Was it worth it?
My palliative care doctor sat across from me with my chart. It held every treatment I’d had over six years of chemotherapy. The whole list was printed for her to review, page after page.
It included the stem cell transplant, and the six months I got before the cancer came back. Then CAR-T, which gave me 20 months where I could breathe again. I could plan past next week. I’ve had surgeries. I’ve had rounds of radiation. Right now, I take targeted drugs to keep the cancer in my bone marrow in check. It feels like a fight with my own cells. And most recently, I had radiation for prostate cancer. It seems one cancer wasn’t enough.
She already knew all of this. She had read my records and studied my scans. She understood the sheer volume of what I’d been through. Then she looked up from the chart and asked what no one had asked me before.
“Do you think all of that was worth it?”
I’ve been asked a lot over the last six years. About pain. About side effects. About advance directives and quality of life. About how I’m coping, and whether I need more support. About whether I understand my prognosis. But no one had asked me that. If I’m honest, I hadn’t asked myself either.
Six years is a long time to live in the country of cancer. You’d think you’d have time to weigh your choices, to wonder what you would do again and what you wouldn’t. But when you’re in it, really in it, you don’t sit back and reflect. You go to the next appointment. You manage the side effects. You cling to the small wins. You take the hits. You keep going, because stopping means admitting something you’re not ready to say out loud.
So there we were in her office, with that question between us.
Was it worth it?
I thought about the six months after my transplant. For the first time, I believed I’d turned a corner. I made plans that had nothing to do with clinics and labs. Hope felt almost reckless, because some part of me knew the cancer could return. And it did.
Then I thought about the 20 months after CAR-T. Longer than anything I’d had in a long time. Long enough to forget, now and then, that the clock was always running. Long enough to think in seasons, not scan cycles. Long enough to remember what it felt like to live without measuring every day against the fear of losing it.
I also thought about the hard parts, and there were many. Days when getting out of bed felt like a mountain. Nights when pain kept me awake. Moments in the mirror when I didn’t recognize my own face. In those moments, I’d catch the worry on Joyce’s face, and I’d feel the cost of my illness on her, too. The surgeries. The waiting rooms that became familiar. The endless not knowing that reshaped our life.
And then I answered.
“Yes. It was and is worth it.”
Here’s what these six years have taught me. Life is a gift from God. Something that precious can’t be thrown away just because the road is hard, long, or unclear.
I’m not saying this has been beautiful. I’m not saying I’m grateful for cancer. I’m not. I’m not saying it’s all part of a plan that will make sense if you squint at it the right way. I’m not trading in slogans.
I’m trying to tell the truth. And the truth is this: life is still worth showing up for, even when it’s messy and painful, even when the future won’t sit still. Showing up might mean another round of treatment. It might mean the remission clock resets. It might mean a new diagnosis you didn’t see coming. It might mean treatment that holds the line instead of curing. Life is still worth showing up for.
That choice, the choice to show up, is a kind of courage. Not the loud kind. Not the kind that gets applause. The quiet kind that looks like getting dressed for an appointment you don’t want to go to. Like swallowing pills that make you tired. Like letting someone drive you home because you’re too weak to do it yourself. Like waking up and trying again.
What does courage look like in your life? Is it in the big moments, or the small ones you don’t talk about? Is it staying when it would be easier to check out? Is it telling the truth when people want a neat answer?
I’ve gained six years of life. Six years of sunrises. Six years of talks at the table, and ordinary moments that only seem ordinary until you picture them gone. I’ve had six years as Joyce’s husband. I’ve had six years of watching my kids grow into who they are. I’ve had six years of writing, and reaching out, and trying to make something meaningful in the middle of what can feel meaningless.
The doctor nodded. She didn’t correct my answer. She didn’t dress it up. She let it stand.
I’ve returned to that question many times since. Was it worth it? Is it still worth it? Will it be worth it tomorrow when the side effects feel like too much? Will it be worth it next month if the scans bring bad news?
Maybe the answer will keep being yes. Not because I’m brave in some special way. Not because I’m stronger than other people. Not because my faith never shakes. The answer is yes because life, for all its difficulty, is still a gift I’m not ready to hand back.
That feels most true when the path is steep. Most true when the days stretch long. Most true when the outcome stays unknown.
