Emotional Library
Fear, faith, sleepless nights, and what pulled me through the darkest moments. Not a clinical guide — just what I actually lived through.
I’m going to be honest with you about the mental side of this — not because I have a degree in it, but because I lived it, and I think that counts for something.
Fear and anxiety — what it actually looked like
I wasn’t afraid of the treatment. I knew it was part of the process to get better. I wasn’t afraid of not being able to provide for Barb — we’ve been blessed and I was comfortable there. What I was afraid of — the thing that sat heavy on my shoulders every single day — was the thought of leaving Barb and the girls behind. That one I can’t sugarcoat. It’s the hardest thing to carry.
What helped me was flipping the numbers. Somebody hears sixty percent survival rate and thinks about the forty percent. I heard sixty percent and thought — that’s better odds than the other side. You know how people look at a sixty percent chance of rain and say it’s going to be a miserable day? I look at that and say there’s a forty percent chance of sunshine. We’re in good shape. It’s all in how you look at things.
The fear of recurrence doesn’t go away when treatment ends. Even today, as my tongue heals, I’m watching for changes. I research it out, check with my team, and most of the time it’s part of healing. But you’re always watching. I’d rather you hear that from me now than be blindsided by it later.
Sleep — or the lack of it
It wasn’t insomnia exactly. It was just restless. No comfort, couldn’t settle, couldn’t find any real sleep. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and my mind would start running. For me those late nights weren’t filled with dread so much as memory — Barb and I on a cruise, taking the kids to the Florida Keys, childhood things. Mostly I just reminisced about days gone by and tried to get back to sleep.
The mental battle of not being able to eat
There’s something that messes with your head when people around you are eating fried chicken, a cheeseburger, comfort food — and you’re sitting there with pureed soup or a box of Boost. It wears on you. I won’t pretend it doesn’t.
Here’s what reframed it for me: I wasn’t fighting to eat what I wanted. I was fighting to avoid a feeding tube. That was my line in the sand. Period. End of story. Once I put it that way in my head, eating stopped being about enjoyment and became about survival.
What pulled me through the darkest moments
Pure faith. Prayer. Lots of it. Philippians 4:13. Psalm 23. And the Serenity Prayer — my daughter Pam got it for me, framed, and it sits on the drop leaf table in our hallway. Every time I walk past coming out of the bedroom, I see it. Still there. Still a daily reminder.
My faith isn’t the kind that pretends everything is fine. It’s the kind that says I don’t fully understand what’s happening, but I’m not walking through it alone. That anchor held when nothing else did.
I’ll tell you what I told myself on the hard nights: I look forward to the day I stand before Jesus face to face. But I am in absolutely no way, shape, or form in a hurry for that day to get here. I’ve got Barb. I’ve got my girls. I’ve got reasons to fight.
My fight was for survival. One day, one meal, one minute at a time. And if you’re in the middle of it right now — that’s enough. Just make it to the next minute. Then the next one after that.