Standing Up to Cancer on My Own Two Feet

What does standing up to cancer mean to you?

Standing up to cancer means literally standing on my own two feet without using my rollator or sparingly using the sleek gold-color cane that has become both my support and my silent companion.

I was diagnosed in January 2017 with multiple myeloma, a blood cancer that gnawed through my bones like termites through timber, resulting in permanent fractures in my lower spine. The pain was a constant reminder of my fragile skeleton, leaving me bedridden and confined to a wheelchair for nearly two years.

I am happy to report that, eight years later, I can now navigate the crowded sidewalks of the city with only a cane, feeling the satisfying thud of its rubber tip against the concrete with each gratifying step. I now use my rollator as my urban SUV, complete with an attached black bag and seat, which is perfect for carrying bags of fresh produce from Whole Foods, just a 10-minute walk from my apartment.

In addition to preparing healthy, organic meals and teaching qigong, a guided moving meditation practice, I've discovered that my mental outlook flourishes when surrounded by those who lift my spirit. This past August marked a turning point when my wife, noticing my improved vitality, suggested I join my sister on a trip to her home in New Hampshire and attend a huge family party in Massachusetts.

The worry on my wife's face softened knowing my sister would be there to hoist my carry-on luggage into the overhead compartment and balance my laptop bag on her shoulder. The journey culminated in a lovely wedding party where 70 relatives gathered together for a delicious outdoor barbecue, and I stood without my cane to ring my Tibetan bells—their crystalline tones blessing my young cousins.

Standing up to cancer also means sharing my journey through writing blogs and memoir pages that bloom like wildflowers across the internet, each one a small beacon of hope for someone else who may be struggling in the dark. Though I can no longer move desks or furniture, I can help move people's minds, nudging them gently toward a renewed perspective of their life reflected in their space, the warm hearth of gratitude, and the healing embrace of love that sustained me through my darkest nights.

Back when I was first diagnosed, the phone rang just as we got back home to our apartment, still wearing the paper bracelet from the ER. Nine hours of fluorescent lights and beeping monitors had left me feeling physically and mentally exhausted. The doctor's voice calls me at home at 10 p.m.: "Your scan results are concerning. There's pressure on your spine that could lead to paralysis. You need to come back tonight." My wife's face drained of color as she watched me absorb the news. I looked down at my IPhone, then at the clock reading 10:15 pm. "I can't," I said, my voice steady and calm. "I'll be there first thing tomorrow morning, after I've slept in my own bed for a good night's rest and had breakfast." When I hung up, my wife looked at me with a concerned look. "Are you sure?" she whispered. I was.

The next morning, walking through those same hospital doors with eight hours of sleep behind me, I felt good, filled with hope and a smile, a strength I needed to face whatever came next.

Today, I face cancer by staring death in the eye without blinking. When somber thoughts creep in, I find myself drawing strength from my wife's hand holding mine, from my daily group, Bells of Hope where the focus is to de-stress and disconnect from the pace of modern life, sharing their support and attention, and from the quiet resolve I've discovered within myself. These connections have become my landmarks, alongside my determination to find joy even on the hardest days.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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