I’m Jealous of the World — and Grateful I Got to Be Part of It

As I said in my previous blog, the cancer was always there.

It was hidden from the twice-annual blood draws and follow-up appointments with my oncologists. It had been 3.2 years since I “rang the bell,” signaling to the world that I was cured. I thought I was free of cancer. At least, that’s what the doctors had told me.

But they had also told me all along that the cancer might have reached my brain, despite the monthly injections, called intrathecals, into my spine. The injections were intended to prevent the lymphoma from reaching my brain.

But it did.

When Lymphoma Returned in My Brain

For years, my oncologists had explained that all it took was one cancer cell to reach the brain. From there, hundreds or even thousands of cells could accumulate, while routine blood tests might not reveal what was happening.

I had been experiencing what I called “brain fog,” which I initially thought was related to COVID-19 or the chemotherapy I had received every month for six months. By the last year, I was struggling to find words.

I didn’t want to tell my wife because I’m a man. Men are supposed to be stoic. We’re not supposed to say when something is wrong.

At least, that’s what I thought.

By May 2026, I had been bedridden for more than a month. I lost 20 pounds. I couldn’t stand. I carried a bucket with me everywhere in case I threw up. I must have watched all the DVDs I own — which is a lot.

Writing Through My Cancer Experience

During the months I was receiving chemotherapy, I wrote poems about my cancer experience. They were published as quickly as I could write them.

Eventually, the poems became a book, Running from the Reaper: Poems from an Impatient Cancer Survivor. The book eventually found its way onto the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s “Suggested Reading” list.

As the book jacket says, I asked the questions that seem almost impossible for someone with cancer to avoid: “Why me?” and “What did I do to deserve getting cancer?”

The poems are sardonic, funny, heartfelt and full of despair.

Writing became one way for me to process what was happening to my body and my life.

Finding Comfort in Hospice Care

This week marked my third month on hospice care. It was time for the recertification process.

I called for hospice arrangements shortly after the chief oncologist at the Ellis Fischel Cancer Center confirmed what the diagnosis revealed: I had cancer in my brain.

Three months after that confirmation at the University of Missouri Research Hospital, I can say that I have been grateful for the care hospice has given me.

They take care of everything I need.

But I admit that I have also been jealous.

I’m Jealous of the World

At first, I used the word “mad.”

I was envious that everything and everyone would outlive me.

The trees would outlive me. The plants would outlive me. The dogs and the cat would outlive me.

I was going to die.

Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next month. Maybe not next year, if I’m lucky. But eventually, they would all outlive me.

I had just started Social Security the year before, at 62. I had planned to spend the next 20-some-odd years as a husband and father to my then-almost-40-year-old and 16-year-old daughters.

And I had planned to spend those years with my wife.

The years with her have been the best of my life. They have been full of love and, dare I say it, stability. They have been full of cuddles and affection. They have been wonderful.

I tell everyone close to me how I don’t deserve what I have.

Grateful for the Life I Was Given

So the answer is yes: I’m jealous of the world.

But I’m also grateful for the world.

I’m grateful that I was even part of it. I’m grateful that I got to experience life for more than 60 years.

Life has a way of making its own plans, and this time, those plans don’t include me.

A priest once told me, “Man makes plans. God laughs.”

I had lots of plans.

Now, I’m facing impending death.

There. I’ve said it.

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