My earliest recollection is when I was stretching my neck one day before a P90X workout in my basement, and noticed my reflection in a picture frame that I had so often looked into several times before. Only then, something appeared abnormal in my neck.

I didn’t tell my wife right away, only because I didn’t want to alarm her – my long hair (at the time) played a part in concealing my neck. Plus, I figured maybe my body was just fighting an infection, and perhaps one of my lymph nodes in my neck was swollen as a result.

I paid my doctor a visit about a week or two later. You know the drill. Someone escorts you back to the room, takes your height and weight, tells you to take a seat and the doctor will be in to see you in a moment.

After a few minutes of questions about my health, and feeling my neck, under my armpits, stomach and around my groin, the doctor knew immediately the severity of the lump on the right side of my neck.

“I’m concerned it might be Lymphoma,” he said.

My reaction, “Well, if it is, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

Notice how the doctor never said the word, ‘cancer.’

Perhaps this is why I’ve never once had that feeling of being hit with a ton of bricks when a doctor diagnoses you with the “c” word. Not when I later went for a CT scan, a biopsy of my right tonsil and the lump on my neck, a PET scan, or when I finally met with my oncologist for the first time, which is where he used the previous tests to make the official diagnosis: Lymphocyte-Predominant Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

Not once did the words of the oncologist drown out in my mind as he explained to my wife and I what type of Lymphoma I had, how he came to that conclusion, and the battle we were facing.

Now, I will pause briefly to say I likely would’ve had a different reaction had the diagnosis came back terminal. But all along, I felt like no matter what popped up, that I was gonna beat it. And, yeah, while I had a cancer diagnosis, it turned out to be one of the most curable types. My right tonsil and all of the lymph nodes on the right side of my neck were cancerous. It had not spread to other parts of my body. The chemotherapy treatment would be once every three weeks for about four months. I likely could continue to work throughout treatment. And I could keep up the same exercise regimen as well, so long as I listened to my body and didn’t overdo it.

‘We need to talk’

For the six days after my family doctor told me he was concerned I had Lymphoma, I didn’t tell a soul. The main reason I did this is because I didn’t want to alarm anyone. After all, it was only a possibility. I hadn’t even gone for further scans or biopsies yet, so I couldn’t tell someone I actually had cancer, which, as I’ve discovered, feels akin to dropping that ton of bricks on them.

But a CT scan costs money. And I couldn’t just charge it and hope my wife didn’t notice.

So it came on a Monday night after work when I approached my wife at home on our living room couch.

“We need to talk,” I said. “There’s a possibility I could have Lymphoma.”

The next few minutes are kind like a blur in my memory. She may have asked me if that meant I had cancer. Or if Lymphoma is a type of cancer. I’m not sure. I just remember she shed a lot of tears while I comforted her until she regained her senses.

“The only reason I’m telling you now is because I have to go for a CT scan tomorrow morning,” I said.

“Well, I’m going with you,” she said.

Losing a loved one

A good two months passed from the initial meeting with my family doctor until I actually met my oncologist, who informed me of the diagnosis in our first meeting. I do not wish that waiting game upon anyone, because out of everything I’ve been through to this point, I think that’s one of the hardest parts, going about your days wondering if you have cancer or not, how serious it may be if it is cancerous, and what the treatment could entail. EVERYDAY FOR TWO MONTHS.

During this span, my wife and I decided not to tell anyone – except for our bosses – about my health until we absolutely knew of the diagnosis and the ensuing treatment.

Even then, shortly after we did learn of all of this, my wife got a phone call informing her that her grandmother was in her final days. We decided then to wait even longer to tell anyone. It would just be too much on her family to not only say their goodbyes to my wife’s grandmother but also tell them I had cancer.

A day or two after my wife’s grandmother died – after a long battle with cancer herself – I went for a bone marrow biopsy at York Hospital. By then, we had already known what type of cancer I had, the severity of it, and the treatment ahead. I’m still not entirely sure why I needed the bone marrow biopsy – something to do with my blood or checking to make sure there was no cancer of the blood. No matter, a bone marrow biopsy is easily the second-worst pain I’ve ever felt in my entire life – second to fracturing my elbow when I fell out of my bunk bed as a kid (socks + wooden steps + middle of the night + nature calling = broken arm).

Anyway, we eventually told our families on the Sunday of that week, a Sunday that began with church and, afterwards, sitting down with our pastor, Joe Fauth, in a spare room. We revealed the news to Pastor Joe and mainly wanted to meet with him so he could provide us with whatever guidance he might have, and pray for us, for the remainder of our day with the tasks ahead.

Maybe it was God’s love coming upon me at that very moment. Maybe it was a culmination of the difficulties of the previous weeks. But as Pastor Joe prayed for us, with Joe’s arm around me to right side, and my wife’s hand on mine to my left, I can say then is the first time I cried over this whole thing.

‘What cancer cannot do’

The blessing in all of this is a couple weeks later, at the funeral of my wife’s grandmother, someone read a passage titled, “What cancer cannot do.” The author of the passage is unknown. But my wife’s grandmother had found it at some point during her own battle with cancer. It reads as follows…

Cancer is so limited…

It cannot

cripple Love.

It cannot

shatter Hope.

It cannot

destroy Peace.

It cannot

kill Friendship.

It cannot

suppress Memories.

It cannot

silence Courage.

It cannot

invade the Soul.

It cannot

steal Eternal Life.

It cannot

conquer the Spirit.