Trevor Maxwell is a writer, speaker, PR consultant, and former newspaper reporter. He lives in Maine with his wife and two daughters. In March of 2018, he was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer and is currently on immunotherapy. Trevor recently founded Man Up to Cancer, a mission-driven company and online community designed to empower men -- and those who love them -- to avoid isolation throughout their cancer journeys.

Trevor Maxwell

There's a scene in the 1979 film, The Great Santini, in which a father - a U.S. Marine Corps pilot named Bull Meechum - loses a backyard basketball game to his teenage son.

It was the first time the boy had ever beaten his tough-as-nails father.

Instead of admitting defeat, Meechum is enraged. He demands to continue the game.

When the boy refuses, Meechum bounces the basketball off his son's head. He does this over and over, following his son into the house.

"You gonna cry? Go ahead, squirt a few for me," he mocks. "You're my favorite daughter. I swear to god you're my sweetest little girl."

It's an extreme example, but for a lot of guys I know, this is how they grew up.

Don't be weak. Toughen up. Take it like a man

. Those were the values passed from father to son, the cultural conditioning of the macho American male. The intent may have been well-meaning: Life can be unforgiving, and fathers feel obligated to prepare their sons for what lay ahead, be it war, hunger or loss.

But the emotional fallout is often devastating. I've watched too many friends slide into patterns of abuse, broken relationships and self-destructive addiction.

Forty years after The Great Santini was released, we're not as "woke" as we'd like to believe. We still raise boys to be numb to and bury their feelings. Through advertising, media, and the role models available to us in real life, men are conditioned to be tough guys — not whole human beings.

So what happens to the American man - one who has been taught there is no hurdle he can't handle on his own - when a challenge comes along that he can't simply fix?

The man who trusted his body feels betrayed by it. The man who had developed confidence in his environment feels suddenly and irrevocably lost. He's facing a killer disease that he knows nothing about, without the language or tools to fight it. Now, he's a "patient" at the mercy of doctors, insurers and the health care system.

I know what that helplessness feels like.

Two years ago, at age 41, I was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. Over the months that followed, I grappled mightily with shame. The diagnosis and treatment shattered all the stories I had told myself about my security in the world.

In the early going - a whirlwind of CT scans, colon surgery, starting chemotherapy - I put on my brave face and let people know I was going to beat cancer and get my life back.

Wasn't that the script I was supposed to read?

The male cancer patients shown in the media are relentlessly brave, optimistic, and inspiring. In magazines, in TV segments, on book covers, you see them continuing to care for their families, work full time, participating in fundraisers, while slaying cancer at all turns.

To put it mildly, I didn't look like that.

Depression, anxiety and fear sank their teeth into me. I turned inside myself and withdrew from my family and friends. I had been a professional writer for more than 20 years, and I couldn't write a sentence or make a phone call. In the summer of 2018, for days at a time, I would curl up in a ball on my living room floor.

Weeping, unable to function, I would obsess over death, imagining I would have to say goodbye to my wife and our young daughters — abandoning them. It was wretched.

According to society, I was supposed to be tackling cancer with positivity and determination. Yet there I was, a 6'4" heap who couldn't even get up off the floor.

It was a deep, dark hole and I only saw one way out. I needed help. Fortunately for me, I grew up in a household where it was OK to ask for help. I had permission to be competitive, while also having permission to cry openly, to hug the people close to me and to tell them, "I love you."

So I began the process of climbing out of that hole. I went to group counseling, one-on-one counseling, and other programs at the Dempsey Center, a non-profit organization founded by the actor Patrick Dempsey. I connected with people online. Through the Colon Club, and then COLONTOWN, I met people around the country and the world going through the same diagnosis and treatments.

I found people to confide in about what it's like to be a parent while "cancering." I walked or biked every day. I accepted the love of the people around me.

It took time - more time than I wanted - but eventually my depression lifted. I saw glimpses, then full experiences of joy. I began to live with more gratitude, regardless of my prognosis, and the sharp focus on the present that comes with the revelation of life's fragility. My wife and daughters welcomed this version of me with open arms. I'm not the same as I was before. I still have holes that need mending. But hopefully, in some ways I'm even more capable and loving than I was before this journey started.

I write this post knowing there is a man out there facing cancer, who's crumpled on the floor and doesn't know if he'll ever get up. If you're that man, I want to speak to you directly.

Brother, I know how much you're hurting. As strange as this might sound, you are in the only place you can be right now.

All your life, you've been taught to be tough and to get through times like this on your own.

You don't need to give up your toughness. You'll need every ounce of that. But this is not a road to be walked alone. You're going to need community. By accepting help as you face cancer, you will give yourself the best possible chance at physical and emotional recovery.

Reaching out for help isn't weak. It might be the strongest thing you will ever do.

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What happens to the American man -- one who has been taught there is no hurdle he can't handle on his own -- when a challenge comes along that he can't simply fix?

Men, Cancer, and the 'S' Word

Sarah and I are racing the sunset at La Jolla Cove, just north of San Diego.

We run up the beach, kicking up sand with bare feet. Then we stop and turn and the orange glow nearly blinds us, consuming the calm waters of the Pacific. When the sun dips below the point of land, we run further up the beach and watch it disappear again.

The sun and the warm breeze are a pleasant break from the winter back home in Maine.

Sarah closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and smiles. It’s the smile I first came to love when we were just kids — 16-year-olds walking the halls of our high school, making mixed tapes, with our entire lives ahead of us.

College, a marriage, careers, two daughters and 26 years later here we are still walking together.

That smile, though. There haven’t been enough of them, for either of us, over the past two years. There’s been too much sadness and fear. Too much burden on Sarah’s shoulders, more than any spouse should have to carry.

We didn’t come to California on a normal couple’s vacation. We came to meet with an oncologist at the University of California San Diego, as part of our quest to save my life.

In March of 2018, I was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. Our daughters were 12 and 10 years old at the time.  Everything we thought we knew about the way our lives would play out, and the security we felt in our future, went out the door.

In a span of less than two years, I’ve had three major surgeries, conventional chemotherapy and then transitioned to my current regimen of immunotherapy.

I’ve had to add the title ‘patient with cancer’ to my list of descriptors. Through the surgeries and side effects of treatment, I found myself in need of help that I had never needed before. And Sarah was thrust into an equally unfamiliar role as a caregiver. We’ve fought to find a new equilibrium — a balancing of roles that would allow us to navigate this cancer gauntlet intact as a couple. I guess you could say it’s been messy and beautiful at the same time.

I give myself 10 percent credit for keeping us intact. Sarah gets the rest. We are together because of her love, patience, resilience and downright refusal to give up on me.

For much of 2018, I retreated inward and was consumed by dark emotions, as I slogged from surgery to surgery. I couldn’t bear the idea of dying and abandoning Sarah and our girls at such young ages. The depression became clinical. In that sadness, I wasn’t able to truly live. At some points, I practically begged Sarah to let me go. Sarah’s family owns a remote camp in the wilderness of northern Maine, and I wanted to go there by myself, where my cancer would be mine alone and I wouldn’t be a burden on my family and friends.

Sarah refused. Instead of letting me go away, she carried me. She carried all of us. She took care of the household, the girls, all the while working a stressful full-time job as an assistant principal and making sure we had health insurance. She even finished her master’s degree in educational leadership.

Sarah had help from many people, including our family, friends and her professional community. Their support has been incredible. But on a day-to-day basis, down in the muck of dealing with the physical and emotional fallout of stage four, it was Sarah at work in the trenches.

Because of her, I was able to make a remarkable comeback. I had mourned the loss of my former self and began to embrace a new self, which in some ways emerged more loving, more present and more capable than I was before cancer.  As I emerged from my depression, I re-established my roles as a husband and father. I’m still a patient with cancer, but that is at the bottom of the list.

As a writer, editor and communications consultant, I’m re-focusing my work in the field of healthcare and cancer advocacy. I’m volunteering for several non-profit organizations, and I recently launched a purpose-driven company called Man Up to Cancer. My mission is to support men facing cancer, and the people who love them.

One component of the project is a men’s group on Facebook, where I’ve been able to meet hundreds of men from around the world. I’ve become an advocate and a connector, giving me a sense of purpose that I’ve never experienced before. Sarah and our daughters are cheering my work at every step of the way, and they are also contributing their own ideas.

Even though the quest continues to reach remission, and hopefully even a cure for my cancer, I live with joy most of the time. Don’t get me wrong. I still experience sadness, anxiety and other tough emotions. But I don’t dwell there. We laugh and play as a family. Sarah and I pull our hair out helping with homework and the teenage crisis of the day. In my mind, we are a loving and beautifully imperfect family. 

When I was at my lowest point in 2018, I made a promise to Sarah. I told her I would do everything in my power to take care of her in the way she cared for me. I don’t always live up to that promise, but I take action toward it every day.

Sarah has never been one for public displays of affection. So, she’ll have to forgive me for writing all of this and sharing it with you.

All those years ago, at age 16, we didn’t predict our love story would last so long, and if we did imagine spending our lives together, we certainly couldn’t have predicted that cancer would threaten my life at a relatively young age.

Sometimes, in the quiet of night, after the girls have gone to bed, I ask Sarah a question.

“Would you do it all again? Would you, if you knew this would happen?”

“Yes,” I say back to her. A million times yes.

On every cancer journey we need a strong support group to provide strength, acceptance and love &mdash;  for one patient with cancer their spouse stepped into that role and beyond.

Racing The Sunset With Sarah

When the storm of cancer hits, you need somewhere to go for protection. Somewhere to shield and strengthen you.

It stands alone in the field of tall grasses and wildflowers at the back of our property. Roughly 60 feet tall, with a crown at least that wide, this majestic tree has been a source of strength and protection for generations of Maxwells.

I haven’t always protected the tree in return.

A few years ago, vines of American bittersweet climbed up and wrapped around one of the tree’s lower limbs. Bittersweet is a menace. It’s a creeping vine with twining stems that can grow the length of a telephone pole. The stems wrap around other plants and trees, choking their growth and eventually killing them unless the bittersweet is cut away.

Under assault, the limb on our oak tree weakened and split. My uncle had to saw the limb off near the trunk.

I walk past the tree every day. Ever since I was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer in March of 2018, I have made a ritual of walking. After my surgeries, sometimes I’d only walk 50 feet. On my best days, I would walk a few miles, past the oak tree and down the dirt path that leads to the ocean.

In the early months of cancer, those walks were full of resentment.

I understood that life never promised fairness. When you look around the world and see the suffering, this has always been evident. Still, I questioned why cancer had come for me at age 41, certainly my wife and daughters didn’t deserve it.

Walking past the oak tree, I would focus on the sprawling thicket of bittersweet and thorny brambles. The vines were hard at work, wrapping around nearby saplings and the roots of bushes.

The bittersweet was a maddening reflection of the cancer in me.

, I thought. I imagined taking a flaming machete and going on the warpath. I wanted to chop and burn every last stem into oblivion. Of course, I knew it would be futile. One has to pick his battles.

So how do we confront our enemies in nature?

For me, I had to start looking at bittersweet and cancer from a different perspective. These are not sentient beings. They don’t have thoughts or feelings. They have no intent to kill. They evolve with a singular purpose — to replicate and to survive. This competitive drive is the core design of all living things, whether it’s a vine or a cancer cell.

Sure, I can rage against the flaws of our design.

But my quest to be cancer-free doesn’t feel right when I’m dwelling in resentment and hate. It feels a lot better when my mission is grounded in my fierce love of my family and friends. There are still plenty of moments when I experience the more destructive emotions. I’m OK with that. I just don’t get stuck there anymore.

This shift made it easier for me to see the core lesson offered by threats to our existence: that life is the ultimate privilege.

On my daily walks, I began to focus on the oak tree instead of the brambles. Yes, the tree was damaged. It had lost a significant part of itself.

And here it stands, undaunted. It continues to weather every gusting wind, every rainstorm, and the deep freeze of Maine winters. Its leaves still return each spring, glorious as ever. It is my giving tree. I spend time with it every day, for communion and to offer thanks for its inspiration.

I’ve lost parts. I’ve been damaged. Yet here I am, standing my ground, living with joy and defiance in the face of the storm.

Trevor Maxwell of Cape Elizabeth, Maine, writes about life as stage IV colon cancer patient, and about overcoming challenges. His most recent work has been published by the

Nature can provide a new perspective on one's cancer journey.

Cancer and My Giving Tree

What does colorectal cancer look like up close, in person?

It’s a proud mother and wife from Kansas City who just went through her 83

 chemo session and who is determined to watch her son swim at the Big Ten Championships in February.

It’s the kind smiles and tired eyes of a couple from northern California who lost their 37-year-old son to colorectal cancer a year ago, and who are stepping up their advocacy work so other parents won’t have to endure that grief.

It’s a marketing professional who refused to settle for any old medical team, so she moved her family from Chicago to Los Angeles, where a world-class oncologist gives her the best shot at making memories with her husband and 2-year-old daughter.

These are some of the remarkable friends I’ve found in COLONTOWN, an online hub for nearly 5,000 colorectal cancer patients and caregivers.

COLONTOWN is structured in private groups on Facebook. The core “neighborhood” is called Downtown. From there, members can participate in more than 100 smaller neighborhoods. For example, Four Corners is for Stage IV patients like me, Stoma City is for those with ostomies, and the Corner Cupboard offers solutions to common side effects.

Each neighborhood is overseen by hosts who are patients or caregivers themselves. They answer questions and share evidence-based news and resources.

To me, this is the “patient-to-patient” movement in action. It’s all about the real-time exchange of information and experience related to treatment options, clinical trials, cancer centers, oncologists, research, complementary therapies, and anything else that might help patients live longer.

Earlier this month, I had the pleasure of meeting 25 members who gathered in San Diego for an “Empowering Patient Leaders” workshop. During the weekend event, a small group of COLONTOWN leaders trained me and other newcomers on the latest advances in CRC treatment and on how to serve as neighborhood moderators.

To be honest, I didn’t know what to expect. What would my fellow patients be like? Would it be a gloomy weekend?

This was a group of smart, talented, kind, upbeat and motivated people.

I realized I was participating in a think tank with the potential not only to change individual lives, but to change the delivery of CRC care. That might sound like a stretch to outsiders, but folks in our shoes don’t have time for small steps.

Many of the San Diego crew are stage IV patients. Our original colon or rectal cancer has spread to other parts of the body. Many of us are relatively young, in our 30s and 40s, with spouses and kids.

We are well aware that most patients with metastatic CRC are not alive five years after diagnosis.

I was the outlier at the workshop — the only patient there with the “hot” kind of tumor biology that makes me an ideal candidate for immunotherapy, which is my current treatment. The long-term outlook is unknown, but immunotherapy gives me realistic hope.

Trouble is, only about 5% of all metastatic CRC patients have this biological profile. The other 95% have “cold” tumors that rarely respond to immunotherapy.

This hard fact makes the San Diego workshop participants even more remarkable. Here they are, dedicating a significant chunk of their time to help other patients, knowing the next treatment breakthroughs might come too late to save their own lives.

I came away from San Diego motivated, and with new friends.

One of them is the Manju George, a rectal cancer survivor from Omaha, possessing a brilliant mind and a heart of gold. She is a scientist-researcher, and one of the COLONTOWN leaders. We engaged in a debate over whether CRC patients are brave, simply by living with our disease.

She said no, because cancer isn’t a challenge we asked for.

I looked around the conference room, considering the surgeries and chemo infusions, CT, MRI, and PET scans. I thought about the families. I thought about Manju, who spends so much time selflessly educating others, encouraging us to stand up for ourselves, and connecting us with the brightest minds in the field of cancer care.

Sorry Manju, I’m not backing down on this one.

Trevor Maxwell is a freelance writer, public relations consultant, and former newspaper journalist from Cape Elizabeth, Maine. He is also a husband, father, and a stage IV colon cancer patient. His most recent work has been published by the 

A writer and stage 4 colon cancer patient from Maine attends his first patient workshop since diagnosis, and leaves with lifelong bonds.

Trevor Maxwell

Men, Cancer, and the 'S' Word

Racing The Sunset With Sarah

Cancer and My Giving Tree

Finding My People in COLONTOWN

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