody Hurts “…except replace “Everybody” with “Everything.”

It hurt to cough, hiccup, sneeze, and even to breathe. Walking just 10 ft. was excruciating. On top of this, I had a heart attack scare while at the hospital & was also trying not to get pneumonia.

Back home

I’m finally home from surgery to my family & got to hug them. It felt good; I missed them & they missed me.

My family, & especially my kids, are the main reason why I keep fighting this grueling battle. I can’t let them down…or at least I just want to see them grow up and hug them a bit longer. Don’t worry, kids, one way or another, everything will be alright. Dada loves you very much!

I had been recuperating for the last few weeks. I wish I could say the recovery was a walk in the park, but unfortunately, it’s been grueling. To this day, it’s tough to take even a few steps, my insides hurt even at the slightest movement, my incisions felt like they would constantly heal and tear apart which was agonizing.

Remember that last torture scene from “Braveheart” where they sliced William Wallace’s belly & yanked out his intestines? My procedure in some ways was like that but safer & more purposeful. However, the healing process can still be pretty excruciating at times especially when the pain meds wear off. When that happens, I like to pretend I’m in that scene except instead of yelling “Freeeeedom!”, I yell “Oxycodooooone!!!!” Or “Gabapentin!!!!!” Somehow, it doesn’t seem as badass.

I also have to watch what I eat and be mindful of how I eat. Certain foods such as high-fiber fruits, nuts, vegetables, etc. can cause an intestinal blockage so I now have to chew very well. I am also very prone to dehydration since I no longer have enough length in my GI system to absorb all that water. As a result, I’ve been quite weak and have lost a significant amount of weight but working through it. Even getting out of bed and taking a shower can be a challenge.

I also no longer feel the same. The pouch on my belly is a constant reminder of what normal will be for now.

TMI Alert: I have to constantly empty the waste many times a day (which surprisingly doesn’t really stink like poop and is more liquidy in consistency so that’s a bit of a consolation; not as gross as I thought). I would say this: Being a parent of two kids and having to constantly change poopy diapers and wipe butts has prepared me for this.

Bless my loving wife for assisting me through all of this. I never could’ve chosen a more perfect partner to grow old with and accompany me on a journey through life’s ups and downs. Through sickness and health; for better or worse, thanks for being there for me, @cheryl_rampton !💕 It’s a bonus having a nurse as a partner during times like this.

Finally, the pathology results

After 10 days of waiting, we finally got the pathology report from my oncologist. It wasn’t the best but it also wasn’t the worst. I am technically not out of the woods yet despite all this.

The good news is that they did manage to take out the existing tumor. About 20% of my colon had been removed in the process. The bad news is that the cancer wasn’t entirely dead even after all of my previous treatments. They did find active cancer cells in 2 of the lymph nodes they removed.

That said, the report also indicated a 1 mm margin. What does that mean? It means that from all the tissue they removed, they stopped finding cancer cells about 1 mm from the border. It could mean that they got all the cancer out just at the cusp, or there’s also the possibility that they missed some beyond the 1 mm mark.

Wow! It sounds like such a slim margin but from a cellular perspective, it can be huge. Of course, I think everyone would’ve preferred a larger margin of 2 mm or more but I’ll take what I can get for now and hope that they did manage to get all of this out.

At this moment, I wish I can undeniably say that I am finally cancer-free but it would be too early to tell. From here on, the stage is already set for a series of bloodwork, colonoscopies, and other tests to monitor and ensure that the cancer is at bay. There’s still a 25% chance this thing can come back. Wish me luck!

UPDATE:
Saw more of the pathology report and two things popped out to make this sound bleaker. First, it indicated that the cancer cells responded poorly to all the chemo/radiation treatments and secondly, they found multiple cancer cell “deposits” all around. Both of these are really concerning because it doesn’t sound like all that aggressive treatment I was in prior to surgery truly contained the cancer.

Another medical opinion also gave me a 50% survival rate within the next 5 years despite everything I have done. There’s still the real threat of metastasis; that is, while they’ve practically eliminated a local reoccurrence of the tumor in my rectal area, it’s possible they may not have been able to contain microscopic cancer cells from spreading elsewhere. Only time will tell and I think aggressive monitoring is my only option at this point. They will be watching tumor markers to make sure it does not go back up. We will deal with the matter if it does occur and hope that I still have some other treatment options left.

Times like this makes you feel helpless but I have no choice but to hang on to the positive. 50% survival rate is still a 50% survival rate and is a lot better than 5%.

Conclusion

It has been a long and arduous fight since this whole ordeal started back in late October of 2019 but I am in this for the long haul. Honestly, I sometimes still ask the universe once in a while why this has to happen to me but I’d like to think things happen for a reason.

Again, I thank you for all your well wishes and gestures. It keeps me going.

The fight continues…

It’s been a while since I’ve updated my Medium blog about my cancer journey. Sure, there have been some good days and bad but nothing that I didn’t expect. Until Saturday, January 18, 2020. Expect a rough ride, and perhaps a lesson or two. Here we go.

Nothing out of the ordinary…at first.

The week leading up to this date seemed normal. In fact, I felt more energetic than usual and was “looking forward*” to my next chemo cycle on Friday.

*DISCLAIMER: Yeah, right! Nobody really looks forward to their next chemo cycle.

“Yeah, baby! Second to the last chemo cycle. Let’s get this done.”, I told myself. Little did I know what’s to come.

The day before I was to start my next chemo cycle, I got a message from one of my nurses:

“Hello, Audie! I just wanted to let you know that we are going to postpone your treatment for this week. We’ll try again in a week.”

Hm. That seemed strange. No reason was given as to why. To be honest, I was disappointed. Why would they cancel? I feel fine.

For the first time, my chemo treatment has been deferred.

I’m so close to the finish line! My spirit wants to keep going and get it over with but apparently, my doctor thinks it’s too risky to continue for now, so they’re giving my body one more week to recover. I guess 6 straight cycles of constant chemo bombardment with only 2 weeks recovery in between is too much; my goal was 8 straight. Grrrr! It’s tough, but just give it to me already. 7th straight cycle.

Let’s get this shiz done! F*** cancer!

I guess my doctors saw something coming that I didn’t.

Tick, tock.

The Friday of what was to be my 7th chemo cycle started out just great, but that didn’t last.

By about 3 PM, I started feeling more weak and fatigued.

“I’m fine,” I told myself. Nope! Turns out, the fuse has been lit.

By 4 PM, I felt even weaker & colder. I had been watching my 2 kids, but at that point, I had to throw in the towel.

“Dada, needs to take a quick nap, ok?”, I told my two boys.

Things started progressing from there. More chills, soreness in my body, and a feeling like I was starting to get the flu. It was now the evening hours, and I decided to check my temp: 99°F.

Hm. It’s just a man-cold. I may have just covered myself in the blanket a bit too long or have overexerted myself today.

A few hours later: 100.3°F

Uh-oh! I definitely have a fever going. I called my wife, who was at work, to ask for advice. She reminded me that this isn’t something to ignore. It was now late at night, and my fever spiked to 101.6°F!

This is now an emergency situation that required a mandatory trip to the E.R.

Neutropenia

You see, a healthy person catching a fever may not be a big deal; however, a cancer patient catching a fever is considered serious. It can be life-threatening. Why? Because of this thing called “neutropenia.”

According to the Mayo Clinic, “Neutropenia is when a person has a low level of neutrophils. Neutrophils are a type of white blood cell. All white blood cells help the body fight infection. Neutrophils fight infection by destroying harmful bacteria and fungi (yeast) that invade the body.”

Half of the people with cancer who are receiving chemotherapy are prone to neutropenia. The drugs intended to kill the cancer cells also tend to kill off your white blood cells and neutrophils. Now, these chemo patients no longer have the ammo to fight off even the most benign bacteria, even the ones already in you. They are more prone to infection, which can lead to more severe conditions like organ damage, pneumonia, and death if left untreated.

My immune system got blasted!

I didn’t realize at the time how severely neutropenic I was.

A healthy person should have neutrophil levels between 1.5 — 8.

Level 0.4 is considered severely neutropenic.

I later found out that I was at 0.1, well below the threshold which meant by the time I was admitted, I practically had no immune system. Scary! Good call by my oncologists to postpone further chemo.

The rush to the E.R.

And so, by 11 PM, we rushed to the E.R., kids in tow. I really did not want to take the kids to the E.R. with me what with all the sick folks there, but I had no choice. My wonderful wife had to cut her shift short to hurridly meet me outside the lobby.

We informed the staff that I was a cancer patient with a fever.

This triggered an instant admission into a special isolated room designed to limit further infection.

At this point, I also had been having very mild throbbing in my head — typical when I have a fever — but have not taken any medication to appease the fever gods.

FACT: Doctors/nurses actually tell you not to take medication when you have a fever as a cancer patient because they don’t want to mask the fever itself.

The wait in the E.R., as you can imagine, was long, much to my kids’ frustration, but the E.R. was busy. They are always busy.

In the meantime, the nurses had been prepping & assessing me, taking vitals & such. Yep, I was burning up.

Then the E.R. doctor came.

After poking me with needles to get a blood sample, putting an IV in me, and assessing me, he came up with a recommendation:

“My advice would be to take you in for a head CT scan ASAP and probably a lumbar puncture (spinal tap) to rule out Meningitis. It’s got some risks, but we need to find out what’s causing this.”

“Wait, wait, wait! Slow down, Speedy Gonzales! This sounds overkill,” I told him. Well, ok, fine. I argued more politely.

You see, based on my experience, E.R. doctors tend to assume the worse, which they kinda have to. I don’t blame them. Remember when they thought I may have a potentially life-threatening blood clot from my port transplant that turned out just to be a sore wound? Yeah.

In this case, I had very mild throbbing in my head but nothing painful, nor did I felt discomfort aside from your normal flu discomforts.

What they were proposing was to expose my head to potentially unnecessary radiation to perform the scan (which may likely turn out negative). That plus a needle through my spine, which, by the E.R. doc’s own admission, can potentially introduce more infection straight to my central nervous system.

Dude, that’s like bringing in the 81st Stryker Brigade Combat Team and 174th Air Defense Artillery Brigade to a bar brawl. Can we start with bringing in the bouncers first?

I respectfully asked if it’s reasonable for me to deny that recommendation, and the E.R. doc agreed. At this point, they treated me with general antibiotics and voila! What did you know, my fever started subsiding.

The good news is that both the admitting doctor and my oncologist later agreed with me that the CT scan and lumbar puncture were unnecessary & potentially risky.

I didn’t have Meningitis. So what did I get? The docs don’t know. Cultures turned out negative. They said it’s very likely that my own bacteria or some benign bacteria I acquired from somewhere or someone caused it.

That’s how fragile your health can be when you’re neutropenic. Without your microscopic warriors & antibodies, you could be sick & potentially dead! I salute the work that you do everyday, Neutrophils!

DISCLAIMER:
I am in no way advising you to go against your doctor’s advice, E.R. or not, CANCER OR NOT. Every person is different. My decision was based upon my previous experience and how I felt at the time. You have to be really in tune with your body and communicate that clearly to your doctors/nurses for them to make the proper diagnosis.

You have to be your own advocate because doctors and nurses can’t feel what you actually feel. Luckily for me, I made the right choice. However, if your doctor insists that something has to be done, maybe you ought to listen to them.

That herbal sage bush rub dipped in the blood of a virgin lizard that your witch doctor gave you will probably not make that lump in your butt disappear magically!

Also, luckily for me, I had my kids there to give me a much-needed hug, a treatment in itself.

I was admitted to the hospital for 4 days

My ordeal did not end in the Emergency Room. Because of my condition, I had to be admitted to the hospital for constant monitoring and to ensure that my health & WBC (White Blood Cells) & neutrophil counts go up.

Don’t worry, guys. My nipples are still ok!

Each day I felt a bit better but being woken up every 4 hours or so to get your vitals, meds, and your blood drawn is no bueno!

I’ve since become a germophobe — at least until after this is over. I also get to watch the Kansas City vs. Titans & San Francisco vs. Green Bay game from the “comfort” of my hospital bed. Good thing I have a urinal nearby because the games made me pee my pants a little.

Not out of the woods yet. Introducing: BONE PAINS.

By the way, did I ever tell you one of the ways they get your immune system back up? No? Well, let me tell you.

It’s through a shot to the belly with a drug named “Zarxio.” Sounds like an evil alien villain conceived by Tim Burton, right? I can’t even pronounce its name to this day.

So, on top of all of this, I now have been experiencing excruciating bone pains as a side effect. There was fear of metastasis earlier due to the severity (again, scary) but the ruling was it’s probably due to the Zarxio that I’m taking to stimulate increasing my WBC/Anti-bodies. It’s stimulating my bone marrow to increase white blood cell production and the process is painful.

I’ve been taking shots through my belly and I squealed more than I should have. I now have to take it daily depending on my levels. Been taking a cocktail of pain meds.

Let me tell you about bone pains

I wouldn’t wish it on my enemies. It is excruciating. I feel bad and have more respect now for people suffering from bone cancers who get it more than me. The experience must be harrowing!

And the shot itself that’s supposed to help has a ton of other side effects like bleeding, spleen damage, aortic inflammation, bloody nose, paralysis, pulmonary edema, etc…and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Check out these other “fun” side effects!

Well, now I get to go home with bone pains.

One of the good things about having a nurse as a wife is that I don’t have to go to the hospital to get daily shots to the belly.

I’m no Nicolas Cage, man; I’d rather have someone stab me with a needle than do it myself.

I look forward to getting belly shots the same way I look forward to doing my taxes sitting on a barbed wire canoe up sh*t creek while folding laundry & watching TMZ.

But you know what numbs down bone pains? Hugs.

This little guy right here gave me hugs when I would lay down and get ready for bed or when I’m awake to “make me a feel better.”

“Dada, my hugs will fix your sickness.” 💕

Coincidentally, my second fever & bone pains started breaking when he started giving me hugs, avoiding a second trip to the E. R.

Maybe there’s something about feeling loved that puts your body at ease and it starts healing itself…at least I like to think so.

Oh, and he also brought me cowbells so the fever had no chance. Bone pains be damned, I love hugs. Thanks, little guy! #family

In conclusion

It was a rollercoaster ride and I’m better now but what an ordeal. I learned a lot of things about my body and cancer treatment in general and what immuno-compromised individuals have to go through.

The lesson?

Do not underestimate the tiny bacteria/viruses trying to wreck havoc on your body on a daily basis and do not take for granted the tiny warriors in your body fighting them constantly. Be thankful that your body is functioning properly.

Thanks again for all your show of support and love. It helps ease my concerns knowing I have all of you rooting for me. Thank you!

My journey continues…

I had one of my most profound experiences today — I met a dying man, and he told me things that I will forever remember.

You see, having diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer myself, I’ve had to deal with my personal journey. I’ve gone through a series of emotions from shock, denial, depression, and acceptance.

This “rollercoaster ride” involved coming terms with my mortality and struggling with the side effects of chemotherapy, all while trying to live life by the moment and treasure each experience & memory.

I am constantly being showered with words of support & acts of kindness, and for that, I feel incredibly grateful & loved.

However, those words have greater meaning coming from someone who’s “been there and done that.” Someone who shares your journey, your fears, and your expectations.

That’s something that I experienced today.

During one of my many trips to the hospital, I chatted with a complete stranger while waiting for my medication. *For privacy reasons, I will refer to this gentleman as “John.”

John, from what I can tell, was in his mid-late 50s. He was a veteran of “Operation Desert Storm.” He struck up our conversation because he overheard one of the staff call my name.

“Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear your name. Is it Audie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you, by any chance, know a fella named ‘Audie Murphy’?”

“I sure do! My parents named me after him. In fact…”, I said, as I handed him my driver’s license.

“Holy cow! You took his whole name. ‘Audie Murphy Gustilo Roldan.’ Well, I’ll be darned. You were named after the real Captain America himself. That fella was one of the most decorated American heroes of our time. I loved that movie of his — ‘To Hell and Back.’”

We both chuckled as I told him that I saw that movie when I was a toddler. I told him it’s my dream to visit his grave someday in Arlington.

“So what are you here for, John…if you don’t mind me asking,” I asked.

And that’s when things turned into a more somber moment.

“Oh, I’m just here to say my goodbyes to my doctor and nurses,” John said.

“Going on vacation?” I asked.

“I wish. I’m saying my last goodbyes to the folks who cared for me.”

My smile suddenly turned into a half frown.

“Wow! I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Me too, kid. I was diagnosed with Terminal Cancer. They tried everything they could, but I’m now out of options. I’m visiting other folks today before I head over to the hospice to, well, you know…”

There was a long pause between us until he solemnly declared,

“…I’m dying.”

I stopped him and mentioned that I, too, am currently dealing with Stage 3 cancer. He patted my back as if to console me but immediately gave me a reassuring response.

“I wish I were in your shoes. You still have a lot of fight in you. You have a lot of runway to beat this thing compared to myself. Got kids?”

“Yes,” I said. “Two boys. My 7-year-old is named ‘Sawyer,’ and my 4-year-old is named ‘Finn.’ “

“That’s awesome!” he chuckled. “Mark Twain fans too, I see.”

“Not really. We just liked the sound of their names!” I quipped.

“That’s good. Well, anyway, I asked because that gives you more reasons to fight this thing,” John replied. “You were named after one of the greatest warriors of our time and I expect no less from you. You give that thing hell!”

I nodded my head in agreement. At this point, I had many questions, but I knew it’d take too much of his time.

There was, however, one thing I wanted to ask him. At first, I hesitated, but after a long pause, I found the courage to ask.

“John, I hope you don’t mind me asking this — and please don’t feel pressured to give me an answer if it’s too personal — but do you have any regrets?”

After another long pause, he bit his lower lip and answered,

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

His reply exactly matched an article I read a long time ago by an Australian nurse named Bronnie Ware

According to The Guardian,

“Bronnie Ware is an Australian nurse who spent several years working in palliative care, caring for patients in the last 12 weeks of their lives. She recorded their dying epiphanies in a blog called ‘Regrets of the Dying’ which gathered so much attention that she put her observations into a book called The Top Five Regrets of the Dying.”

John proceeded to tell me his biggest regrets (not in verbatim):

“I wish I had tried to follow my dreams and not the dreams of others.”

“I wanted to live in a vineyard and start my very own winery. I wanted to travel the world and would’ve loved trekking across Europe & retire in the Bahamas. I never truly did because life happened.”

“I wish I hadn’t worked too hard.”

“I regret spending most of my life working and working too hard to the point that it took most of my time. My kids are all grown up now, and they understand why I had to do it but I really wish I didn’t have to. I would love to turn back time and just spend most of that time with the ones I love!

I had to make enough money to live the life we wanted but in hindsight, we probably would’ve been fine not making as much. It’s the memories that matter, not the material things.

I sacrificed my own dreams to make someone else’s dream happen, and I regret that deeply.”

“I wish I had the courage to say ‘I’m sorry’ and to forgive someone.”

“I was too caught up with my ego that I let things consume me.

When I was in the battlefield, I thought I was invincible and wanted to kill all our enemies at the time but looking back, I was really just a scared young man, not realizing that the other side was just like me. Although I am a veteran now and would still gladly die for our country for a moral cause, I can tell you that we soldiers hate war the most.

Coming home, I brought back all that ego, grit, hate, and machismo with me, and it hurt a lot of people, including myself. I wish I hadn’t.”

“I wish I had stayed in contact with certain people, especially friends, and even those that I hurt or had hurt me.”

I broke a lot of hearts, and I wish I had the chance to say “I’m sorry.” Others broke my heart too, but I wish I had the opportunity to say, “I forgive you.” In fact, I will be doing that today and for as long as I can. Maybe this gesture is too little too late, but I have nothing to lose at this point. I hope it brings closure for everyone.”

“I wish I took more risks, especially with my dream of living in a Vineyard.”

“I was extremely passionate about it, and I think I would’ve been great at it. Well, I guess it’s too late for that now,” John chuckled.

I was speechless.

I was speechless because this complete stranger opened up and shared with me his most personal thoughts.

I was speechless because it came from a man who, to a certain degree, shared my journey and agony.

I was speechless because I, too, empathized with his regrets.

The only difference is I still have time to avoid those regrets.

1. When it comes to following my dreams, I think I am on track, for the most part.

In fact, I wrote about it in another Medium article titled, “A letter to my 9-year-old self — from 43-year-old me — & the power of dreams.”

I haven’t fulfilled all of them yet (and I don’t think I will) but I sure will try my hardest.

2. When it comes to working too hard, I am not quite there yet.

However, I am happy to say that I’ve been lucky enough to find workplaces that, for the most part, were conscious of work-life balance. My current employer is a great example of that.

You see, I’m a people pleaser and passionate about the work that I do. Combine those two things, and you get a recipe for burn out.

However, I’m glad that for most of my career, I have had the pleasure of working for and with people who encourage me to take a break from work and to re-focus, and re-energize myself. And, it doesn’t hurt that my career/job is something that I love to do.

Sure, there will be times when certain workloads are unavoidable but I try to find a balance whenever I can or tell myself to “party hard” later. I may not be making that $150K+/year Silicon Valley-Wall Street salary with perks but I’m fine with that. My time with my family & kids means more than that.

And when it comes down to it, my kids and my family will always be my top priority; career be damned!

3. When it comes to expressing my feelings, saying I’m sorry, or offer forgiveness, I’m still working on it.

Three of the hardest things to say are:

1) “I’m sorry”

2) “I need help”

3) “Worcestershire Sauce”

Saying sorry is often hard. For one, I am sometimes oblivious to hurting people’s feelings (although I really try not to. See “People Pleaser” reference above). I sometimes don’t even have the mindset to swallow my ego and say sorry to my kids, but I need to.

But, I’m making progress. For example, I have reached out to a former classmate who, in hindsight, I might’ve inadvertently teased or even bullied. I am grateful that that person offered me his forgiveness.

In arguments, I try to say “I’m sorry” to my wife (I’m sure not enough) as soon as I realize I am in the wrong (Bless her heart for putting up with me and my flaws).

Although I try to exert my authority upon my kids, I often have to be reminded by my wife to say sorry to them as well, to set a good example.

If you are reading this and you are someone that I have wronged, please don’t hesitate to contact me and let me know. Please know that I didn’t mean it and I hope you can accept my apology.

I am sorry.

I just want to be friends with everybody.

And for those that have wronged me or hurt my feelings, I can honestly say I have forgiven them all. I have made peace with everyone, and I am happy with that.

Life is too short to carry all that weight.

4. When it comes to taking risks, I’m still working on it. :)

Stay tuned!

I mentioned this in my previous blog but I’ll mention it again here:

The ancient Romans have a saying: “Memento Mori”

“Memento Mori,” or translated in English, “Remember you must die.” The point of this reminder isn’t to be morbid or promote fear, but to inspire, motivate and clarify.

Life becomes more meaningful and holds more value if it’s finite. It’s a call to make every moment count.

Goodbye, John!

As for John and I, we parted ways, not with a handshake but with a much-needed hug. I then thanked him for his service. I didn’t even notice that the pharmacy called my name.

Not only has he taught me how to avoid our biggest regrets in life, but he has also encouraged me to continue the fight and be mindful of others in my life.

I hope this serves as a reminder to all of us on how to make the most of our fleeting time on this planet.

When your time is over, will you have your own regrets? If yes, you still have time to avoid them. Make your life count! DO IT….like, RIGHT NOW!

My journey continues…

Dear 9-year-old self,

My name is Audie Roldan & I am you, 34 years later. This may come as a surprise to you, but trust me when I say that you will live a beautiful life defined by love, luck, family, friends, and determination.

I am writing this letter to encourage you never to give up on your hopes and dreams. At 43 years old, I have seen your life unfold throughout the years. I am you, after all! Let me impart some of the lessons I’ve learned and give you a glimpse of your future:

Lesson 1: Never give up!

Even if it seems like things aren’t going your way at the moment, know that things will change. It always does.

I know how frustrating it can feel if you can’t always see the light at the end of the tunnel but trust me, it’s there. Sometimes it can be right around the corner. Even when it’s not, soldier on anyway!

Life is full of ups and downs & the journey won’t be easy, but it will be worth it, trust me!

Lesson 2: Embrace your challenges & don’t be afraid to fail

There’s no shame in failure; they will define who you are. Learn from your experience & your mistakes; it will make you stronger, smarter, and more compassionate. And on that note, never stop learning!

Lesson 3: Don’t forget where you came from & be happy with what you’ve got.

It will make you appreciate your blessings later in life & not take anything for granted.

Lesson 4: Don’t be jealous

Forget that kid with a new toy, that man with a nice car, or that family with a big house. Those material things won’t last. Your possessions won’t define you. You are lucky! You’ve already got it made even if it’s not yet obvious at age 9.

Lesson 5: Appreciate your family and loved ones; let them know you love them

Know that they have your best interest at heart, will work hard to make sure you achieve your dreams and will support you all through life through thick or thin.

Lesson 6: Appreciate all the friends, schoolmates, colleagues, bosses, & acquaintances that you will encounter throughout your life.

You will be surprised by how long great friendships can last, untethered by time & distance. Even folks you barely know, you will learn from.

Be kind to others & they will return the favor. You will be showered by great memories & a ton of laughs. Some will even open doors to fantastic opportunities. Don’t forget to say “Thanks!”

Lesson 7: Oh, & by the way, Santa is right: Just be good for goodness sake, even if nobody is looking.

Be a good human & steward of the planet. Do a good deed without expecting any reward or recognition. Your actions will speak louder than your words.

Respect people’s beliefs even if they don’t agree with you. Be kind even if they aren’t.

Now here’s the good part:

(are you ready?)

You will achieve most of your dreams!

You will end up living in America, go to Disneyland (many times over), touch real snow, & visit all the places you’ve only seen in the movies or read in books. You will have countless adventures!

It’s the year 1985 for you so let’s see…

That’s right. “Back to the Future” just came out!

Well, guess what? You will end up visiting the set of one of your favorite movies. Are you getting excited yet?

You will attend an American high school, just like in the “Breakfast Club” & every other teen high school movie you’ll see from now on.

The cheerleaders, the jocks, the nerds, the outcasts, the bullies, the inspiring teachers, they will all be there waiting for you.

You will be bullied, but don’t let them get to your spirit. Your heart will be broken and you will unintentionally break some people’s hearts, just don’t forget to say “I’m sorry” & make it right.

I know what you’re thinking: How could you possibly make it in this new land? You will be a foreigner, the new kid on the block. It sounds very intimidating & overwhelming, especially for a young kid such as yourself.

Would people accept you for who you are? Will you end up lonely — an outcast?

I’m here to tell you that you will be welcomed with open arms.
Look at all these wonderful people that you will meet along the way, all of whom will give you lasting memories that you will cherish forever:

You end up playing in a band; several ones, in fact. Can you believe that? You don’t even know how to play the guitar and piano yet. Don’t worry, you will.

I know you love drawing & painting, tinkering with gadgets, and marvel at technological innovations of your time.

Well, guess what? You will eventually find the job you’ve dreamed of, working as a Designer for several tech companies in Silicon Valley — the world’s tech Mecca — & beyond. Yes, that same Silicon Valley they mentioned in the first episode of Knight Rider that you love to watch!

The best part of it is that you will make amazing friends along the way.

You will buy your own car (sorry, not a Lamborghini) and live in your dream home & city(s).

You will meet the girl of your dreams. Her name is Cheryl Rampton Roldan & you will end up marrying her. In turn, she will love you in sickness & in health.

You will have 2 wonderful boys that will redefine love as you know it. You will adore them, believe me!

You will enjoy teaching them things you’ve learned throughout life & they will show you how truly magical childhood can be through their eyes.

You will even fly the Millenium Falcon with them. I am serious! You will! In Disneyland.

You will be tired though so don’t fight naptime!

SLEEP. AS. MUCH. AS. YOU. CAN. NOW!

Now for the bad news:

It’s 2019 & sadly we still don’t have real flying/anti-gravity cars or a hoverboard, but we’re getting closer.

We landed robots on Mars. We also have self-driving cars, robotic drones, & a phone/computer in our pockets that are smaller & faster than anything you’ve seen. All the people in the world can communicate with each other instantly, for better or worse. We call it the “internet” & “social media.” We take lots of pictures of our food and faces. We have gadgets straight from science fiction & the movies. You will be in awe!

Things will get worse

I’ve also seen the future. A year from now, in the year 2020, a great global pandemic will sweep the entire planet, the likes of which have not been seen in over 100 years.

This virus will slowly make its way from country to country, leaving more and more people sick and dead in its wake, until it makes it all the way into your backyard.

It will be a scary and surreal time. The world will be at war, not against each other but against a tiny and invisible but deadly foe. For the first time in modern history, the entire world will collectively come to a halt, eventually locking down to protect itself. Major cities will be quiet and empty, major attractions deserted, people will be quarantined in their homes, loved ones dying alone in hospital beds, kids won’t be able to attend school the normal way, and so much more. Life as we know it will change in a matter of months.

It will bring out the best in us. Doctors, nurses, healthcare workers, grocery workers, delivery folks, first responders, people in the frontlines, teachers, essential workers. They will become the new heroes, facing their duties despite the risks.

It will also bring out the worst in us. Neighbors fighting against neighbors, friends & family against each other. Mistrust and division will continue to grow. We will fight over everything including facemasks. And in the middle of it all, civil unrest will brew. When the time came to truly come together, we didn’t. Shame on us!

Needless to say, kid, you will live through a part of history that future generations will be talking about for centuries.

Not all is lost, however. Through these dark times, we will learn to value our friends and loved ones as a result of isolation. We will pause to reflect and realize that we miss all the little things that we used to take for granted. We will have a new sense of appreciation for things we hold dear. May we continue to do so and in turn create a better future.

Now back to 2019

Most importantly, particularly for yourself, you will face one of your greatest fears at age 43 & face your own mortality by getting diagnosed with cancer. I know it’s such a scary word, but don’t fret. You will be reminded that we don’t have forever. Tomorrow is never promised, but this reminder will make you appreciate life & the people that surround you even more.

I have way more things to tell you but goodbye for now. I will leave you with this:

Live & love life to the fullest, never take anything or anyone for granted, be compassionate, and never give up! EVER!

That dream that you wish will come true!

Your older self,

Audie

Folks outside of Facebook and Instagram have been asking me for an update so this post is a collection of some of my recent updates since late-November.

The psychological toll of dealing with cancer

I described the physical side effects in my past Medium posts but now there’s another front I have to overcome. It’s tough for me to admit this but I’m now also battling depression & anxiety, which I’m trying to counter with humor, exercise, music, and social contact.

Some of this change comes from how certain drugs in my treatment are actually lowering my serotonin levels — the “happy chemical” in the body contributing to wellbeing and happiness, and apparently cognition, memory, & learning as well.

Oh, man! I guess that explains why I’m sad that I can’t remember why I put the new book, “How to Raise Your IQ by Eating Gifted Children,” in the pantry.

*DISCLAIMER: I actually love children and hate cannibalism. I was just kidding, Johnny Law!

Kidding aside, the rest of my depression & anxiety comes from the gravity of my situation, my sense of mortality, & my fear of leaving my kids fatherless prematurely.

There are other contributing factors as well, including dealing with the compounding side effects of chemo, finances, the stress of daily life, being somewhat dependent on others, and putting my career & other aspects of my life on pause. Physically, I’ve been losing more hair, weight, and appetite, and I still deal with fatigue.

It’s been a challenge, to say the least.

“Dada, promise me you won’t die ok?”

Sawyer (7) & I came across a dead snake on the way to school one morning which prompted questions about death and dying.

Sawyer: “Dada, why does everything have to die?”

Me: “To make life more special & to make room for others…”

I think he’s also starting to get a sense of the severity of my condition because he then asked,

“Will your sickness kill you?”

That caught me off guard & was a tough one to answer to which I said,

“A lot of people are taking care of me & thinking about me so you don’t have to worry about that.”

The next one was even tougher to answer:

“Dada, promise me you won’t die ok? My Christmas wish is to make sure good people don’t die & bad people turn into good people so nobody will die. When I grow up, I’ll build a machine that will make good people live forever.”

Unfortunately, not dying is one promise I won’t be able to keep but I hope it doesn’t happen for a very long time. I’ll keep fighting my “sickness” to make sure I’ll be around for a long time. Fighting & living life to the fullest — That’s one promise I can keep.

And I think good people do live forever in anyone whose lives they touch; no immortality machine needed.

“I want to know that you are still there.”

This isn’t a flattering photo but I also thought it’s one of the sweetest. This is how I usually sleep with the kids when I’m on chemo.

Normally, when my wife is at work, I tuck the kids in by cuddling with them until they fall asleep. During chemo, I have a needle stuck to my chest 24/7 to pump the drugs and I’m also considered somewhat toxic so close cuddles with them are a no-no.

However, some nights like this one just requires contact. Sawyer didn’t want to be alone and insisted that I hold his hand to “know that you’re still there, Dada.” So, I sleep on the floor holding his hand until I fall asleep because, in a way, I also don’t want to feel alone when I’m at my most miserable moment.

I have had nightmares about me dying, and waking up holding his hand is reassuring. I, too, want to know that he and I are still here together and all is well again. The photo above is how my wife found us when she came home from work one night.

As long as it matters…

My other kid, Finn (4), asked me to play a song for him on the guitar a couple of days ago. Despite being a horrible vocalist, I decided to serenade him with one of my favorite tunes.

The song is by Gin Blossoms called, “As long as it matters.”

It’s such a fitting song given my battle with #cancer & how I’m fighting to stay alive for as long as I can for my boys. They are my life & the ones that matter most.

“All this is fine even as it crashes down on me…I’ll be all right, as long as it matters…As long as you’re here with me now. Forget that our time is almost up, I’ll be all right.”

This song is dedicated to my two boys. I wish they had seen me perform live all over when I was still in a band. Anyway, you can watch the video & sing along to the song here. Forgive my crappy vocals!

*YOU* my FRIENDS & FAMILY, are part of my treatment, whether you realize it or not.

Some of my co-workers met up with me for lunch right before I headed out for my 3rd chemo. I meant to take a group photo with them but forgot, so I decided to quickly photoshop each of them in IV bags while I was at the Infusion Ward.

The photo was meant as a joke but in a way, it’s symbolic.

*YOU* my FRIENDS & FAMILY, are part of my treatment, whether you realize it or not.

You are one of my medicines. I might as well photoshop all of you in IV bags. Every time, you reach out to me with your gestures, you are helping me heal & fight this #cancer.

When you meet up and hang out with me, take time out of your day to say hi, you restore a sense of normalcy that I have been craving, upping my serotonin levels.

When you send random jokes in the middle of the night, the smiles or laughter give me a rush of dopamine & endorphins.

Whenever you find a way to send help, drop off food, send gifts, or watch the kids, you are giving me & my family one less thing to worry about so I can focus on my battle.

Whether you are driving several hundred miles to visit or help, writing from several thousand miles across the globe, handwriting me letters of support and encouragement from wherever you are, you show me how vast my support system is and that is positively uplifting.

Simply reading some of the posts of your own journey, delightful trips, and even challenges give me inspiration & motivation.

Thanks for showing me you are there. You are the opposite of Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine”.

In fact, I just received another prescription from the pharmacy for “FAMFRIENDBISOL”.

The instruction states:

“Inhale 2 puffs by mouth 4x a day rectally.”

Whatever it takes, fam!

I’ve been posting a lot of bummer updates lately like this one and this. They mostly have to deal with my sense of mortality & the thought of leaving my kids fatherless early, whether or not that will be the case.

A lot of it has to do with the reality of my condition. I do have cancer and it is depressing. It doesn’t help that I’m a pragmatist and a “plan-for-the-worst” kind of guy so that factors into my worry.

Some of it has to do with all the dire cancer survivability statistics, missed diagnosis, and studies I’ve been reading (which my wife finally told me to stop reading). The rest probably has to do with meds & chemo in my body messing up serotonin levels and such.

Regardless, it’s caused me to retreat and forget to live in the moment. For my sanity’s sake, I figured I’d post something more uplifting.

A moment of spontaneity

We had previously planned a family trip to Disneyland, but after my diagnosis, we decided to cancel it. I was so disappointed to let my boys down. The thought of going to Disneyland, aka: “Contagion Central,” as a healthy person, is challenging enough; going there as a health-compromised person just seemed irresponsible.

However, I was surprised to hear my oncologist and nurse’s opinion. They gave me a small window of opportunity to travel just a few days after my 1st chemo — and to Disneyland of all places — provided I take an extra set of precautions. I thought they were insane!

But then it made sense. Although I was experiencing fatigue & some aches/pains, my side effects haven’t peaked yet. My immune system was still strong enough to withstand the “World of Walt.”

They also said something that inspired me:

“Just because you are living with cancer doesn’t mean you have to stop living your life.”

Touche’.

If we wanted to take this trip, it was now or never!

So we took the chance & I’m glad we did because it was one of the most memorable trips we’ve had as a family!

It wasn’t easy (as detailed below), but we made it work.

As a kid and a Star Wars fan, I’ve always fantasized about flying the Millenium Falcon. Needless to say, it was a dream come true not only to be able to fulfill that dream but also let my kids fly it. It was awesome! More great memories for the kids.

The Roldans finally landed on Planet Batuu in a galaxy far, far away!

It took longer than 24 parsecs through the Kessel Run to get here but it was worth it, discomfort and all! See the complete album here.

Now for the catch: It certainly was not our usual “walk in the park” ….if you could call it that.

There were lots of handwashing, breaks, dodging sneezing people, avoiding contact with handrails, constant gelling with hand sanitizers, mid-day trips back to the hotel & the bathroom (ugh!), etc. Medications were at hand at all times. I was even equipped with a facial mask, just in case.

And there was definitely some discomfort throughout the day which was frustrating but it just required more planning and management. We also had to drive since flying is a no-no in this situation.

In a place like Disneyland where people from everywhere are everywhere, dodging germs is not always easy but it’s doable with a healthy dose of precautions.

Of course, it goes without saying, never plan a trip such as this without consulting your oncologist, nurses, and physician.

Had it not been for the greenlight my doctor/nurse gave me, I wouldn’t have gone. I think there was still a risk of me getting sick, delaying my treatment, but best to do that early on. The important thing for me here was to be able to squeeze in more wonderful memories and bonding with the kids vs. wallowing in defeat. Life is indeed short. Make the most of it, cancer be damned!

#yolo.

Ever since announcing my cancer diagnosis on Medium and social media, words of support, heartfelt gifts, incredible acts of kindness, and touching messages from my circle and beyond have been pouring in nonstop, and I am beyond grateful.

Friends, family, work colleagues, bosses, neighbors, acquaintances, even strangers locally and from across the globe have all extended their hearts and assistance to me and my family so I can fight and beat this thing. To be showered by kindness during one of the most difficult times in your life is very humbling, comforting, and motivating. Know that you are all appreciated for helping me in this fight!

What’s more, several friends, family, and colleagues have asked me to keep them posted on my journey here on Medium and social media, so consider this my first update since my announcement.

Several folks have also said that they miss my humor (which quite honestly was a bit tough to find since receiving the news). Still, I realize that humor can be good medicine — whether coming from myself or others — and it helps me cope with the situation. It’s one way I get to look cancer in the eye and give it the middle finger.

With that said, you are about to go on a journey with me filled with cheesy captions, analogies, references to film and T.V. shows, as well as smart-ass remarks and dad-jokes. Hold on to your pants or wear a belt because this ride is about to get intense. There will be an easter egg waiting for you in the end. Consider yourself warned.

Round 1: Fighting back

I am happy to report that I’ve now switched from “the waiting game” to something more substantial. Two weeks ago, I started my first round of chemo, and two days ago was my second round. Now it finally feels like I am actually doing something.

I’m a history buff and was named after a WWII combat hero after all, so forgive the analogy, but this ordeal felt like my own personal Pearl Harbor — Something that caught me off guard and left me utterly shocked, scared, and devastated. But, just like our former adversary back then, cancer picked the wrong a$$ to kick, and I’m determined to fight back.

Starting chemo is my version of the Doolittle Raid, my first retaliatory fight. It won’t be easy from here on out but it needs to happen and happen soon.

That’s right! This zombie battle is about to start and it will not be pretty but I hope to see it through till the end, just like Norman Reedus from “The Walking Dead.”

….well, maybe he’ll make it through till the end of the series. Ask the producers.

“Bend over & spread it, Mr. Roldan”

The first phase of the fight really came when my Gastroenterologist performed a colonoscopy on me to discover and identify the tumor.

During prep time, I joked with my doctor and nurses in an effort to calm my nerves. I asked if they could at least wear alien masks while they probe my butt. They laughed but declined. That was the last thing I remembered as I passed out from the anesthesia.

After the procedure, I was lead into the waiting room, still groggy & confused from the sedation.

My wife later recounted what happened:

“OMG! You were embarrassing. You kept staring at people suspiciously. You then pointed at your nurse and loudly accused him of being someone else: “That’s not his real face! He’s not human. I saw him. He’s an alien. Don’t be fooled!”

“Later, your nurse told me that it looked like they gave you an extra dose of sedation because (and quote), “He must’ve been struggling.”

Homie, who wouldn’t in that situation!?

Lastly, I apparently kept asking people what they shoved up in my butt.

“Was it a magazine or a newspaper, because it feels like a newspaper!”

Needless to say, I’m glad I won’t ever see that staff again. Ah, anesthesia + amnesia: The struggle is real.

Kidding aside, what they found that day was a ghastly bleeding tumor about 4" big radiating from my insides, pushing against my nerves and other organs, and starting to invade my lymph nodes.

The Plan: Contain, shrink, remove

This will be a prolonged fight and I am glad to have an army of caregivers to take care of me aside from friends and family. Nonetheless, it looks like I get to “enjoy” all three types of cancer treatment, along with their own set of challenges and side effects.

I call this the “Breaking Bad — Star Wars — Braveheart Trifecta”*

*Bear with me here and you shall see why.

Step 1: Contain with chemo

To contain the spread, address the pain, and help initially shrink the cancer cells, my oncologist recommended we bombard this thing with chemo first.

You got it, Chief!

This is a somewhat new approach, he said, since typically, they perform surgery first but have gotten better results recently with chemo administered initially. I trust you, Commandant!

This will potentially be a 4-month or more treatment done bi-weekly, depending on how well I’m doing + about a 2-week break.

Step 2: Shrink and burn the tumor further with radiation.

Once the cancer cells are potentially held at bay, radiation therapy is the next step. This will involve another PET/CT scan to map my insides, a discussion by doctors on how best to target, then giving me a tattoo* on my lower back to mark the target before shooting the tumor with external radiation.

This will potentially be another 5.5-week treatment done daily. No, I won’t remain radioactive. You should still be able to high-five me without wearing a lead hazmat suit.

My radiation oncologist did promise not to “burn my ass.” It was very much appreciated. However, he informed me to expect some potential burns, risk of internal scarring, fatigue…you know, the good stuff.

*I hope the tattoo on my lower back doesn’t end up looking like a tramp stamp, though.

On a more serious note, I asked my radiation oncologist to be straight with me. What does he think my real chances are.

He gave me about a 1-in-3 chance of success. Anywhere from a 20% — 33% success rate in treatment.

That was quite a grim news to hear. I would’ve loved to hear 75% and higher or even a 50–50 chance but I’ll take 1-in-3. Even if he said “5%”, I would’ve hung on to it. I just don’t have any choice, really. I have to make it happen, mostly for these two humans:

To be fair, he did say to take that stat with a grain of salt since it takes into account all colorectal cancer survivors, which is heavily weighted by older people. The fact that I am young(er) gives me a better fighting chance.

In addition, my primary oncologist seemed more optimistic & I trust him.

Hope.

Step 3: Take it all out with surgery.

The hope is that by this time, the tumor has shrunk enough that a more meaningful surgery can be done.

This may not be a simple procedure. They’ll have to ensure any affected lymph nodes wrapping my colon / rectal area are also taken out.

Caveat: I most likely will be rewarded with a colostomy bag after this :( Well, my surgeon at least said that this will potentially be temporary given how high up the tumor is, so that’s a consolation.

Honestly, sporting a colostomy bag is not something I am looking forward to but hopefully, it’s reversible.

Besides, a colostomy bag for a short period is a lot better than a body bag, amirite?

Don’t worry, I’ll cover mine with “Hello Kitty” stickers and spray it with the scent of Axe Cologne so you will all still find me irrestible.

A word about the port implant: This is the closest I’ll ever get to being Tony Stark

Before they can even start pumping me with chemo, I had to get a port implanted in me.

Why? Because my arm veins suck, that’s why!

I am what they call a “hard stick.” It often takes several tries for phlebotomists and nurses to stick a needle or IV in me.

Bonus: Vampires really hate me. I imagine that if I was in a restaurant full of vampires and one ordered my neck for sustenance, no doubt he will ask the waiter to return me at once.

My sister accompanied me to my port surgery (bless her heart). Along the way, we made jokes about how wimpy I am. To be fair, it’s her job to give me a hard time.

When we got to the hospital, a couple of nurses prepped me for surgery. One asked if I needed anything to feel more comfortable. I asked for a shot of Zima but she declined.

Another nurse tried to put in my IV and after a few tries, he managed to get it in.

He then let out a massive sigh of relief and exclaimed, “Whew! Not bad for my first time. I’m actually the cook; I just came here to help because the staff was short.”

Given his many attempts, I almost believed him. This is why I have trust issues with certain nurses.

They then explained to me what they were going to do and showed me what they were about to stick inside my right my chest, namely, a Power Port. This is where they’ll be poking me from now on… and yes, just like the photo, mine was purple.

“Well”, I said, “if you guys are going to cut me open and stick a titanium contraption in me, can you at least center it on my chest and make it light up like Iron Man? My kids would love it.”

Again, they declined.

They rolled me into the O.R. and I kid you not, I heard Ke$ha playing through the sound system. Pretty interesting choice of work music, don’t you think?

Surgeon: “How are you feeling?”

Me: “A bit nervous and anxious. Is that Ke$ha playing on the radio?”

Surgeon: “Uh-oh! If you’re nervous then I get nervous and that’s not good.”

Well, damn! Thanks a lot, Florence Nightingale, for your ever calming words.

Surgeon: “…and yes, that’s Ke$ha playing.”

Me: “Ok. Will I feel anything during the procedure?”

Surgeon: “Maybe just a tug and pressure here and there but there shouldn’t be any pain. You’ll be awake.”

He lied. I passed out. Again. Or at least don’t remember anything. Again.

Afterward, I obviously was confused and groggy. My sister later told me that I kept asking if my nipples were ok.*

*Good news, guys: My nipples are fine and intact.

The other good news: I now have a fully functional port and my evolution to Tony Stark is almost complete.

Then you go to class

The next step was to attend an orientation telling you what to expect during your journey. The session was titled: “Living with Cancer.”

When I walked into the room, I saw about 12 other patients. All of them were in their senior years. I was the youngest one.

They all stared at me as if saying, “Whatcha doing here, young man? You must be in the wrong class.”

At that moment, I was reminded again of how early this thing caught on to me. It was quite sombering.

The presenter explained that it will be a challenging and bumpy journey for us, fraught with side effects, along with things to watch out for and how to deal with them.

As we get more neutropenic (a condition which significantly increases the risk of life-threatening infection due to reduced white blood cells), we were told to wash hands more frequently, sanitize like crazy, eventually avoid air travel or large crowds unless cleared by our doctor, or avoid large group of kids — aka, “germ/virus magnets” (amirite, teachers & daycare providers?).

Eat this, drink this, don’t drink that, do this, don’t do that. It is certainly a lifestyle change.

So what’s chemo like so far?

So far, it’s been weird, miserable, exhausting, frustrating, and a bit depressing plus, it feels like you’re always on edge waiting for the next set of side effects to kick in and trying to control them but all things considered, I still feel lucky given some people feel worse at this point.

The first day I went in for my chemo was quite an eye-opening experience. They lead me into a room full of infusion stations. Picture a row of recliners surrounded by IV poles and medical supplies.

Again, I was one of the youngest patients.

There, you get to sit for hours on end as they pump a cocktail of meds and chemo into you, literally meant to poison your body slowly — well, the cancer cells mostly. In my case, I also get to go home with the last batch called “5-FU” attached to my body where it’ll gradually be pumped continuously for 3 days straight, night and day.

5-FU: What an appropriately named drug I thought because it will “F*** You Up 5 times to Miserable Alley.”

My regimen is called FOLFOX consists of various chemo drugs designed specifically for my type of cancer. The goal is complete eradication (more on this later). In case you didn’t know, chemo drugs work by inhibiting cancer cell growth, eventually shrinking or killing them. Good.

However, it often doesn’t distinguish between your good cells and bad cells. Therefore, all your other cells get caught in the crossfire. Poison.

This is why your head/facial/body hair eventually falls off, your fingernails become brittle, you’re overcome with overwhelming fatigue, your skin dries up and cracks, you get mouth sores & dry mouth.

Other side effects include neuropathy (tingling/numbness/burning feeling in arms/legs), constipation and/or diarrhea, nausea, vomiting, increased risk of bleeding, anemia, loss of appetite, blisters, blood clots, etc.

I’m fortunate I haven’t experienced all of this yet (just some) and hope I never will but it’s still early in the game. They say the effects can be cumulative so it’s possible it’ll get worse. Some days are certainly better than others.

For each round, you enter a down phase, then your body recovers, then you get to do it all over again, kinda like a roller coaster path.

I don’t mind the hair loss though. If that happens, I could just pretend to be Professor Xavier.

The weirdest part? I turned into a reverse-Elsa.

Fatigue, nausea, constipation, and other side-effects aside, the weirdest side-effect I’ve experienced so far has got to be “cold dysesthesia” or hypersensitivity to the cold.

“Meh. How bad could it be?”, I told myself.

Oh, it’s BAD!

The effect was almost immediate. One of the drugs I’m taking (Oxaliplatin) can cause this.

It’s so bad that anytime I drink anything with the same temperature as or colder than tap water, I experience dysphagia wherein my throat feels like it’s constricting. At its worst, it felt like swallowing tiny shards of glass.

I’ve dropped utensils at the touch or immediately jerk away when I accidentally touch a cool granite countertop. It feels like I am being electrocuted within a millisecond of contact. I imagine it’s what it feels like touching liquid nitrogen.

The nurses told stories of patients who ended up in the E.R. for accidentally drinking iced water or developed stroke-like conditions by simply putting an ice pack on a swollen arm.

Craziness galore!

And let’s not even mention that your blood count and your immune system eventually go down the more you go through chemo, thus making you more susceptible to infections. 101°F is an automatic trip to the ER.

And on that first chemo night, we did end up in the ER

Not because of a fever but because of a scare.

As soon as we got home, I started feeling pain, pressure, and tightness around my port area, shoulders, and collarbone. Then came the stabbing pain which only got worse.

It got to a point that, by midnight, I could hardly move my right arm.

“What’s going on? Am I having an allergic reaction to chemo? Is my port wound just tender from the tugging? Do I have an internal leak in my port? Is there an infection?”

Eventually, we were told to head to the E.R. immediately; I had to drag my sleep-deprived wife with me.

After hours spent at the E.R., the doctor didn’t want to rule out a worst-case scenario: That I may have a blood clot — a life-threatening condition that can cause a stroke, heart attack, or pulmonary embolism.

“Well, that’s just great! Yet another risk to worry about”, I thought. “Just add it to the running list of threats against my life.”

Long story short, it ended up being just a tender reaction from a still fresh and sore wound.

And this is why having cancer for me is like walking on a tightrope over a field of landmines.

Respect for those who have gone and still go through this journey. Having cancer is no walk in the park.

A lot can go wrong in between — Infections, complications, inability to weather the storm, people giving up halfway through chemo.

Cancer treatment is still part science and part art.

My oncologist told me he’s shooting for a cure. It’s nice to hear but the word “cure” in cancer can be misleading.

After treatment, you are still constantly monitored. If they no longer find traces of cancer in you within 5 years, you are considered “in remission.” Just because cancer cells are not found doesn’t mean they are no longer there. After 5 years without a trace, you can be considered “cured” but that just means the likelihood of cancer returning is very low.

Can I beat cancer? Yes, but even then, it’s like I will forever be a marked man, always looking over my shoulders for what could happen even if I get over this initial hump.

I joke a lot in this post and I’m trying to be more optimistic now but if I’m truly being honest, I’m still concerned. I am, after all, just in the beginning stages of my fight.

Until then, I think I’ll continue living my life with my kids, family, and friends, moment by moment whenever my energy allows.

The ancient Romans have a saying: “Memento Mori”

“Memento Mori,” or translated in English, “Remember you must die.” The point of this reminder isn’t to be morbid or promote fear, but to inspire, motivate and clarify.

Life becomes more meaningful and holds more value if it’s finite. It’s a call to make every moment count.

I hope you are making every moment count in yours. Thanks again for listening.

My journey continues…

Much love,

Audie

PS: Now here’s the easter egg I promised you.

UPDATE:

Living with cancer and dealing with treatment also takes a psychological toll. I’ve documented this rollercoaster in a piece called, “Forget that our time is almost up. I’ll be alright.”