Measuring the year in love

The coming of the New Year means social media feeds are awash in posts about all folks have accomplished over the previous 365 days.

There is nothing wrong with that. I have a list of my own accomplishments from the past year to be sure.

As I reflected on my 2023, though, what came to mind weren’t the things I’d accomplished or the things I’d done.

Rather, my mind focused on specific moments across the year. Moments I can only describe with one word: love. Where I was loved or shared love with another person.

My list is neither comprehensive nor offered in numeric order.

Here, then, is 2023, my year in love:

Talking with Michael

I never met Michael Simon in person, but I got the chance to talk with him just days before he passed away from terminal colorectal cancer.

Michael was a brilliant man, a scholar of philosophy and spirituality who didn’t believe in God for much of his life and had lots of questions as he neared the end.

We were connected through Man Up to Cancer and my friend, Ryan, who lives in Denver, where Michael lived. I offered, through Facebook Messenger, to talk to Michael, if he was willing, in the hopes of allaying any fears he might have or about any grief he was feeling about his transitioning out of this life.

I’m a trained Stephen Minister and ministry leader in my church. Supporting people through life’s great transitions—loss of a loved one, end of a relationship, diagnosis of a disease, etc.—is a huge part of what we are trained to do.

We talked for quite a while that day. About God. About belief in God. About what God would think if Michael decided to use the Medical Aid in Dying medication he’d been prescribed.

I wrote about this conversation in a previous post so I won’t rehash it here. Michael texted me afterward to say that our conversation gave him and his wife, Kelli, great comfort.

In the end, Michael opted to use the MAID prescription. He passed away in the arms of his loving wife. I have no doubt he was welcomed home by a loving God.

Tears Over Broadway

I’ve have dreamt of seeing shows on Broadway for as long as I can remember. So when the opportunity came for Sarah and me to go, we jumped at the chance.

We had a beautiful, busy long weekend in New York City where we packed in four shows: Leopoldstadt, Kimberly Akimbo, Camelot and Sweeney Todd.

It was after Camelot that I had a nearly complete come apart at the joy of being with Sarah for this dream come true.

We had just watched Phillipa Soo (Eliza in Hamilton) perform as Gueneviere at Lincoln Center.

I was undone by all of it: the location, the performance, the fact that I had survived cancer and lived to see the moment.

And that Sarah and I were together to see it.

It was all so beautiful and so overwhelming.

Sarah asked me what was wrong. I tried to explain. She understood.

Tears flowed again during the opening act of Sweeney Todd, when Josh Groban and Annaleigh Ashford popped on stage to join the rest of the cast. I managed to hold it together, though, for the rest of the performance.

The entire weekend was amazing and chock full of memories. We hope to go back someday, but if we don’t we can say we got to NYC once in this life.

Gathering of Wolves

In September I hung out for a weekend with 110 guys who are cancer survivors.

The Gathering of Wolves is an annual retreat for men in the cancer community, not a small number of whom are incurable, stage 4, may be on chemotherapy, immunotherapy or some other treatment for the rest of their lives.

I love them all.

As a nearly 12-year survivor I wondered what the hell I could offer these men. My friend Jason put it simply, “you give us hope.”

More than that, I hope I give them love.

There is nothing more therapeutic, for both parties, than a long, long, bordering-on-but-not-giving-a-shit-about-awkward hug.

As a society we get too wrapped up in labels and discomfort over members of the same gender showing affection for each other.

Have you ever felt another man physically relax in your embrace because your hug is the very thing he needed at the moment you gave it?

I have.

And I can’t wait to do it again in September 2024.

The Great Pull Back

I have been a volunteer for the American Cancer Society Cancer Action Network for nearly nine years. Before that, I was on staff for twelve.

September’s Leadership Summit and Lobby Day is the biggest cancer advocacy event of the year. Nearly 700 volunteers head to Capitol Hill to ask for support for ACS CAN’s legislative agenda. The days surrounding our day at the Capitol are spent training, celebrating and planning.

I can’t remember a year when I didn’t have a role of some nature at the event. And, as a leadership volunteer for my state, I’ve felt compelled to set the example for everyone else.

This year, though, I was tired. And, major stuff was happening at home with Sarah and her mom that was practically ignoring because I was on the road or doing some advocacy thing or another.

I spent considerable time alone at LS&LD, trying to figure out when the right time would be to have “the conversation” with someone.

When the event was over, I found that opportunity when my friend Patty sat next to me in the hotel lobby. Patty and I have volunteered together for years, and she had to pull back herself at one point.

I had my chance, told her what was on my heart and, as expected, Patty was completely understanding. Our conversation led to further talks with my state staff partners, who were equally understanding.

There is so much to do in cancerland, that advocacy can sometimes feel like a job. If it’s not filling my cup, as the saying goes, I don’t want to do it.

I haven’t disappeared from ACS CAN, but I am going to be more selective about what I say yes to moving forward. I need to be more protective of my time, my heart and my soul.

Thank you, Patty, for helping my heart that day.

Answers on Repeat

Sarah has spent most of the past year at or near her mother’s beside in Johnson City, Tennessee.

She has spent five days of most weeks in Johnson City, commuting home to be in the office the other two days.

Long story short, Ruth fell and broke her femur the weekend before Christmas 2022. After months of moving between the hospital and the rehabilitation facility for various health complications (COVID, pneumonia, a urinary tract infection, need for a pacemaker), Ruth truly stabilized in August.

Dementia is a bitch, though.

She can’t walk or truly care for herself, so she remains in a nursing home. Not ideal, but she’s getting the best care possible.

And Sarah is the best caregiver.

I know this from being a care receiver during my cancer treatment journey, and I’ve seen it time and again with Ruth.

Combing Ruth’s hair, helping brush her teeth, and answering for the 100th time on any given day, “when am I going home?”

Reorienting Ruth when she gets confused and doesn’t remember where she is, or why she’s there.

Calmly, and while holding Ruth’s hand and looking her in the eyes, Sarah will explain where she is and why, and how significant progress needs to be made before going home can be considered.

It’s both heartbreaking and beautiful.

Sarah has the patience of Job.

And she’s exhausted.

She’s off the caregiver merry-go-round for a few weeks while her brother is in town.

I get the pleasure of caring for Sarah while she’s home. Even if that means not leaving the couch when she’s not working.

Whatever it takes.

I love her so much.

Prayers with Ryan

I mentioned earlier that I’m a Stephen Minister and a ministry leader in my church. As a ministry, our big event of the year is the Service of Remembrance, where we offer a gentle worship space for people who have lost loved ones during the previous year.

First Sunday of December.

I’ve delivered the sermon/homily/message several times over the years, often focused on the notion of precarity (that good and bad things can and often happen to us at the same time) and that grief is, as C.S. Lewis said, part of the deal of loving someone.

With his permission, I shared the story of my best friend, Ryan, who has stage-4 colorectal cancer, and how our friendship has developed and grown since we met.

I shared this in the context of the Fire of Remembrance at the Gathering of Wolves, where the names of men who’ve died in the past year are read aloud and memories shared.

What if one of us is reading the other guy’s name at the fire next year?

What if?

Ryan was rushed to the ER on Christmas Day. He’d become virtually unresponsive and had to be carried to the car.

An MRI revealed a cancerous lesion on his cerebellum, a metastasis from the colorectal cancer he’s been fighting. Surgery was scheduled for Wednesday.

The night before and the morning of surgery I got to talk to my friend, to say all the words, and pray with him. I thanked God for the gift of our friendship. I prayed for peace for Ryan, his wife, Emily, and their family. I prayed for the medical team. I prayed for complete healing from cancer. I mean, as long as we were asking…

This chapter has a happy ending. Ryan is home and hopefully resting. You are resting, right dude?

He’s a badass with a gnarly scar on the back of his head to prove it.

I can’t wait to hug the shit out of him when I see him next.

Love you, man.

525,600 Minutes

There are lots of other moments I’ve not listed.

Meaningful conversations with Pastor Amy, my friend and colleague Wendy, my buddy Stan, and so many others

Meetups with Man Up to Cancer guys like Bill and Matt when I travel.

Great text and Facebook Messenger chats with Theresa, Brandon and so many of my brothers from MUTC.

Laughter through tears on Zoom calls with my friends Trevor and Joe.

Impromptu FaceTime calls with my friend Boyd, who exudes joy.

Moments of so much love.

By that measure, it’s been a great year.

I hope I’ll be able to measure 2024 in as much love as 2023.