There’s not much that I remember about May 2, 1996. It is a day that would change the course of my life, and I don’t remember much about it. That hardly seems right. Thanks to Google, I know the high temp that day was 65 degrees, but I don’t remember that. I don’t remember if I drove there or if my wife Rosie did. I don’t remember how my spirits were, or if I talked much during the drive.
I do remember waking up early and skipping breakfast. I do remember departing from my morning ritual of putting on a tie because it was a teaching day. I do remember kissing my wife and our two-year old girl. I am the youngest of seven kids, and I do remember that my siblings and my Mom journeyed from Illinois to South Bend that day. I do remember crying when I saw Rosie afterward.
May 2, 1996 has become a touchstone in my life. Previously, a day like any other, it is now a metric for the unknown, the waters never charted, the starting point for a timeline that is open-ended. Like any of the calendar’s 365 days, May 2, 1996 could have been a date for my wedding, or the birth of my child; but this day marks a different kind of transition; one that has made living and loving marriage and parenthood possible. May 2, 1996.
If it all seemed so familiar, it’s because it was my second brain surgery in 2 ½ years. Same hospital, same neurosurgeon, but not the same prognosis. I was certain that this brain tumor would be benign like my first one. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
My second brain tumor was cancerous, and it has a name that is almost as ugly as the prognosis: glioblastoma multiforme. It is a deadly and dreadfully aggressive brain cancer for which there is no cure. The median survival-rate for this cancer is 15 months (even after surgical resection, six weeks of daily radiation, and months of chemotherapy).
I was terrified.
This shocking diagnosis was all the more painful because Rosie and I were expecting our second child in just two weeks. Paul Jr., who, very much to our surprise, was born with Spina Bifida.
Suddenly the hurts of others, the hopelessness of situations that seemed impossible, the petty grudges that kept me stuck, they all became inconsequential. I could think of nothing else except how desperately I wanted to help both of our babies grow up. I wanted to love Rosie. I wanted to love our two children. I wanted to love, just love.
There is no helpful answer to the question that is often posed to me: Did you do anything different to survive so long. The answer to that question is: No, I did not. No clinical trials, no medical tourism. I just followed established medical protocol, which, regrettably, has not changed much since May 2, 1996.
My suspicion is that trying to free myself from the insignificant and filling that void with love is why 27 years later. . . I am still living, still loving and forever grateful.
Music: "Wrong Foot Forward" by Fluke
