It’s wild to think about, but it’s been six years since Michael’s second cancer diagnosis. Yep—second. The first one? A decade before that. We like to think of it as his version of a ten-year class reunion, except instead of bad 2000s pop music and awkward small talk, it came with surgery, scans, and many hospital snacks.
The first time around, I was pregnant with Lucas. The second time? Lucas and Henry were 8 and 6—old enough to know something was up, but still young enough to enjoy the time they got with Michael while he was going through treatment.
When Michael was diagnosed again, it was like the universe handed us a big flashing sign that said: “Reminder! Life is short. Pay attention!” (It’s not exactly subtle, but hey, the message was received.)
At the time, we were packing up our American dream life: the busy, stressed, juggling all the things life, and getting ready for a new adventure. We weren’t sure how long our new adventure would last and if cancer hadn’t come knocking twice, our adventure may have looked different.
Instead, that second diagnosis cracked everything open in the best way.
We stopped sweating the small stuff (except when the laundry pile gets so big it becomes self-aware). We started truly seeing what an alternative life, and not just a gap year, would look like.
Michael is doing great now. He’s healthy, grateful, and still full of that boyish energy that makes him so special. It wasn’t just Michael who changed—it was all of us. We started doing life differently. Slower. Closer. More deliberately. We dropped out of the race we didn’t even remember signing up for, and guess what? We don’t miss it.
And the boys— They’ve grown up outside the bubble of school hallways and social media pressure cookers. Unspoiled by the usual peer expectations, they’ve had space to become fully, unapologetically themselves. They’re curious, kind, weird in the best way, and grounded in a way that surprises people twice their age. They’re not caught up in who’s wearing what or what grade someone got—they’re busy conquering life and having fun.
As a family, we’re a little scrappier, a little wiser, and way better at appreciating the in-between moments: a quiet morning, a messy kitchen, a long walk with no destination. If you’re going through something hard—medical, emotional, existential, or otherwise—just know this: you can come out the other side stronger. Maybe even funnier. Definitely with a better sense of what matters.
We wouldn’t have chosen this road, but now we can’t imagine our lives any other way. Ten years. Two diagnoses. Zero regrets. Thanks for walking it with us.
