Cancer Dance with the Morgue Men

The morning unfolded in quiet predictability—the kind of day that dissolves into the background, indistinguishable from the rest. The day began with a typical doctor's visit and followed a familiar rhythm. The numbers were perfect, everything as it should be. I was in excellent health. I stepped outside, the sun pressing warm against my skin, but something in the air shifted. There was a subtle change in the atmosphere, a soft yet persistent whisper of unease.

"Think positive." The words echoed in my mind, a mantra against the creeping doubt that threatened to take hold. Yet, something about the day felt... off. It was disjointed, like a song that abruptly halts just before the beat drops. I tried to shake off the unsettling feeling, but it clung to me like a persistent shadow. Each task I undertook seemed to unravel further, leaving me to question my ability to navigate the daily plans that lay ahead.

Then came the phone call. It was a suggestion from my doctor, nothing more. I had the option to undergo another routine screening procedure. The procedure involved a swift prick of the needle, the filling of a vial, and the application of a label. But beneath the clinical efficiency lurked something heavier, something that sat in the space between heartbeats.

This test was unlike any other. It was a new blood test to detect cancer. They called it a breakthrough. A revolution. There was a way to detect it early, when there was still a chance to fight. But breakthroughs didn’t stop hands from shaking. Revolutions didn’t make the waiting any easier.

The doctor’s voice was careful, measured. “Just a precaution,” he had said. But precautions didn’t come with the weight of what-if. Precautions didn’t make the room feel smaller or the air feel thinner.

And so the next day, as the blood left my body, carried off in a tiny tube, ready to be read like an omen. The blood left my body to determine if tomorrow would remain the same or transform into something different.

The next call wasn’t routine. This time, my doctor didn’t relay results over the phone. He wanted me in his office—face to face. If that doesn’t send a chill down your spine, I don’t know what will.

Colorectal cancer.

“No. That’s not possible.” The words left my lips before I even thought them. I was healthy. Strong. Fine. But cancer doesn’t care about "perfect numbers."

Suddenly, I was strapped into a roller coaster I had never agreed to ride.

I had four colonoscopies in four days. Each one was more brutal than the last. The answers eluded me, lacking clarity and consistency. Something wasn’t adding up, but no one could explain why. The frustration was suffocating. The fear was worse.

Then the truth surfaced. My gastroenterologist had Alzheimer’s. He had been hiding it, holding on just long enough for his youngest to graduate before stepping away. But in the meantime, he was misreading biopsies, confusing results, and making mistakes that sent me back under anesthesia over and over again.

Maybe he saw his secret as endurance. Maybe he thought it was noble. But for me, it was a nightmare.

Once I discovered the truth, my only option was to undergo one final colonoscopy before surgery. This time, I had a doctor whose mind was as sharp as the scalpel that was about to cut into me. The next step was emergency surgery. They cut me open, took half my colon, thirty-three lymph nodes, and everything else that had turned against me. A 16-inch incision ran down my abdomen, deep and unforgiving, a scar carved by fate itself. But the real battle was just beginning.

I spent nine days in the hospital. Nine days of pain so sharp it split me in two, of tubes twisting from my body, of nurses gently coaxing me to move when every fiber of me begged to stay still. My body wasn’t my own. Every step was fire. Every breath was a test.

And always, the same question from the nurses—Dilaudid or morphine?

Dilaudid hit fast, a wave of numbness that dragged me under until the world blurred at the edges. Morphine dulled the pain, but not enough to erase the reality of what I had become. Neither was enough. Neither could silence the ache that lived deeper than the wound.

Late at night, when the halls emptied and the world outside carried on as if nothing had changed, I forced myself to get up and walk the halls. I took small, shuffling steps through dimly lit corridors, gripping my IV pole like a lifeline. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the occasional beep of a monitor and the soft murmur of nurses at their station.

Then—movement. I called them the morgue men.

I watched them wheel bodies past me, their routine precise, almost rehearsed—an unspoken rhythm honed by repetition. The gurneys glided soundlessly, their cargo zipped tight in plastic, erasing whatever fight had come before. Dressed in dark blue jackets, the morgue men moved like ghosts, their masked faces unreadable, their hands steady with the certainty of those who had done this too many times to count. No hesitation. No ceremony. Just the quiet collection of the fallen, those who had battled and lost, now reduced to nothing more than a name on a tag and a number in a ledger.

The thought twisted in my chest—I was recovering in a place where others never left.

Would I make it out? Would I ever be me again?

The battle didn’t end when I left the hospital. Healing wasn’t a straight path. It was jagged, uneven, and brutal. Exhaustion clung to me for months. My body ached in ways I never knew it could. I had survived, but at what cost?

A test. A moment of truth.

The Signatera DNA blood test came back clean. Biopsies confirmed it. No cancer.

The doctors wanted chemo. Radiation. Standard protocol. I said no. Some called me reckless. Others called me worse. I called it survival on my terms.

I did the research. I found doctors who listened. Now, every three months, I travel to MD Anderson. They run their tests. They search for something that isn’t there. And every time, I walk out the same way—clear. I have been cancer-free since January 2023.

But this was never just about cancer.

It was about fighting for my life. My voice. My purpose.

I won’t hand you empty platitudes. I won’t whisper; you’ve got this. Healing isn’t passive. It’s a fight. A choice. Refusing to let the worst thing that happens to you define who you are is essential.

I won’t give you a checklist—things to do, things to avoid, foods to eat, supplements to take. Healing isn’t a formula. It’s messy. Personal. Unpredictable. I know—I earned a nutrition certificate from Cornell, transformed my entire lifestyle, and still, the best advice my doctors gave me was this: Live.

I’m not telling you this to scare you. I’m telling you because no one warned me. No one told me that recovery would be its own battle—that even after the surgery ends or the scans come back clear, the struggle continues. Healing isn’t just about the body; it’s about the mind, the spirit, and the will to keep going even when you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

Through sharing my personal experiences and video content, I’m not looking for sympathy or trying to push a cause—I’m here to tell the truth. I aim to portray the true nature of this struggle. I aim to establish an environment where no individual feels isolated in their battle.

This journey isn’t just about me; it’s about us. This journey is about creating a community that fosters resilience. Where survival isn’t just about living—it’s about reclaiming yourself. If my story does anything, I hope it reminds you of this: You are stronger than you think. And you don’t have to fight alone.