Six years ago, I found myself seated in a wheelchair, weak and afraid, reckoning with words that would eternally mark my life as divided into “before” and “after.” Stage III Bone Marrow Cancer. The diagnosis hung like a weight in the air that I could neither lift nor escape. I was a retired Maxillofacial Trauma Surgeon who had spent more than thirty years caring for thousands of patients, mending broken bones and mangled faces. I thought I understood medicine. I thought I knew what suffering was. But nothing prepares you for that moment when you become the patient. If you are reading this now, having just been diagnosed and searching for something—anything—to make sense of what is happening to you, I want you to know: I understand that terror. I know it well.
You may be sitting with your diagnosis right now, feeling as if your whole world has been turned upside down. Everything you knew, everything you envisioned, everything you counted upon has suddenly shifted beneath your feet. The life you were living a few days or weeks ago seems to belong entirely to somebody else. What was is no more, you tell yourself. And what will take its place? Chaos. Uncertainty. Fear. What about your family? How will they manage? What about your financial problems—the bills, the mortgage, the accumulating medical expenses? What about your job, your responsibilities, the life you have built? And what of the future? That word may sound merciless right now, as you struggle to see not just next month, but even tomorrow. I have had this feeling. I have lived it. Sitting in that wheelchair, unable to walk, watching my body betray itself, I thought I was dying. The surgeon who had spent years saving other people’s lives could not save his own. The irony was not lost on me, but the realization brought no comfort.
What I did not understand in those first awful days was this: I was not alone. Neither are you. You are surrounded—though it may not be obvious yet—by people who love you deeply. You have friends who will stand by you, who will offer assistance and love, who will sit in waiting rooms with you and hold your hand through painful conversations. You also have within you a hidden reservoir of strength and resilience—a well from which you can draw when you feel depleted. You have the power to transform fear into strength. I know this sounds impossible now. How can weakness become strength? How can terror transform into courage? But I promise you this: you will grow in ways you never thought possible. You will become stronger, kinder, more compassionate. You will appreciate the gift of life more deeply, even during times of trouble. And there will be trouble—I won’t lie to you about that.
My transformation did not happen independently. It happened because of people—wonderful, caring people who came into my life as strangers and became irreplaceable friends. I met nurses who learned not just my medical history, but my story. They asked about my children and remembered their names. They sat with me on hard days when the therapy left me feeling desperate, and gently reminded me that tomorrow might be better. I met doctors who treated me not as a case or diagnosis, but as a person—a colleague struggling with impossible circumstances. They celebrated every small success with me: the day my blood count improved, the day I first stood on my own, the day the scan showed progress. I encountered receptionists who greeted me with genuine smiles, who learned my coffee order, who asked with real concern how I was feeling. Medical assistants handled my treatment with such tenderness that I often found myself moved to tears—not from pain, but from gratitude.
These were not just healthcare professionals doing their jobs. These were human beings offering compassion, connection, and hope when I needed it most. I had operated on thousands of patients over thirty years as a surgeon. I had prided myself on my skills, my knowledge, my steady hands. But being on the other side of medicine taught me something I had somehow missed all those years: the power of genuine human connection to heal is just as important as any medication or procedure.
In the beginning, I tried to focus on the big picture. I wanted to conquer cancer, to defeat it decisively, to return to my former self. But that approach nearly broke me. The journey seemed too overwhelming, the mountain too high to climb. Then someone told me: “Success is measured one day at a time.” Some days, success was simply getting out of bed. Other days, it meant enduring a treatment session. Sometimes it meant eating a full meal, taking a short walk, or simply smiling at something that brought a moment of joy. I learned to release the burden of regret. Yes, my life had changed. Yes, I had lost things. But regret is a heavy weight to carry when you are already weary. Instead, I chose to direct my limited energy toward the future, even when “the future” meant only the next hour or the next minute. Looking toward a future of good health was my guiding star, but I learned to take it gently. Some days the future looked bright and certain; other days, cloudy and uncertain. Both were okay. Together, they were part of the journey.
Through it all—through the fear, the pain, the unknowing, the small victories and the setbacks—one truth became crystal clear: I could not have done this alone. I did not have to do it alone. And neither do you. Your support system may not look like mine. Maybe it’s your devoted spouse who advocates for you at every doctor’s appointment. Maybe it’s your best friend who shows up with soup and refuses to let you apologize for being “too much.” Maybe it’s your children, who find ways to make you laugh even on the worst days. Maybe it’s an online community of fellow patients who understand what you’re going through in a way no one else can. Or perhaps, like me, you will find unexpected angels in medical scrubs—strangers who become friends, who support you, encourage you, and give you hope with every smile and kind word.
Let them help. Let them in. Allow them to care for you. The temptation when you are sick is to protect others from your suffering, to minimize what you’re really experiencing, to pretend you’re braver than you feel. But real courage, I discovered, lies in letting others help you. It means saying “yes” when someone offers to drive you to treatment. It means admitting when you feel afraid. It means allowing people to love you through the mess of it all.
There will be times when you want to give up. When the treatments seem too harsh, when the side effects seem worse than the disease, when you are utterly exhausted from being exhausted. In those moments, remember: this is not forever. This chapter does not define the end of your life. Stay the course without fear or hesitation. And when fear does come—because it will; we all feel it—let it move through you rather than stop you. Acknowledge it, feel it, and keep going. I won’t tell you it will be easy. Some days won’t be. Some days you will cry in the shower or feel angry at the IV pole because it all seems so unreal. That’s okay. That’s human. That’s natural. But I will tell you this: on the other side of this darkness, there is light. There is life. There is a new version of you waiting to emerge—someone stronger, fuller, richer in appreciation of every ordinary moment than you ever thought possible.
I know that “finding the bright side” might sound absurd when you’re facing cancer, but hear me out. I’m not suggesting you plaster on a fake smile or pretend everything is wonderful when it’s not. That’s not what I mean at all. What I discovered was this: even in the midst of tremendous uncertainty and struggle, moments of brightness still exist. A funny text from a friend. The warmth of sunshine on your face during a walk. The taste of your favorite food on a day when your appetite returns. Your pet curled up beside you. A kind word from a stranger. These moments don’t erase the hardship. But they coexist with it. And choosing to notice them, to let them in, doesn’t diminish your struggle—it helps you survive it.
Six years later, I can walk. I can live. I can write these words to you from a place of health I once thought impossible. The journey was hard—harder than I can fully convey in words. But looking back now, I can say something I never thought I’d say: it was worth every moment. Not because cancer is good—it’s not. But because the person I became through facing it, the relationships I forged, the gratitude I now carry for the simple gift of being alive—these things have transformed my life in ways I could never have imagined. I became full of wonder at the resilience of the human spirit—mine and others’. Full of thankfulness for every medical professional who cared for me, every friend who showed up, every family member who believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. Full of grace for the journey, even the difficult parts. You will experience this too. You will look back one day—maybe in months, maybe in years—and realize how far you’ve traveled. How much you’ve grown. How strong you actually were, even when you felt weakest.
I can’t promise you that every day will be easy. I can’t guarantee that your journey will look like mine or that your outcome will be the same. But I can promise you this: you are not alone. You are surrounded by love, even when you feel isolated. You possess strength you haven’t discovered yet. And there are people—strangers who will become friends, loved ones who will surprise you, medical teams who will fight for you—ready to walk alongside you through this. Let them in. Take it one day at a time. Look forward, even when forward feels foggy. Stay the course. And know that somewhere, someone who has been exactly where you are now is cheering for you, believing in you, and holding space for your healing. You’ve got this. We’ve got you. And tomorrow—one tomorrow at a time—is waiting to welcome you home.
