Life is not measured in days or months, but rather in laughter and love.

That being said, there’s nothing wrong with celebrating the years we spend contributing to this wonderful place called Earth.   One year ago, I was exploring the Hematology/Oncology ward at University of Wisconsin, and preparing for whatever life was about to throw at me.   One year ago to the day (and I can still picture this moment in my head) I asked a nurse what was on the agenda for tomorrow.   Her nonchalant response – “Oh, you’re starting chemo tomorrow!” – will always be in my head, and the feeling of fear, excitement and uncertainty will always be in my heart.

In some ways, things have completely changed since that day.   But in some ways, nothing has.   But really, things then were no different than for anyone else – the difference is that I’m now intensely aware of the fact that nothing is certain in life.   But that’s ok, because that fact is actually the only absolute certainty – one that should drive us to experience every moment to the fullest, never be afraid to take a risk instead of always wishing we had done so, and be thankful for every breath we take.

One year after those first few life-changing days, I’m back to where I wanted to be so long ago.   I’m a student at Cornell, and I have direction (specifically, a degree in chemistry followed by a secondary education teacher’s certification).   My first big exam of the semester was last night (Organic Chem II).   In celebration, I’m not doing homework tonight, a task that’s actually harder than it sounds when I’m the only one in my apartment.   After defaulting to Facebook as a means of wasting time, I came across something unusual.   While bouncing around from page to page, I ended up on my grandfather’s Facebook page (what a wonderful thing for an octogenarian).   I left a quick note, then scrolled down to see if anything interesting had been posted on his wall.   Lo and behold, a few posts down was something I had written on June 8th.

June was a rough month for me, with the transplant and all.   However, I was (un)fortunate enough to be on a medication that gave me permanent amnesia – the first week in the hospital is apparently a week I will never remember.   I say fortunate and unfortunate, because (obviously) it’s nice to not remember the side effects of the chemo, but at the same time I have no memory of posting this statement on my grandfather’s wall.

No matter how much intelligence you have, a battle can not be waged, a war won without persistence and hope.

Somewhere in the haze of chemotherapy and amnesia-inducing drugs, I came out with that coherent (and somewhat profound) statement.   This past year has been defined by many things, but one moment stands out – a doctor telling me that I had a 50% chance of being alive in 5 years.   Flip a coin – heads I live, tails I meet my maker.   But that’s talking statistics, a science that cannot be applied to survivors.   I am a survivor to the core, and always will be.   Whatever wars I wage, be they of my own making or not, I will be armed.   Hope in one hand, and persistence in the other.

So far, I’m winning.   Even on my down days, I will never give up.   There are so many things in my life worth fighting for – things worth putting up with anything for.   First and foremost on this list is my family.

My family, both directly and indirectly, has made me who I am.   I owe so much to them.   Cancer was never a scary word for me, because I’d seen my mom beat it.   Twice.   And through it all, I always knew they were there, cheering me on.   They taught me never to give up on something I wanted – which, in this case, was my life.   I have never given up that battle, and I know I never will.   My hope and my persistence come from them.

Second – I have to thank my friends.   I never knew how many I had until they were all there, wishing me well.   If hope is a gun, they were my powder-monkeys, providing me with endless ammunition.   I have many stories, but one that sticks out is my fraternity brothers.   What some may see as a house of stereotypical college alcoholics turned out to be so much more.   Those who I have the privilege of calling my brothers did something amazing – they shaved their heads for me.   And in the process, they raised over $1200 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.   And here’s the kicker – I didn’t know half the guys who shaved their heads.   Which brings me to the next thing I’m thankful for – strangers.

At least 15 of the new members – guys I had never met – shaved their heads for me.   It may have been a simple action, but it still makes me tear up sometimes.   And that’s just one example of the kindness of complete strangers.   All over New England (or so I’ve been told) complete strangers were praying for my well-being and swift recovery.   I have no doubt that this simple action helped me to where I am now.   To every single one of you, those that I have never met, thank you.

Friends, family, and strangers – thank you.   I can never say it enough.   Material things are nothing next to those who give us the hope and the strength to go on.   You are the ones who affirm my belief that humanity has the capacity for extraordinary acts of kindness.   Don’t ever stop being amazing.

One year has passed.   I’m sure it won’t be the only year, and I have a sneaking suspicion it’s one of many still to come.

I’d like to keep writing in here, but I’m not making any promises.   Time and inspiration permitting, I’ll be back – hopefully with new subjects as well.   Cancer gets boring after a while.

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