I'm 28 days shy from the year anniversary of the beginning of all of this cancer nonsense, and now seems to be as good of a time of doing some retrospection as any.
It's odd, how clear my memory of December 28th, 2014 is. It was a Sunday, and my plan was to make it a lazy Sunday. My wife had to work so I had the house to myself for most of the day. I wasn't doing anything of consequence that day. Three times I lay, prostrate, on my floor in what would become the second most intense pain of my life. The third time lead me to realizing I needed to go to the emergency room.
I arrive at the ER. The next 24 hours seemed to pass in a blur. I remember the ER doctor having the most kind and polite bedside manner imaginable. A syndicated episode of Family Guy was on the room TV as he sat, a gentle hand on the bed, as he told me that they had made a back-door appointment with a Urologist for the very next, or what was the same, day.
I walked into the first specialist appointment I had ever been to in my life. The doctor walked into the small, un-decorated room. The first thing he did was ascertain that the woman who was with me was my wife. Then he asked me to drop my pants.
I did. With the keen insight of a man who had been working at his craft for at least 20 years he remarked, "well, you aren't going to get rid of him that easily," to my wife. Then he looked me in the eyes and said, "that testicle has to go." I knew better than to ask any questions.
January 9th. I'm in a hospital gown, lay-sitting in a bed, prepping for surgery. In walks my pastor-with-an-earring and my wife. We chat, and my pastor-with-an-earring makes a joke/comment that he hasn't had the opportunity to do very many hospital visits for people who are sick because, God be praised, our congregation is having a lot of babies and not a lot of health problems.
I emerge. A week later I'm back to work. Three weeks later I'm sitting in an Oncologist's office. She order's a scan that is initially denied by insurance, unfortunately this is my first conflict with the American health insurance system. We fight, it gets approved. While we still caught it early, the cancer itself probably metastasized to my lymph nodes. Yay! Chemotherapy for Jon!
A Port is placed in April. I become a Cyborg, my childhood fantasy in the middle of my adult nightmare. The support from friends, family and strangers is surprising. Offers for food and company come pouring in, and of course, I accept. It would be rude not to.
Chemotherapy begins in May and is prolonged until the middle of July. I'm sick and tired for almost three months, but it sure beats the alternative, an incredibly slow and eventually very painful death. I start rock climbing and begin to assemble the equipment to brew beer in my garage as I spend three months on my couch playing video games, watching TV, being nauseous and sleeping.
During my chemotherapy treatment I have one of my most profound spiritual experiences to date as I dangle forty feet off the forest floor and, in that moment, start to feel a profound call towards creation-care as vocation that I haven't quite figured out yet.
I finish chemotherapy and I get to ring that bell that I've heard so many people ring before me. It is a liberating experience. I'm bald, sick, overweight and tired, but I'm liberated. It's the end of July.
I return to work as my strength and endurance slowly return. I begin to feel more and more myself. My hair returns, I can grow more and fuller facial hair than ever before. I'm alive.
A moment that sticks with me is a concert I went to recently. The music of Matisyahu has been a companion throughout this year. I find his spiritual journey mimicking my own and his latest album was on repeat during my chemotherapy. He was coming to Cincinnati and I dropped the money for gold-level tickets to see him. My wife and I arrive at the venue and are shown to our seats. I'm literally in the best seat in the house. I wouldn't trade that experience for anything.
This Friday, my port gets removed. Less than a year after this journey first began. I feel as if I did a lot of growing this past year, in more ways that I'm even aware of.
To my friends and family who offered words of support, thank you. To my Mom, who had to watch her son fight a disease that laid low too many of her siblings to count, thank you. To my Dad, who I know wrongly blames himself for what I went through, thank you. To the friends and family that brought food or gave me rides to the cancer clinic, thank you. To my dear friend Laura, who rode 50 miles on a bike in my honor, I owe you one. To anyone I may have missed in my blanket statements of thanks, you've mattered to me in the last year. My last thank you, belongs to my wife Renee. I honestly do not know how I could have made it through this last year without you.
I'm honestly still trying to bring this last year into perspective and get my thoughts and feelings on "paper". This is only the beginning.
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