I didn’t expect to become a student again at this stage of my life. But cancer doesn’t ask permission before it starts teaching.
Six years into this journey, I’m still discovering things about myself I never knew. Some of them surprise me. Some of them I wish I didn’t have to learn. All of them are true.
I’ve learned I can hold opposing truths in the same breath. I can wake up grateful for another morning and terrified of what the next scan might show. I can feel strong in my body and fragile in my spirit. I can be hopeful about tomorrow and realistic about my forever. These contradictions don’t cancel each other out. They coexist. They’re all part of what it means to live with cancer rather than just endure it.
I’ve discovered I’m more resilient than I imagined, but not in the way people usually mean when they call someone strong. I’m not fearless. I get scared. I have days when I can’t stop thinking about everything I might lose. But I’ve learned that resilience isn’t about never breaking down. It’s about what you do after you fall apart. It’s getting up one more time than you fall. Sometimes that’s all the strength you need.
I’ve learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness. For thirty years as a surgeon, I prided myself on staying composed, on having answers, on fixing what was broken. Cancer stripped away that professional armor. I’ve had to learn how to say “I’m struggling today” or “I need help” or “I don’t know how to feel about this.” Those words used to stick in my throat. Now I understand they’re some of the most honest things I can offer the people who love me.
I’ve discovered that I can’t control nearly as much as I thought I could. I spent decades believing that if I worked hard enough, planned carefully enough, stayed disciplined enough, I could manage the outcomes. Cancer laughed at that delusion. Treatment protocols don’t always work the way they’re supposed to. Side effects show up uninvited. Good scan results don’t guarantee the next one will be good too. I’ve had to learn to live in the space between hope and uncertainty, to make peace with not knowing what comes next.
But here’s what surprised me most: not knowing doesn’t have to mean not living.
I’ve learned that joy still shows up, even on the hard days. Not the manufactured kind that ignores reality, but the real kind that exists alongside the difficulty. The way sunlight looks on Joyce’s face in the morning. The satisfaction of finishing a piece of writing that says something true. The warmth of community at Atlantic Heights. These moments don’t erase the cancer. They don’t make everything okay. But they matter. I’ve learned to hold onto them without guilt, without feeling like I’m betraying the seriousness of what I’m facing.
I’ve discovered that living with cancer means living with paradox. I plan for the future while understanding it might not unfold the way I hope. I celebrate good news while keeping part of myself braced for bad news. I feel grateful for each day while mourning all the days this disease has already taken and might still take. I’m learning that wisdom isn’t about resolving these tensions. It’s about making room for all of them.
I’ve learned that my identity is both more fragile and more durable than I realized. Cancer changed who I am. How could it not? I’m no longer the surgeon who fixed other people’s traumas. I’m the patient navigating my own. But underneath all those changes, something essential remains. I’m still the person who believes in helping others. Still the person who values authentic connection. Still someone who wants to live with purpose, even if that purpose looks different now than it did six years ago.
I’ve discovered that I need people more than I admitted. Not in an abstract way, but in concrete, daily ways. I need Joyce’s steady presence. I need the medical team that keeps watch over my care. I need the friends who check in without expecting me to pretend everything is fine. I need the community that holds space for both my good days and my impossible ones. This dependence used to feel like failure. Now I understand it’s what makes us human.
I’ve learned that uncertainty doesn’t have to mean hopelessness. I don’t know what my next scan will show. I don’t know how many years I have. I don’t know if the treatments will keep working. But I’m learning to live fully inside that not-knowing, to find meaning in the present even when the future is unclear.
Most importantly, I’ve learned that I’m still learning. Cancer hasn’t finished teaching me yet. There are lessons I haven’t understood. Truths I haven’t discovered. Ways of being I haven’t tried. The uncertainty is still here. So is the hope. So am I.
And for today, that’s enough.
This is what six years with cancer has taught me about myself. Not everything. Not the final word. Just what I know right now, in this moment, on this pathway that I walk with both gratitude and grief, with both strength and uncertainty, with both fear and an inexplicable, persistent hope.
