9/10/2019

….I reach my hands out to the heavens, yeah,

And I lift my voice to you alone.

To you alone…

And I sing Hallelujah, you are my God.

Maker of the heavens….

I have a confession to make. I’m struggling. I’m really struggling. As I sit in the waiting room preparing to do my “dry run” for radiation that will start tomorrow I’m struggling. Cancer sucks and I really really really don’t want to do 6 weeks of radiation with a lifetime of side effects. My mind simply will not accept that I’m going to start radiation tomorrow. I try to make up every excuse I possibly can to avoid it.

When people ask me how I’m doing I joke about them strapping my head to the radiation table using the “mask” so that when the flesh that is getting scorched with the radiation to my mouth and neck I won’t move. The smoke will just come out my ears and they’ll know they’ve cooked me enough to get the cancer out.

I guess I’m still in denial. I just came back from the dry run. I walked through the lead door that was a foot thick to my radiation “chamber” that is called “Discovery”. Discovery. What an interesting name. Kinda like I discovered a lump on my neck just a little more than 4 months ago. Kinda like they discovered cancer in the lump with the needle through a biopsy. Kinda like they discovered another lymph node with cancer and failed to discover cancer in my tonsils after my surgery. Kinda like my discovery of TORS and the discovery of the 12 mm tumor in my right base of tongue because of it.

The next 6 weeks will be a journey of discovery for me as I discover how to intentionally expose myself to radiation that will kill any trace of cancer which may or may not be present and kill the cells that allow me to taste for a few months with potential permanent damage to the cells that allow me to taste sweets and partial permanent damage to the cells that produce saliva in my mouth.

I entered the Discovery chamber and observed a very large mechanical device, the radiation machine. “How are you doing” the nurse asked. I barely choked out the words as I fought the tears.

“I don’t want to do this” I said.

A few minutes later they put on my favorite Pandora radio station, Jeremy Camp Radio. I removed my shirt and they put a warm blanket across my chest. My neck laid across a plastic support and I placed the mold into my mouth that will keep my tongue from moving. They then laid the mask across my face and strapped me in. The mask holds my head firmly in place and I definitely can’t move.

The large lead door shuts and they begin the “dry run”. The motorized head of the radiation machine rotates around my head. I watch the aperture open and I see the reflection of a green laser on my mask. Precision placement is key, and the lasers will ensure that I’m in exactly the same location every day.

A few minutes later, I’m done with the dry run.

If you sense a bit of negativity and cynicism in my writing it’s because my writing is a picture into my soul. It’s how I’m feeling. I try and try and try and for some reason I’m unable to push through this one. I feel a bit like a hypocrite because so many people come up to me and tell me how inspiring I am to them. They tell me how much courage I have.

I don’t feel that way now. Honestly, I just want to run away from this and pretend it never happened. The chocolate cake at lunch didn’t satisfy my craving for the sweets that I may never taste again so I had a cinnamon roll. It didn’t satisfy the cravings, either.

I miss you mom. It was rare, but on the days that I felt like this, like I needed to cry and be held you were there. You reminded me that it was ok and you told me how proud you were of me. Your words inspired me and carried me through those days. I miss you mom, I’d do almost anything to hear your words today “I’m proud of you son, you’ll make it through this.” But I won’t hear those words until I meet you in heaven. And I won’t be meeting you in heaven for a very very long time because I’m going to kick cancer’s butt, I’m going to get through this season and I’m going to use my experience to inspire and encourage others who are struggling.

Stop whining, Damon. Mom also used to say something else.

Build a bridge and get over it

So how do I get over it (my denial)? By going through it. There’s simply no other answer. Debbie and I spent the weekend together alone. It wasn’t like our normal date weekends. It was much different. My mood was somber. I cried and I whined. I shared my frustration and anger.

Exactly 6 years ago on September 10, 2013 Debbie told me she had cancer. The next 2 weeks were hell as the fear of death crept in. The words of the radiologist were very assuring. “It’s the most treatable form of cancer on the planet.” Radiation and Chemotherapy would eradicate her cancer and we’d never have to deal with it again. And they did, until 16 months ago when Debbie told me she had another lump in the same place. This time surgery removed it and she’s cancer free.

But why didn’t the radiation kill everything? Why did she get another lump when her cells were cooked and poisoned from chemo? Why didn’t radiation do the job on her?

And the big question that keeps me in denial. If it didn’t work for her then what confidence do I have that it will work for me?

That’s it. That’s why I’m in denial. I don’t see the purpose in radiation. The only purpose I see is that it’s an “insurance clause” just in case there are still cancer cells. And these cancer cells could result in cancer in the future in a place where it might not be treatable.

I have a family to take care of. They need me to guide them and protect them. They need me to be there for them in the good times and the bad. Just like the phone call I got a few days ago when my daughter was sobbing. She needed her dad and I was there. Just like the conversation with my other daughter on her bed last night when she was sobbing. She needed her dad and I was there. My son needs me to model being a man of God so that he can be a man of God for his family.

I have a wife who I love with all my heart. A wife who needs me to be by her side as we navigate the waters of life.

This is why I need to have radiation. I’m not having radiation for ME, I’m having radiation for THEM. I might choose not to have radiation if it was just me. But it’s not. I have a family that I love and I’m going to eradicate cancer from my body forever FOR THEM.

There’s the bridge, mom. I feel myself starting to get over it.

How selfish would it be for me to say “I want to be able to taste sweets for the rest of my life so I’m going to put my family’s security at risk.” That’s what it boils down to. My own selfish desires to continue enjoying sweets and be able to spit when I feel like it. My own selfish desires to avoid 6 weeks of pain. That’s why I’m in denial.

Get over it.

Pity party or perspective, Damon? The pity party has been going on long enough. Now let’s get some perspective.

• The 3 year old toddler resting his head on daddy’s shoulders as he endures radiation. He’s the one with courage.
• The man that my friend told me about who knew the radiation would blind him but it was necessary to save his life. He’s the one with courage
• My friend who went through chemo for 14 months and stopped to enjoy life for a brief period that might ultimately cost him his life. He’s the one with courage
• My wife who has endured cancer twice and has never complained about the side effects. She’s the one with courage.

And I’m whining because I won’t be able to taste sweets for the rest of my life and I’ll be in pain for a few weeks. Perhaps some cheese would go well with this whine.

Perspective is a powerful thing.

Get over it. You have a family that needs you. You have people that you don’t know that need to be inspired by your writing.

I’ve built the bridge and I feel like I’m getting over it. The bridge was perspective and purpose. And I’ll get over it.

Thank you Jesus for perspective. Thank you for my family that will never experience the void of a dad who didn’t survive cancer. Thank you for my wife whose courage through 2 rounds of cancer is an example for our family. Thank you for medicine that can eradicate cancer and thank you for my home being less than 30 minutes from one of the top head and neck cancer treatment centers in the world. Thank you that my radiologist is considered one of the best for this type of cancer, and thank you that you made a way to find and remove the cancer. Thank you in advance for the lives that will be inspired as they read this and choose to take action.

And thank you Jesus for my mom. Thank you for her words that spoke to me even though she’s with you. Thank you mom, I needed you today and you were with me as I built this bridge.

P.S. I’ve received overwhelming feedback about the inspiration my story is offering people so I’ve decided to write and publish a book. If you’re interested, you can pre-order it here. I’ll be donating 200% of the profits to help raise awareness of treatment options for head and neck cancer.