The Parking Garage

July 18, 2023
It was a perfectly normal Texas day. A Tuesday.
I woke up and made coffee.
Had a couple of meetings.
Took a friend to the airport.

Nothing unusual.

Except…

The 4:00pm appointment.

I should have been more concerned. But after 10 weeks of waiting on pathology results, I wasn’t.
No symptoms.
I felt great – like a million bucks.

The whole process started a year before. I was diagnosed with a “superbug” that led to a hospital stay.
Which eventually led to a biopsy.
Which revealed prostate cancer.
Which led to surgery.
Where they found something in my abdomen.

So there I was. Ten weeks post-prostate surgery.
More biopsies. More tests. Another exploratory surgery. Still no answers.
No one could figure it out.

My oncologist wanted to meet in person to review results.

But I pushed for a video visit.
Tired of biopsies, surgeries, and driving to appointments.
I just wanted to get back to my life.

Then came a handful of unexpected words that upended everything:
“The pathology results confirmed mesothelioma.”

One sentence can change the trajectory of a life.
News that leaves you disoriented, unbalanced, uncertain.
My brain glitched. I couldn’t organize my thoughts.

No tears. Just the desperate urge to be anywhere but there.

Then the doctor said:
“I’m so sorry.”

There are certain things you never want your oncologist to say.
“I’m so sorry” is one of them.
“Don’t Google this” is another.
Or “You should start your bucket list”.

A sense of profound loss pressed in,
even though I didn’t yet know what form the loss would take.

The rest of the day, I wavered between disbelief and despair.
It felt like there was no way out.

We are so fragile.

July 18th, 2023 became a new anniversary—
A distinct before and after.

I’m old enough to know life doesn’t go according to plan.
But sometimes it REALLY doesn’t go according to plan.
So… we make new plans.

And I’m not ready to exchange dreams for memories.

So I fight.
To stay in the moment and not be too attached to outcomes.
To connect and resist my tendency to isolate.
To maintain hope and abandon expectations.
To make amends where needed.
To make the most of the heartbeats I have left.

And yes, I fight cancer.

But I realize: cancer is not the primary battle.
Life is more than the bad things that happen to us.

So I do what I can—
Surgery.
Chemo.
Diet.
Exercise.
Prayer.
A thousand other things.

All while trying to focus on what’s most important.

The eternal things.

I slowly find my footing.
Like learning how to walk.
One step at a time.
One day at a time.

And now—two years later—
I’ve just walked out of the doctor’s office.

Each time I received clear scans, the emotions were a little different.
Sometimes I breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Sometimes I yelled “Yeah!”, pounding my fist on the steering wheel.
Sometimes I just sat there—taking it all in. Overwhelmed.

Simple celebrations in a parking garage.

But this time, it’s different.

The cancer has returned.

I sit with the weight of it.
I steady myself.
And I begin to make new plans.

Still grateful.

Grateful for the past two years.
Grateful for life.
Grateful for the next step.