Ya Gotta Believe
Prior to the 1973 baseball season, the Mets had a 0.2% chance of making the playoffs. As summer came around, reliever Tug McGraw proclaimed, “Ya Gotta Believe,” and the Mets would miraculously go on to win the Pennant for the second time in four years.
This summer, when I would normally be echoing that familiar mantra for the 2025 version of the New York Mets, I will borrow it for something more personal and important.
Earlier this week, the pathology report came back from my surgery, and it revealed that I have cancer and it is Stage 4. What started in the colon spread to most of the lymph nodes tested and to the peritoneum (thin membrane that lines abdominal wall). In non-medical terms, it is not ideal.
The good news is that the cancer has not spread to the liver or lungs. I will be meeting with various oncologists over the next week and treatment will begin soon. I am preparing for at least 6-monhts of chemotherapy as soon as early August.
From what I can gather, the best case right now is that everything was removed in the surgery, and the chemotherapy will kill any remaining cells. If I am lucky, I will spend the rest of my life monitoring the hidden and invisible, praying my body responds well, and science continues to advance.
My surgeon told me not to “google” the pathology finding as it doesn’t capture the unique circumstances that I face, especially given my age and no other health issues. I did not listen, and I regret doing so. After an hour of googling, I wish I had avoided going down a pretty depressing rabbit hole.
I started to read academic research papers for the first time since graduate school (I do not miss those days). Then, after my head joined my heart in aching, I started searching for success stories, and thankfully, there are plenty in which I hope to add my narrative one day soon.
I can’t sugarcoat this news. This is scary. As scary as it gets. Last night, as I was kissing my girls goodnight before bed, I was on the brink of tears. Just three weeks ago, I worried so much about how they would deal with my recovery from this surgery. Now, I fear what their life will be like without me, how much I will miss out on, and if Lily, only 5, will even remember me. This is the hardest part. I try not to go there, and pray my time with them is just beginning.
What is so difficult to comprehend is that I feel fine. Of all I anticipated occurring this year, facing my own mortality was not on my 2025 Bingo card. I am trying to keep my focus on the positive which includes the best of doctors, the advantage of age and health, and a supportive community, both local and global. I also have an incredible network of people of faith “storming heaven” with their prayers.
I am blessed with some miracles already. My surgeon being one of them, who was referred to us in an unconventional way, offered an advanced procedure that found the nodule in my abdominal wall. A traditional surgery, as I was initially scheduled to have, would not have led to this discovery and it would have led to a greater challenge down the road.
The medical support, from Suzie’s work at NYU, to my cousin Larry who is an Oncologist in Connecticut, to the already countless nurses and doctors, are all angels in disguise. I am in awe of their resiliency, intelligence, and strength.
I am blessed by you. As noted before, I read your comments, emails, messages, and cards and I see 42 years of a life well-lived. I may not have the energy to reply to all of you, but know that when my cup runs empty, your love fills it right back up. Your prayers and your friendship are the greatest gift you can give to me and my family.
And, yes, I believe in a God that accompanies me and you through these trials. While I do not fully understand it, I accept it and surrender to what is. l trust in those helpers who were called by this same God to heal. I trust in the transformation that is occurring within me, praying it shines a light for others. And I trust that there is plenty of good left to come.
When I initially read the pathology report, I didn’t panic or fear. I accepted it almost immediately and felt a resolve that I will heal. This unwavering faith remains despite the difficult road ahead that doctors are beginning to describe. I ask for your continued prayers and support. I beg you to take your health seriously and to advocate for national funding for continued research related to cancer and other health-related fields.
I will continue to invite you into this journey with me, praying it unites us as we seek not only a cure for my battle, but a cure for the division that reigns in our society. I am not sure how this will happen, but I find hope in the multitude of people, from various political camps, cultures, and geographical regions, are rallying around my current scenario. There is hope to be found here that goes beyond my diagnosis. I pray it reminds us all of what matters most, despite all that is put before us to divide and distract us.
Finally, please keep praying. I am not writing my obituary, just another chapter in this unexpected season of my life. Your prayers and support keep me on the path of healing and for this, I will be forever grateful.
In 1973, we believed in the Mets. In 2025, we still believe in the team in Flushing, but I more importantly believe in the healing power of God, the miracles of modern medicine, and the gift of this network of friends and family who accompany me into and through the unknown.
The odds may not be fully in my favor, but with God and you by my side, I have plenty of reasons to believe.
