Chapter 1 — “I’m Dying”

I mean, I’m not really dying—not in the immediate, "get your affairs in order" kind of way—but I have begun the process of dying. That process starts for all of us the moment we’re born, of course. But when you’re told that something inside your body is actively working to kill you, the process takes on a whole new shape. It becomes more real. More tangible. More urgent.

In 2016, I was diagnosed with Stage III colorectal cancer, along with a malignant neuroendocrine tumor on my pancreas. I endured surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation—the whole exhausting, demoralizing cycle of treatment. Somehow, I made it through. I rang the bell. I looked forward to brighter days ahead.

The subsequent five years weren’t without challenges. I lived with the long-term effects of cancer and its treatment—side effects that doctors prepare you for medically but not emotionally. But I survived. And I made it to what they call your “cure date”: June 21, 2021. Five years from when the doctors surgically removed the cancer from my body. A day that I had circled, prayed for, visualized.

We celebrated that milestone the way you celebrate a hard-earned victory. It felt like hope. It felt like breathing again. For the first time in years, I thought I could maybe stop looking over my shoulder.

But just a month later, I got the call that would undo it all. The small neuroendocrine tumor on my pancreas, removed in 2016, had metastasized. My doctors had found twelve lesions (later updated to thirteen) on my liver. Malignant. The cancer was back—and this time it was Stage IV.

Metastatic. Incurable. A death sentence—without a date.

In some twisted way, it almost feels harder—not having a set date. If I were on death row, at least I’d have a calendar. I’d know the day and time I’d take my last breath. But with this diagnosis, there’s no such clarity. Just an indefinite timeline of treatments, scans, hope, and setbacks. My doctors are doing everything they can to keep pushing that date further into the future. But make no mistake—death is the shadow that now walks beside me.

And yet, strangely, I’ve found peace in that. I’ve reset. I’ve let go of the illusion that we ever really know how much time we have. I’ve become hyper-aware of how precious this life is—not in the cliché way you read on inspirational posters, but in the real, everyday kind of way. A warm hug from my kids. The smell of my wife’s shampoo. Laughing at dumb TV shows together on the couch. These are the moments I’ve learned to savor.

To read the rest of this story — and the journey that follows — stay connected for updates on the full memoir.