Connected by Cancer, Comforted by Memory

My dad died in 1985 from a glioblastoma—a brain tumor that spread into his spine. I only have pieces of memories from that time. I was six years old.

One sliver I do remember is sitting in a hospital, looking through the porthole of a hyperbaric chamber as he sat in a metal room with other sickly-looking people receiving treatment. I remember how fragile he looked.

This morning, while I sat in a waiting room in the main building of MD Anderson watching people walk past, that memory was at the forefront of my mind—but maybe not for the reason you’d expect.

I found myself smiling, thinking about all the times my dad might have sat in the same kind of rooms, waiting for news on his prognosis. In that moment, I felt connected to my dad in a way that brought me peace—comfort I haven’t often felt in my life.

I’ve said I believe in God, and I choose to believe that this wasn’t just a random childhood memory rushing back from some subconscious trigger. Maybe it was something more. Either way, it was the comfort I didn’t know I needed—and I found myself sitting there smiling like an idiot.

I don’t know if it’s just my nature or something else, but as depressing as a cancer hospital can be, I kept catching myself smiling at people, saying hello, trying to make conversation—just being upbeat.

Partially for my own sanity, but mostly for those around me. I don’t know if it made a difference to anyone specifically, but I figure it didn’t hurt. It’s like a prayer. It costs nothing to give, and it might change everything for someone—even if you never know.

One lesson I did learn today: never ask someone, “What type of cancer do you have?” Because if it turns into a competition, nobody wants to win that game. The trophy sucks ass—pun fully intended.

I met with a colorectal specialist named Dr. Yu. She came highly recommended by medical professionals who are much smarter than I’ll ever be.

I had a sense of what to expect, thanks to the prep work my nurse advocate walked me through. So when I found myself on an exam table in the fetal position with a camera “in me,” watching my own tumor on a screen while Dr. Yu explained what was good and what was bad, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Then she started taking biopsies—live, on screen, while I felt it happening in real time. It was the worst interactive movie ever made. Zero stars.

Once I recovered—I’ll spare you those details, though I will say I’m glad I never put much stock in dignity—Dr. Yu told me the cancer was Stage 3 and could be progressing to Stage 4.

That hit harder than any procedure so far. What ran screaming through my brain was the drop in five-year survival rates from Stage 3 to Stage 4—about a 70% difference.

I tried to stay focused. We laid out a treatment plan that’s aggressive but feels hopeful: two months of intravenous chemo, followed by radiation, more chemo (I think), and then surgery.

There were other options, but they involved colostomy bags or experimental treatments that had a zero percent chance of granting superpowers. So, I chose the reasonable path, all things considered.

I took a free shuttle from MD Anderson back to the hotel. During the 10-minute ride—I would’ve walked if I hadn’t just been anally probed for the better part of an hour—while I stared out the window at the passing medical center and talked to God. Mostly about all the things I still want to do before my time’s up.

This evening, back at the hotel, still looking out the same hotel window at that hospital that’s now going to have to save my life soon, I ran back through that list—and I smiled again.

Here’s that list:

1. I really want to go to F1 with Dave and his son in October.
2. I want to take Dean’s Cobra from Antwerp down to Tivat with Mike and Dean next year.
3. I really want to see the last Fast & Furious movie with my brothers and Zac.
4. I’d like to finish my master’s and spend a summer weekend at Ed Skoudis’s beach house talking theology and books.
5. I’d like to work for Mike Hanley at some point.
6. I’d like to take Tugboat on a road trip where he doesn’t freak out the entire time—which I assume is an indictment of my driving, according to him.
7. I really want to take my mom back to Berlin with my siblings before time runs out.
8. I’d like to play the new Borderlands with my brothers.
9. I want to see all my nieces and nephews grow into adults.
10. And while some will roll their eyes at this—I want to see my dev team get through 2025 with the same success we had in 2024.