My Unexpected Fight
My name is Mark. I am a 45-year-old, a high school history teacher in a quiet suburb of Central Florida. My typical day centered on crafting lesson plans that woke up my students to the grit of ancient battles, cheering at my 15-year-old son Ethan’s soccer games and those peaceful evenings beside my 12-year-old daughter Lily, watching her sketch landscapes and dreams. We’d built a rhythm after losing their mom, Sarah, 3 years earlier to aggressive breast cancer – a loss that carved deep scars, turning special family moments into quiet aches we navigated together. It’s never been easy, but taking it day by day, with them as my compass, things slowly developed into a new normal. I would often tell myself I need to hang on for them and I guess, I truly came to believe that. Funny how that works…
Fast forward a year. I had noticed that I was always tired and not feeling myself. Of course I went in for a full checkup, never expecting what came next: stage IV colon cancer, aggressive and advanced. The oncologist’s measured words about chemotherapy, trials, and uncertain timelines hung heavy; in that sterile room, my mind raced to Ethan and Lily, the terror of them having to face this again was unfathomable. It nearly overwhelmed me. I had no idea how to break it to them – or when.
A week went by. I knew the chemo (and my health) would require explanation. The time had come. That evening, as the kids finished homework, I suggested we sit together on our familiar living room couch – the one that had cradled us through Sarah’s final days. Heart pounding, I started gently: “You’ve noticed I’ve been tired lately, more doctor visits than usual. I had some tests, and… I have cancer. It’s in my colon, and it’s serious. We’ll figure out treatment together, but I need you to know I’m here, and we’ll face this as a team. I promise you, I WILL get better”. I had to believe that, for them if not for me. Lily’s eyes widened, then filled; she leaned into me, whispering, “Like Mommy?” Ethan froze, fists clenched, voice small: “Are you gonna be okay, Dad?” They’d seen this once before and it didn’t end well. I had to make them believe, this would.
Chemo started soon after, bringing nights of gut-wrenching nausea and bone-deep fatigue that made even small tasks monumental. I’d force myself to school initially, folding my reality into lessons on historical resilience, but medical leave came quickly. Days blurred in bed, silence amplifying the fear; friends offered meals, yet vulnerability felt like weakness. I was so avidly aware of how scared my kids were. Ironically, that gave me strength when the reality tried to take it away at every turn. It was profoundly clear, I couldn’t just fight for me, I had to fight for them as well.
One October afternoon, too exhausted for Lily’s art fair, I requested my principal for a classroom moment. It had been some weeks since they had seen me and I them. I felt I needed to be seen – that a little normalcy would be helpful to all. So, wheelchair-bound and bald, I wheeled in – I said nothing – did nothing. I didn’t have to. The applause wrapped around me like a warm blanket with healing powers. The school was there – not just my students, everybody, staff included. As I glanced around the room, I saw bald head after bald head – In my entire life, I have never felt so loved and appreciated. So much so, I can’t really define it here…
Those acts of kindness sparked something in me I didn’t know existed – a hope so profound I would never lose. Feeling emboldened, I pursued an immunotherapy trial nearby. Within weeks, scans revealed shrinking tumors, defying early prognoses. Infusions drained me, but I’d envision Sarah’s encouraging nod along with those bald heads – so many beautiful supportive bald heads, and I just knew. It wasn’t my time – not yet anyway.
Family life flickered back: game nights returned with Lily’s gleeful Monopoly wins and of course, Ethan’s teasing banter. I was attending soccer practice more and more and participating with Lily in her art contests. Life was returning – and I was aware of every bit of it! Then, spring delivered the unthinkable – full remission. There a common phrase throughout the teaching circles – ‘you don’t know what you don’t know.’ But now I know there’s a second part to that.
‘You don’t know what you don’t know – until life, decides, to teach you.’
It’s not lost on me that it’s the time of year to be thankful and hopeful. To everyone still fighting cancer – embrace the fear, lean on your people, let empathy guide you. And above all, know this – You’re not alone.
– You never were.
– And you never will be.
