Introduction

On June 14, 2018, at the age of 46, I was diagnosed with Poorly Differentiated Adenocarcinoma, a highly aggressive cancer with a poor prognosis that was first detected in my stomach. But, that word Cancer isn’t a label for me. That’s a title for others. The first time I heard the word as a kid, I thought of it as an ailment that attacks grandparents. It was the intruder that apparently took the life of my grandfather, Arthur Grundhoefer (my mother’s Dad) at the age of 59, before I was born, leaving me only with stories of the warm, loving man that my mom assured me would have loved my jokes and been at all my sporting events. It was the same hitman that was the reason why a lot of my friends no longer had their grandparents either.

Still as a child, my awareness of the disease broadened and I realized Cancer was the jokester that made my Uncle Dan carry his own feces in a bag, because it thinks that sort of thing is funny I supposed. But, apparently, that kind of humor only gets a laugh for a short while, because it ultimately decided that taking his life with a different form of cancer must make for a better punchline. Cancer felt so comfortable in Dan’s home that it decided to take up a dedicated room in the house of several people just on my Mom's side of my family tree, crashing into the home of my five other uncles, an aunt, five of my first cousins, my brother, my sister-in-law - snuffing out the lives of four of its victims.

Cancer is the snake that slithered into the lives of my classmates, colleagues, my friends, people that I loved, people I really didn’t like, and people that I didn't know. Cancer is even the faceless beast that entered the brain of my nephew Paul at the age of 9, chewing at his body for a couple of years until it also extinguished the life of this witty, caring, giving, smart, playful boy that loved football, family, God, and life. So, I know the title of Cancer wasn’t just a label for old people, smokers, or people that deserved it. I also know it just doesn’t get bestowed upon the good people of the world. It really doesn’t care. It just wants to crash into as many bodies and homes as possible.

Although I would wear my yellow ribbons, throw change in the box in the McDonald’s drive-through, walk for a cause, donate money, help my kids sell junk for the local hospital, say prayers for others, grieve for others, and see the width and depth of its reach, I was pretty confident it wasn’t going to get me. I was going to trick it. I was going to exercise, eat right, say my prayers, be thankful, and show it and the world that I was just too slippery for cancer to attach itself to me. I was Teflon to this greasy disease.

That plan worked perfectly, until it didn’t. Indiscriminately, I was handed the same label and asked to display it on my chest for others to see. It welcomed me into its membership with little warning, trial period, or money-back guarantee. Just like that, in an instance, I was a card-holding lifetime member of the club. There was no initiation. I wasn’t given a ring of commitment or vow of solidarity.

But, I know its history and the way it treats others within its reach. Although I know it isn’t monogamous in its relationships, it is a committed companion to everyone it touches. Even those that have found a way to kick it out of their house and keep their doors locked at night, know it might just crash through their windows really any time it pleases.

The messenger for me was the intelligent, talented, world-renowned Gastrologist, Dr. Douglas Rex, at Indiana University Health Hospital. Because he dedicates most of his life to seeing patients, he probably holds a stack of cards with the “Cancer” label pre-printed - ready to hand out to his next visitor. I could tell he felt empathy when he handed me the card and explained my diagnosis, but his solemn look only made me want to reject the card even more. But, nevertheless, the card with the “C word” printed in a big bold font came home with me, made my wife instantly feel sorrow when she looked at me, caused confusion when it was read by my two daughters ages 11 and 13, and quickly was added as a footnote everywhere my name was spoken.

But, that’s not me. Really!! That. Is. Not. Me. I’m more that. I’m the same goofy guy that thinks cows are funny. I’m the guy whose dance moves are still waiting to become popular. I’m the guy that loses at corn hole with friends that I just met and the guy that still thinks of people that I haven’t seen for 20 years as close friends because that bond still feels unbreakable. I’m the guy that can spend eight hours perfecting a complex formula in a spreadsheet without giving up, but dread spending an hour of entering text manually. I’m the guy that is still learning how to be a better listener. I’m the guy on Facebook that posts videos of myself squirting my kids with water on the last day of school. I’m the friend that plays volleyball at a church league and shuttles my kids to soccer and cheerleading practices. I am the guy that invented the smallest Jack ‘O Lantern contest, but then felt too busy to participate in the competition. I’m the guy that enjoyed all 751 pages of the John Adams book. I’m the neighbor you say “hi” to that wishes he would have invited you and your kids over to our house. I’m the guy that loves his job and works long hours because I know I’m making an impact for others. I’m the friend that just wants to drink a beer in your man shed, play cards, and pretend that I’m up-to-date on the latest draft picks. I’m the sibling that played rubber monkeys with you. I’m the son borrowing a fishing pole on your boat who has been warned repeatedly not to talk politics. I’m the Dad that likes to steamroll you and slap the bottom of your foot just for fun. I’m the husband that forgets to transfer the laundry from the washer to the dryer. I’m the boss that loves seeing your professional growth and the colleague that challenges you in a way that is both endearing and annoying at times. I’m the guy that overthinks things at times. You know the person that can’t decide between three shades of gray when painting a house? That’s me.

I’m all of those things and so much more. But, I’m not the guy with cancer.

Instead of accepting that label, I instead try to replay the conversation when the stone-faced Dr. Rex delivered the news. Only this time, I change the scene completely. Instead of a cold, sterile office hospital, I imagine he and I are at a bar with the vibration of the loud music shaking the beer in our glasses. Dr. Rex is laughing at me imitating a dinosaur (which, incidentally, is another strength of mine), mocking the name D. Rex because of its similarities to T Rex, you know the popular star of Jurassic Park. Anyway, in my fantasy, D. Rex and are having a good time. But, he then takes on a solemn look and without any hint he has changed the conversation to something serious, stares at me and attempts to deliver the ominous news, “Brad, you have cancer.” But, over the loud music and my attention deafened by a few drinks, with a confused look, I shout back, “How the hell did I get cat sores?” He laughs for a second, but then regains his solemn look. The conversation continues. We both cry a little, but then laugh again at my misunderstanding and genuine stupidity. He goes back to cheering me on, so I start acting like a dinosaur again, and we both forget for an instance that the sentence was ever muttered. And, for a moment, things feel normal again.

Normal. I just want to feel normal again. So, from here on, I have cat sores because living with cancer is too scary. That is simply not a label for me.

This book is mostly driven out of selfishness. It’s a way for me to channel my thoughts in an attempt to push out my own memory and images of the journey that lies ahead and instead find peace and joy in my past and even comfort in the present. This book is the lessons that I learned through life, by being blessed by constantly being surrounded by kind, loving people. This is a book about who I really am and who I want to be. It’s an attempt to make you - my family, my friends, my colleagues, my clients at work, those that know me well, and those that barely know me - to see me more than the guy with the Cancer name tag on his chest. I hope my stories make you laugh, not cry.

But, I also share my stories because I know that I’m not alone, both in my journey that lies ahead or in the worries that confront me. I realize that everyone suffers and struggles with something. Everyone has the cross they bear and the label that often too narrowly defines them. I hope my stories give you strength, a laugh, a perspective about your own life. I hope my stories give you a voice to share your own stories and become a catalyst for you to live the life you want to lead.

This book isn’t about dying, nor a story about fighting cancer. It’s a book about life. It’s a book about living.