It’s been one year. December 18, 2018. I was sitting in my Jeep, waiting in line for my morning coffee at a Dutch Bros coffee stand. A normal day by most standards. Then my phone rang.

I recognized the voice as Dr. Alfaro, my surgeon from Denver – the typical pep in his voice oddly missing as he began to speak. “We got the results of your Gallium scan back”, he began. My heart began to race. “We found an additional tumor in your small intestine…” Not great news but but not totally unexpected since the primary tumor was never located. “Unfortunately we’ve also identified several tumors that have spread to your liver.” Silence.

The world stopped. I pulled one car-length closer to the drive-up window, simultaneously going about my daily routine while sitting trapped in a frozen moment. I don’t remember exactly what I asked, but it had something to do with the number of tumors and the recommended game plan. For the first time, my typically confident surgeon sounded unsure. He told me that there were several tumors – 7 or 8 (we’d learn later that day it was more like 20), that he’d be putting things in front of a tumor board (whatever that was), and that he’d check-in after the surgery he was getting ready to go into.

“How’s your morning? I like your Jeep!” I put on my best fake smile and said, “Thanks, and it’s good, how’s your’s?” to the bouncy, over-caffeinated Dutch Bros barista at the window. In that moment I was re-born. Not in the sense of a new awakening, but in the way that I saw the world through new eyes. Everything felt surreal, abstract and confusing. I put my coffee in the cup-holder and called Jenny. I managed to relay the information without much emotion, as if playing back a voice-mail. I didn’t make it the additional one block to the office. I put on the auto-pilot and headed back to the place I’d just left. A newborn driving himself home.

I fell into Jenny’s arms on the couch. We sat, holding each other, crying for what seemed like an eternity. A scared infant, I just wanted to feel warm, safe, and loved. The first year of this new life has been a lot like what I’d imagine it’s like to be that age again. A nonstop barrage of new information. Highs, lows, love, laughter and learning to control and adapt to the body and mind you’ve been given. The sleep is a little but better, and luckily we’ve gotten to skip the diaper phase.

In addition to a new appreciation for my life and the people around me, here are a few things that I’ve experienced on the first year of this journey, framed through the lens of a one-year-old.

Life is confusing

The odds of being born are ridiculous. We’re all so lucky just to be here to get a shot at life. Many cancer patients don’t get to celebrate a one-year anniversary, much less look forward to many great years and advances ahead. Yet being diagnosed with a rare cancer, one that could have been cured if caught early, but almost never is, still feels unfair. I feel so grateful to have a diagnosis, a treatment plan, and most of all, time. But my insides don’t always align with my brain. So my gratitude and happiness can still turn to sadness and despair at times. Life is confusing.

There’s so much to learn

The more I get out into the world and connect with it, the more I realize how much I don’t know. I’m a curious person by nature, so I want to get to know it all. From the world of NET cancer to understanding what drives us to do behave the way we do, I am, and will continue to be a student of life. I’m not going to lie though, sometimes I just want Summer break to get here.

There is no pause button

Life doesn’t stop, even when, and especially when things get tough. For some reason, Jenny and I thought that when you’re dealing with one crisis, the universe would give you a pass on the next one. That’s of course not the case and life keeps-on-keeping-on. We’re still learning how to embrace each new adventure with open arms, and this year has really put us to the test. Without a pause button, it’s critical to find moments of quiet and silence while the movie is playing.

Emotions rule all

We’re emotional creatures, hard-wired to react to situations without even knowing we’re doing it. Our new, shiny, rational brains like to think they’re in control, but not so much. I’ve spent the last year working with friends, family, therapists, and myself to view my emotions without judgement (damn, that’s difficult), while also trying to harness the power we all have to control our thoughts. I think true balance is a flawed concept, but I’m working to find flow in a mix of feeling and thinking.

We all need to find our words

Those emotions and thoughts mentioned above often leave my mouth as an incoherent stream-of-conscious that get lost in translation. I have a strong need to share with people, and I can become frustrated when they don’t experience what I’m feeling. The last year has been an amazing exercise in finding my voice – understanding when, how, and with whom I need to share with. Conversely, I’m learning that to keep and appreciate some things, like morning bike rides and sunrises, for myself. Something that has always felt empty to me when I can’t share it with someone else. This blog is also helping me find my words. One painful, over-edited post at a time.

Stand up and be heard

I don’t know where I’d be if I didn’t become my own best advocate. So listen to yourself and then demand that others listen too.

Play is important

I need to play. I don’t like to play – I need to play. So I’m approaching more things in my life with a child-like sense of play and curiosity. Why we strip play out of our everyday lives as adults is beyond me. Being in a state of play helps us to connect with a part of us that isn’t judging, comparing, over-thinking, or fearing failure. It lets us connect to our bodies, imaginations and soul. So come meet me on the playground – I’ll save you a place in line on the slide.

People are everything

This one sounds so cliché, but it’s true. If there’s one thing that’s become crystal clear in the last year, it’s that I’m surrounded by some of the most amazing people on earth.

My wife has been my constant source of inspiration – a rock that shows me what it means to be content with life and live in the present moment. My kids have kept me young and showed me what it’s like to grow-up comfortable in your own skin. My medical team has shown empathy, kindly answered the non-stop stream of questions, and provided hope and a path to living a good life. Friends and family have shown me a level of care, support and compassion that absolutely blows me away. My colleagues and clients go above-and-beyond to let me know how much they care.

Looking forward

Looking back, my journey forward looks a lot like the world of a toddler. Play with my friends. Eat snacks. Learn about the world. Avoid tantrums.
Get hugs from my family. Go on adventures. Thank you for being part of my formative years. Love and hugs to you all!