I felt my legs get rubbery, and I thought: "Okay, Jason. That's it then."
--
I don't like thinking back on that time, and I like less that--as much as I hate to admit it--there are times that cancer stubbornly fogs my outlook on life like some cataract.
But, as I've taken time off for Christmas, I do reflect on my diagnosis because it was, in a perverse way, a gift.
I was sitting in the floor not long ago, listening to Scout's nails scratching against the hardwood as she raced to fetch a tennis ball I'd thrown. Andrea was on the couch, half watching television and half reading something on her phone. From the living room, I looked out at the kitchen in our new home--finally a space wide open enough to hold my cooking and Andrea's baking. It was just a normal weeknight.
And it was beautiful.
Years ago, just before I went to study in London, my wise friend (and now beloved Centre College professor) John Kinkade told me: "When you're there, don't take it for granted. Plenty of people just sit in that campus pub and drink beer and play pool, which you could do anywhere. You'll be in London. See as many plays as you can. See as many museums as you can. You've got this amazing opportunity and it will come to an end. Live in London. Pay attention and appreciate that you're there."
I took John's words to heart, and that is good advice for any time you get a chance to travel. But, after this summer, more clearly than I ever had before, I realized those were good words for more than just travel.
The sentiment is cliched, I fear, but it is also fundamentally true. Today is what we have. The day I was diagnosed, I put in a really solid 5K time, fixed my lawn mower, did landscaping, and was heading out to meet some good friends at West 6th. Before a stop in the restroom told something was very wrong, I had everything else on my mind except the present. After 11 hours in the ER, I left feeling like it was profoundly appropriate "present" means both the current moment in time and a gift.
--
The main reason I wanted to write wasn't to pen Hallmark morals for the holidays. There's plenty of mawkish sentimentality to go around this time of year. I mainly wanted to thank so many of my friends and family for all your support and prayers this year. From the moment the news got out, we had family and friends travel great distances to see us. We had people sending books and magazines to read during my recovery. People made us meals and mowed the lawn and did whatever they could.
And it was beautiful.
Years ago, just before I went to study in London, my wise friend (and now beloved Centre College professor) John Kinkade told me: "When you're there, don't take it for granted. Plenty of people just sit in that campus pub and drink beer and play pool, which you could do anywhere. You'll be in London. See as many plays as you can. See as many museums as you can. You've got this amazing opportunity and it will come to an end. Live in London. Pay attention and appreciate that you're there."
I took John's words to heart, and that is good advice for any time you get a chance to travel. But, after this summer, more clearly than I ever had before, I realized those were good words for more than just travel.
The sentiment is cliched, I fear, but it is also fundamentally true. Today is what we have. The day I was diagnosed, I put in a really solid 5K time, fixed my lawn mower, did landscaping, and was heading out to meet some good friends at West 6th. Before a stop in the restroom told something was very wrong, I had everything else on my mind except the present. After 11 hours in the ER, I left feeling like it was profoundly appropriate "present" means both the current moment in time and a gift.
--
The main reason I wanted to write wasn't to pen Hallmark morals for the holidays. There's plenty of mawkish sentimentality to go around this time of year. I mainly wanted to thank so many of my friends and family for all your support and prayers this year. From the moment the news got out, we had family and friends travel great distances to see us. We had people sending books and magazines to read during my recovery. People made us meals and mowed the lawn and did whatever they could.
Andrea's heard me tell her a million times I'll never be able to thank her enough for all she did, but I certainly also want to extend my deep gratitude to all my my friends and family for so many kind, prayerful, loving, funny, and thoughtful deeds.
May God bless your families and give us the perspective to appreciate the day (Read Matthew 6). I am very much looking forward to this Christmas, and I hope all of you have a wonderful holiday season and a great new year.
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