Well, I did it. Not real sure of my official time--somewhere in the 2:50 range--but that didn't really matter. I covered 13.1 miles on my feet, and finished standing up. (UPDATE: My o-fish-ul time was 2:52.) And, as you can see, I have photographic evidence. (As a side note: does it look to you like I'm screwing on a prosthetic arm in this photo? It does to me.)

Then I went home, crawled into a fetal position, and fell into a coma for an hour. (Okay, more of a nap, but it felt like a coma.)

After that, buoyed by the smell of cooking ribs, I rose to a wonderful barbecue attended by more than 40 friends and family. I'm a little verklempt as I sit here writing this.

The verklemptitude started about two miles into the race, when I passed a hand-lettered sign posted there by my lovely wife and lovely daughter: "Go, TL Hines! Run! Run! Kick it!"

I appreciated that because they branded my author name of TL Hines to some 1000 runners and potential book buyers.

Okay, I'm just kidding. I appreciated that because--well, how could you not appreciate that? Along the way, they placed five other signs--all bright green--encouraging me along the way. It became something that helped me get through the race, looking for those signs. And then, when I got to the end of the race, my whole extended family (wife, daughter, parents, in-laws, nephews) stood there holding signs.

Good thing it was raining, because the rain helped me protect my real-man-who-doesn't-cry credibility.

Some great folks from the "Billings Gazette" came out and did a story on me; I'll post it when it goes live online. (UPDATE: Here it is--story AND video of me in a wet tee shirt: http://is.gd/3xf4M.)

As has recently been pointed out, it's been quite some time since I updated this site. But really, that's a good sign, isn't it? It means lymphoma isn't the top thing on my mind each and every day. (And believe me, there were a lot of days it was the one and only thing on my mind. If you're newly diagnosed, or know someone who has been, you'll probably give me an amen.)

These days, the thing that's been occupying my mind (other than my next novel, which I'm once again late handing in--but that's another subject) is running.

I think my last update was a post after my earlier 5K. Well, in May, I headed to Spokane for the big Bloomsday Run, where I and 50,000 of my closest friends ran 7.6 miles. I finished in 1:31:15, which was actually pretty fast for me, and I felt good at the finish line.

Which brings me to this week, a few months later. The big race, the half-marathon at the Montana Governor's Cup, looms this Sunday. That's 13.1 miles.

Bad omen #1: On my last "long" run about a week ago, I went 12 miles...but started getting some pretty bad cramps in my right foot at about mile 10.5--so I was doing the Igor Shuffle for about a mile. It wasn't fun.

Bad omen #2: I rarely get sick. Probably once every few years, to tell you the truth. And yet, as of last Sunday, I felt a head cold coming on. This morning--five days before the race--it's moved into my chest, and I've got a bit of a cough going. I'm hoping I still have time to recover (the fact that the cold moved from my sinuses to my chest in just a couple of days seems a good sign to me), but suffice to say I'm now terrified that I'll be trying to run a 13.1 mile race with constant foot cramps, congested lungs (I kinda need those for breathing), and a chronic hack.

Of course, if you know me, you'll realize that's just the eternal worrier finding things to obsess over, but really. A cold? The week before a race I've been training to run since, oh, last November? Let's just say I ain't happy about it.

But those are all the transient things, the things that occupy my slight obsessive compulsive tendencies. When I find myself starting to worry about such things, I remember why this race is such an important personal milestone for me.

It's a remembrance of people I've met along the way who have lost their battle with cancer...and I'm sorry to say there have been more than a few. People whose stories have helped me, or inspired me, or touched me in some way. I'll be writing their names on a piece of paper to carry with me, just as a reminder: McKenna, Shane, Mel, Shannon, Deirdre, Jan, Sarah, Leni.

It's a symbolic personal accomplishment for me: something I've never done before, something I never would have dreamed to do, something, truth be told, I would have detested. So in many ways, running a half-marathon, and getting to a point where I enjoy running, are symbolic of the transformation I've been through after lymphoma. Certainly, lymphoma changed my life for the worse. But in some ways--ways such as this--it's had a positive impact on my life. So it's not only symbolic of the long road of diagnosis and treatment, but also discovery and growth.

Just as long as I can get through it without hacking up a lung.

So I finally ran in my first road race of any kind whatsoever: the Shamrock Run 5k, right here in good ol' Billings, Montaner on March 15th. A 5k, for those who are metrically challenged like myself, works out to 3.1 miles.

The run started with a push up a hill at the beginning, but was fairly flat for the rest of the course. I finished in either 35:14 or 34:26, depending on whether I believe the guy who announced my finish time at the line or the official results posted on the RimRunners website.

Me? I'm just happy to have finished the darned thing without melting down. Either time means I actually held about an 11:30 pace or so for each mile--which was quite a bit faster than I would have imagined I'd be able to do. And it felt pretty good; I didn't cross the finish line feeling like I needed to be carried away on a stretcher.

Since then, I've kept up the four-day-a-week training, and will do 7 miles for my long run this weekend (tomorrow, actually). That should put me on pace for the big Bloomsday Run in Spokane on May 2nd (a 12k, or 7.6ish miles--on a pretty hilly course). We'll see how that goes before I decide whether to sign up for a half-marathon in the summer, or take a little more time and aim for one in the fall.

In either case, hey, I'm a runner. Err...jogger. I have official Brooks Running shoes ("The Beast") and everything. Even a bib number from my first race.

Still a bit disappointed to find the only food choices at the end of most races are oranges, bananas and sports drinks. After running any distance greater than 100 yards, I'm ready for Reese's peanut butter cups, ice cream and a couple pints of beer.

Wait. Did I say that out loud?

So I've reached the point in my half-marathon training where I've got a good base run going, and am now starting to do one LSD run (which, I'm told, stands for "Long Slow Distance," but still makes me think of psychedelic visions) each week. That means I'm cutting back my training to three somewhat easy runs of just 3 miles or so each week, and one successively longer run on the weekend.

Did my latest long run yesterday, a full five miles, and it felt great. Purposely made myself go slower than I thought I should, and that paid off: by the end of the run, I felt as if I could run another mile or two (but resisted the temptation--I'm trying to go about this the right way).

In an odd way, I've come to enjoy this whole running gig, which really is 180 degrees from my feelings before. I like the time spent alone, the physical exertion, the immediate improvement in my mood when I finish the run.

Training has gone through a few hiccups in the last few months. I already recounted the thyroid adventures; we're still working on the correct dosage. I'm currently on 100 mcg per day, but that still doesn't have me down to the "controlled" level (although my TSH level has dropped considerably); in about two weeks, we'll check levels again and possibly bump up the dosage a bit if the level hasn't continued to drop.

About two weeks ago, I also began tapering off my beta blocker (labetalol) after doing some research into my lack of endurance and talking with my doctor. Did you know a beta blocker can hammer your endurance because it shuts down your body's production of adrenaline? So when you're running, for instance, and your heart asks for some adrenaline to keep the blood oxygenated, the labetalol interrupts that process? Well, I didn't know either, until doing a bit of research. Started tapering off the beta blocker and switching to a calcium channel blocker two weeks ago, and noticed an immediate improvement in my endurance and running.

The bad news is, I haven't really dropped any weight in the last several months still. I'm within five pounds of where I was last...mmm...September--even though with my running program I'm burning about an extra 3000-4000 calories every week. I attribute it to the underactive thyroid, and my suspicion that I'm still not at the perfect dosage level. Maybe even a bit attributable to the beta blocker interfering with workouts. So I'll keep monitoring over the next month and see what happens. If I don't start dropping weight again after the thyroid's in check and the beta blocker is totally out of my system...well, we'll burn that bridge when we cross it.

Until then, I'm not getting too stressed about the weight. As I wrote before, I look at this as a bit of a challenge with my body; each time it complains and says it's not built to run long distances, I run some more. Sooner or later, the body's going to have to give up the complaining and just drop weight to make those runs easier. I'll win that argument, one way or the other.

I've begun keeping a bit better track of what I eat, too--not 100% compliant, but even if I'm missing 20% of my calories (which I certainly am not), I'm not at outrageous calorie levels. Generally about 2500 a day, and I don't want to drop a lot farther than that while I'm starting to push longer and longer runs.

So, if you see a big guy running down the street while gnawing on a pork rib, that's probably me. (The runner, not the pork rib.)

I'm thinking I may--operative word "may"--sign up for the local Shamrock 5K here in Billings in mid-March. Make it my first race, get some jitters out of the way. After that, it's on to Spokane for Bloomsday Run in May (May 2nd), and then...well, who knows? As it is, I'm angling for a half-marathon in the Montana Marathon in September. But I'm almost wondering about pushing for a half-marathon in June (both Polson and Great Falls have half-marathons that would be good candidates), then assessing where I'm at and where I want to go. I might try to do a second half-marathon at the Montana Marathon in September, or if I feel really stupid, I might actually push to train for a full Marathon. If all goes well, I'll have a half-marathon under my belt and about 14 weeks to train for a full.

But we'll burn that bridge when we cross it, too. I might get 100 yards into my first race and decide it's time to start running with pork ribs again.

In an odd way, I think the running has been an outward expression of the changes I went through during the cancer experience. Never before would I have thought of running a half-marathon, or running anywhere except to the refrigerator. And you know what? I'd likely still be more than 300 pounds, stuck on the couch while taking a beta blocker that kept me from long workouts, and well on my way to some serious heart disease.

As it is now, I'm well on the way to getting in the best shape of my life (still got a ways to go--although I've never, never been able to run as far as I'm running now). And I have cancer to thank for it. I like to think that's part of the reason why I've gone through this whole thing: to make me more aware of my own body, and my own health. In that way, cancer has changed my life in positive ways.

The other side of that, I have to honestly admit, might be a dangerous bit of bargaining with God: if I keep running, and keep improving my health, I'm making positive changes in my life. And if I"m making positive changes in my life, God will prevent a relapse. That reasoning doesn't hold water, I know, but in my heart of hearts, I do feel it's part of my motivation. I feel part of me is trying to outrun cancer as much as anything.

Still, realistically, even when/if I do have a relapse...the better health I'm in, the better off I'll be. So let's look at the whole program as proactive, preventive treatment.

Maybe I should put down the pork ribs.

So the big news is: I had my most recent PET/CT scan this week, and everything came back clear. No uptake, no lymphadenopathy (doc-speak for "swollen lymph nodes"), no nothing.

Well, that's not quite right. When I went to see my oncologist, he said "You've been running a lot, haven't you?" I told him I had, and reminded him I planned to do a half-marathon this September. He then asked if my right hip was sore. I told him it was, as a matter of fact: I'd run on a miserable banked concrete track just after Christmas, and my right hip had paid the piper for that transgression--two weeks later, it was still hurting.

He showed me the PET scan, pointed to the inflammation showing up on the PET and told me I'd aggravated my ilotibial band, which runs from the hip to the knee. "Common complication from running," he said. "Use some ice and ibuprofen."

So, it's nice to find something on a scan that can be treated with ice and ibuprofen, as opposed to, say, chemotherapy and radiation.

In an odd way, I find it comforting that the hip is lighting up on the PET scan; after all, if that mild inflammation is showing up, that means any serious activity on internal nodes would show up too, wouldn't it? If a sore hip tendon is the worst my scans have detected, well, that in itself makes the hip feel much better.

Whilst on the subject of the sore hip: I have to say it crimped my running for a few weeks. But this past week, I was able to get back to where I was before the injury. Four miles running uninterrupted, five miles total. I stand out like the proverbial sore thumb on the track at the YMCA: the 6-foot, 270 pound guy doing laps with several tracksters who are 6' 3" and about 150 pounds soaking wet. But in an odd way, I enjoy it; it's nice to be the guy who inspires others to spontaneously start singing "One of these things is not like the other..." from Sesame Street.

Yeah, five miles is a long way from 13 miles, but I still have eight months. I figure a couple more months of track running inside, working my way up to a six or seven mile base; after that, I'll switch to outside running, and start working in some intervals and such, doing some serious training. By September, I should be ready to go, I hope.

I might have to walk, crawl or otherwise drag my carcass across the finish line, but I'll finish.

No matter how much that hip hurts.

Hey, it's one of those good news/bad news things. The good news is: I know why I've been having a hard time losing weight. The bad news is: it's an underactive thyroid. Maybe even a thyroid shutting down.

This isn't exactly an out-of-the-blue kinda thing; one of the possible side effects of my Bexxar treatment is hypothyroidism, so we were watching for this specifically. In the grand scheme of things, it's just a daily pill, and easy to treat--far easier to treat than, say, lymphoma. So I've been on Syntheroid for the past week.

Doesn't Syntheroid sound like a superhero from the DC Universe?

But I digress, as I am often wont to do.

The thyroid thing isn't any big whoop for me. I'm on a low dose of the hormone, and I've been told it may take several weeks of fine tuning the dose to get everything right, but you know what? I felt a difference the very first day I popped the Syntheroid pill. Call it the placebo effect if you want, but I seriously think it made a difference in how I felt--in my mood and genral well-being, in my core body temperature (which seemed to be running low)--within a matter of a few hours.

And hey, a week later, it looks as if I may have lost a few pounds...another indicator the Syntheroid is working. (Along with all the jogging, I suppose.)

So now, I just look forward to scans at the end of the year. And by "look forward," I really mean: dread. Each minute that goes by brings me closer to my PET/CT scan...and those particular scans haven't always been so good to me. Am I truly worried I've had a recurrence? Well, I feel good, I'm doing well, I don't have any symptoms...but yeah, it's hard not to worry. After all, I didn't have any real symptoms (other than being tired) when I was first diagnosed. Who's to say I haven't relapsed in the first year, beating the odds? (I've already beat the odds with this treatment by getting hypothyroidism, after all.)

But I don't let those thoughts overtake my mind for long. Each time I worry, I take a deep breath. And then, I take a long jog.

And believe me, when I'm jogging laps at the Y, I have absolutely nothing but "please let me finish" on my mind.

All right, all right. I never really ran on beer and cigarettes in the first place.

Well, maybe some beer.

But these days, I'm running on a track. You know, one of those oval things you go around and around on, so you can get in better shape? It took me some time to get acquainted with the thing. I've been doing some cardiovascular exercise, some workouts with personal trainers at least once a week, and some walking/running. (More on that walking/running thing in a minute.)

The good news is, I've managed to drop about 30 pounds since the beginning of this year. Which is great. The bad news is, I've been stuck at that 30-pound mark the last couple months. One week, I'll lose a couple pounds; the next week, I'll gain them back. It's frustrating, for sure. That frustration, in turn, is a little bit what's made me start running. Every week my body doesn't want to lose a pound or two, I've decided I'll make it run some more. Maybe that way, it will get the message and start losing more weight.

Not exactly a scientifically or behaviorally valid approach to health, I'll admit. But I'm going with it until something better comes my way.

A few weeks ago, I hit a milestone: I ran for an entire mile without stopping. This was something I hadn't done since high school football. Then, just this past week, I hit a milestone I'd never seen before: I ran TWO miles without stopping. (Okay, jogged.) At least three days a week, I go to the YMCA, walk a few laps to warm up, then run a mile, uninterrupted. After that, I walk half a lap, then run a lap and a half until I reach four miles.

And as I said, this last week, I managed to push myself up to two miles uninterrupted, followed by the walk half-a-lap, run a lap-and-a-half routine up to four miles. When I push myself to three miles uninterrupted, I'll try to do the walk/run thing up to five or six miles. And I'll keep going from there.

My goal, you see, is to run a half-marathon. Specifically, a half-marathon in the Montana Marathon to be held in September of 2009.

Now, those who know me realize that Tony talking about running marathons is akin to Paris Hilton talking about advanced string theory. I have, you see, a body built for the couch. Definitely not built for the track. I know this, because my body keeps telling me that every time I run (well, okay, jog) around the track. But I figure, if I just keep running, my body will have no choice but to continue shedding weight. And it will have no choice but to edge closer to that half-marathon.

Why, exactly, would I want to run a half-marathon? Because it's exactly something I thought I would never, ever do. In fact, it's the exact opposite of anything I would ever want. A friend suggested biking would be less stressful on my joints, and it would. But you know what? I was a pretty avid biker in college, and I've done that. I've been on a bike a lot, even if not recently. A century ride on a bike is a huge accomplishment, but it's not really pushing me outside my comfort zone.

Running (okay, jogging) is.

Now, I've had a revelation about running. I've tried to do it before, been miserable, realized I was out of shape, and abandoned all thoughts of continuing. I've looked at the folks who do run consistently, and thought running was easy for them because they've done a lot of it, and they're in good shape.

But the thing I've realized--or at least the thing I think I've realized--is this: it never gets easy. Somehow, magically, as my endurance and fitness improved, I thought those first 10 or 12 laps (which felt like a lot of laps when I started) would start to feel like a walk in the park.

But those first 10 or 12 laps haven't become a breeze, and I think they probably aren't a breeze for anyone. The key is to push through it and keep yourself going, realize that you're going to have to work every step of the way. Once I realized that, the mental barrier about going any distance at all somewhat disappeared. And as I said, in the last month, I've worked my way up to two miles uninterrupted. By the end of the year, I hope to double that. And within another three months, double it again. (Then it's time to start running outside for six months, but we'll burn that bridge when we cross it.)

It strikes me that this revelation so appeals to me because it's a revelation about some aspects of life in general. Certainly about lymphoma. As I write this, I'm still cancer-free (as far as I know, knock on wood and all that). I'll go in for more scans at the end of this year, and deal with the anxiety that comes with them. But just as with running, I've realized: this is never going to get easy. I'm not just going to waltz in for a CT scan every six months as if I haven't a care in the world. It's scary, worrying about if, and when, your lymphoma will return. And even though I don't think about lymphoma every day (in fact, I'm happy to say I don't think about it most days), that six-month schedule puts me through a kind of mini-marathon twice a year.

But just knowing it's going to be difficult somehow makes it easier to manage, because inside, I know if I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, I'll be able to get through it. It won't be easy, but so what? It will be do-able.

And so, I'll just keep running through it.

Okay, jogging.

I've been remiss in updating this with the latest good news on the TL Hines health front: I had clear scans and blood work the beginning of July. So, no evidence of disease (which usually gets capped to No Evidence of Disease and called NED)--great news for me. I took a much-needed vacation with my family, and it was a wonderful, celebratory time.

And yet, smooth sailing physically doesn't always mean smooth sailing emotionally. In this journey, I've met many other wonderful people affected by cancer--lymphoma and other kinds--and it's hard not to agonize with them when they're in the midst of struggles. This past week, one person I met at a local support group passed away from ovarian cancer. Another author/colleague passed away from brain cancer. Two other friends I met online continue to struggle physically...one with a lymphoma relapse, and one with ongoing heart and other physical issues after treatment.

These are the times, I think, that test us so much...maybe even more so than when we are personally struggling with life-and-death issues. No, we don't have any control over a thing like cancer in our own lives; but in an odd way, we have even less control when the cancer is affecting a friend or loved one. You want so much to do something, say something, that will make it better. And yet, in spite of our medical advances, we're human after all. So much of life, and death, remains a great mystery to us. It seems unjust, unfair, unbearable.

And it is all that, really. That's part of the broken world we live in, I think. Evil exists. Not every story has a happy ending. That grates against the overcoming-all-odds, triumph-of-the-human-spirit dynamic that's so ingrained in our consciousness.

But if every story was filled only with happiness and joy, faith would be meaningless. Perseverance would be meaningless. More than that, they would cease to exist, because unending happiness (in this life) would be a mere fact of life we take for granted, in the same way we don't think much about the air we breathe. Without complete darkness, we can't understand what light is. Without suffering, we can't understand triumph.

That's what faith is about, for me. We all choose to believe what we believe. I choose to believe there is suffering and pain we can't understand right now. But one day, we will. One day, I believe, all this unimaginable evil will be put into context, because we will know unimaginable joy.

I choose to believe that, because the alternative--that all of this happens for no reason it all--is the most unimaginable thing of all.

Yesterday, I was honored to speak at our local ceremony commemorating LiveStrong day. It was a wonderful celebration, and I wanted to share the thoughts I passed along from many wonderful people I've met through a local support group.

Thank you all for being here, and for helping us mark Livestrong Day. It's a day, I think, when we can all pause and look at where we've been, and where we're going, along this road. My first steps on this particular road began in May of 2007, just a little more a year ago, when I was diagnosed with Follicular Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.

And even though I'm in remission now, and doing well, I'm still learning new things every day. Last night, our support group was talking about LiveStrong day, and what those two words--Live and Strong--mean when you put them together.

I think for me personally, it's about a choice. When we're diagnosed with cancer, or when we have a loved one who's diagnosed, we can choose to focus on the difficulties of treatment, and the pain and suffering, and the unfairness of it all. Or, we can choose to learn from the experience by taking all that energy and funneling it into something that makes us better human beings. In short, when we hear the word “cancer,” we can choose to give up and start dying--even if it's far from our appointed time--or we can choose to start living better by being free, by being happy, by being loving, and yes, by being strong.

As our support group talked about these things last night, I think we heard and shared some bits of wisdom we can all take with us, some things LiveStrong embodies, and I'd like to share a few of them.

• To live strong is to never let cancer define who you are.
• To live strong is to keep your sense of humor.
• To live strong is to accept the bad--but to embrace the good.
• To live strong is to face fear and go on anyway.
• To live strong is to never give up your vibrance or your vitality.
• To live strong is to be intentional about how your live your life.
• To live strong is to move beyond merely existing, and to open your eyes to the true beauty of life.
• To live strong is to learn about a resilient part of us that we didn't know existed.
• To live strong is to give our families and friends the strength to rise above and be our best selves.
• To live strong is to never, ever give up.

Each one of us here is on a different part of this path called cancer. Some of us, maybe, are just beginning after a recent diagnosis. Some of us have been survivors for many years, even decades. Some have had detours we didn't expect--relapses or challenges in our treatment. Some of us are here because we have a loved one fighting cancer, and we're right there beside them on that path. But for all of us, LiveStrong can be--and should be--more than just mere words. I think they can represent a goal, and an everyday commitment.

May we all continue to live strong, every step of the way.

(Side note: Here's a link to some video of the event, although my comments aren't on camera. You might, however, recognize my head floating over the right shoulder of Nancy Guenthner while she speaks.)

Charged up by two late-night cups of coffee, I've been sitting at my computer doing a bit of writing and working on my web site.

And just now, I've looked at the date.

May 2nd.

May 2nd was the day that started this whole crazy gig called lymphoma. It was the day I went in for a mild-mannered CT scan, and came out with a not-so-mild-mannered case of cancer.

No, May 2nd wasn't really one of the BIG milestone dates. Not the day I was officially diagnosed, or the day I started treatment, or the day ended treatment, or anything like that. But it still sticks in my head as the beginning of it all.

May 2nd. One year. Wow.

So what has a year taught me? Plenty of things, I suppose. The expected platitudes about family and friends and doing what you love being more important than ever. And I'm doing well on all those fronts; I'm working at home full-time, spending more time with my lovely daughter and lovely wife. So I like to think I made some positive changes based on the experience.

But I've also learned some practical things I never would have guessed, and here's perhaps the most important one: it gets better.

I'm saying this to you, the man who has just been diagnosed with DLBCL. Or you, the woman who's been told you have Follicular NHL. Or you, the husband/wife/son/mother/brother of someone who's been touched by cancer or some other terrifying-sounding disease.

It gets better.

As I said at the beginning of this entry, I've spent the last few hours working on my next book, checking some web sites, doing some research, sending emails...and really, the thought of cancer didn't cross my mind at all until I saw the date of "May 2nd" turn over at midnight. Cancer isn't the first thing I think about in the morning when I awake. It's not the last thing I think about when I'm trying to go to sleep. Many days, probably even most days, I don't think about cancer at all.

It may sound impossible if it's fresh in your mind right now, I know. When I was diagnosed, I knew, deep down inside, that I was destined to carry this weight on my shoulders for the rest of my life. I pictured myself as a cancerous version of Jacob Marley from Dickens' A Christmas Carol. Marley laboriously struggled with the chains of greed he forged in life, while I, I was certain, would just as laboriously struggle with the chains of cancer forging my own death.

But thank God that hasn't been the case. I'm just...me. I worry about the things "normal" people (meaning, I guess, people without cancer) worry about. My family, my work, my finances, my odd, obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Sure, I think about cancer, but it's not the terrifying, adrenaline-pumping adversary it once was. It's just something I have to live with. Emphasis on "live."

Make no mistake, I realize it's easy for me to feel this way because I've officially been in remission since the first of the year. If my most recent scans and blood tests weren't clear, I certainly wouldn't be so "Gee, ain't life grand?" about the whole thing.

But again, for those of you struggling after diagnosis, I want you to know that part of the reason you're so scared of this thing right now (I have many friends who call it "The Beast," and I guess that's as good a term as any) is precisely because you have these warped visions of what life with cancer is like. We all do. We see how it's portrayed on television, in magazine articles, movies, and such. The cancer "victim" is almost always heroic and valiant in the battle, but the end is always the same: the "victim" dies, right?

But I'm guessing you've probably heard that old saw about real life being nothing like the movies. People live with cancer all the time. Thousands of us. For decades. And we die of other less-terrifying things such as slips in the bathroom and old age.

I plan to be one of those people. Someday, my cancer may be back. I hope it's later rather than sooner, but that's okay. I've lived with it before. I can live with it again.