The Day I Learned My Cancer Was Coming Back
Excerpt: Radiation cystitis, hyperbaric oxygen therapy, and the strange mental gymnastics of survivorship. This is the part of cancer no one warns you about.
There are days in life that divide everything into before and after. Before, you’re worrying about normal human things: golf swing mechanics, whether your dog likes you more than your spouse, why Colorado drivers panic at a light drizzle. After, you find yourself in a strange new world where the air feels heavier, sounds are sharper, and time slows just enough to be irritating.
The day I learned my cancer was coming back hit me that way.
The PSA That Wouldn’t Behave
I had done everything right. I beat stage 4 prostate cancer once. I endured the surgery, the hormone therapy, the radiation, the endless waiting rooms filled with aquarium bubbles and old magazines no one has ever actually read. I did the follow-ups. My PSA numbers stayed low. Life gently drifted back toward normal.
I moved from Southern California to Colorado. I started golfing again. I rekindled old friendships. My wife, Janus, was thriving—running two small businesses, buying half of Aurora’s estate-sale inventory, and selling doodads online faster than I could learn what a doodad even is.
And then, during a routine test, my PSA crept upward.
Doctors call this a “biochemical recurrence.” I call it “the thing that made me sit very quietly in my car for 14 minutes staring at the steering wheel.”
It wasn’t panic. It wasn’t denial. It was more like an internal negotiation: Maybe this is a fluke. Maybe the machine hiccupped. Maybe the lab tech sneezed.
But deep down, I knew.
The Conversation No One Wants
The follow-up appointment confirmed it. My doctor walked in with that calm, practiced tone physicians use when they’re about to say something important but don’t want you to blow a gasket and start rearranging the room.
“We’re seeing some activity again.”
Such a small sentence. Such a large impact.
He talked about treatment paths. He talked about advanced imaging. He talked about androgen deprivation therapy—ADT—also known as “testosterone-killing drugs,” which sounds like something a supervillain would inject into a comic-book hero.
He mentioned an androgen-receptor inhibitor, which I learned is basically the bouncer standing at the door of every cell saying, “No testosterone allowed in the club tonight.”
Then he talked about timing, options, next steps.
I nodded. I asked two or three questions that probably made no sense. I left with a folder, two printouts, and the distinct feeling I should lie down in a cool, dark room.
The Ten-Pill Mornings
I went from a guy who took vitamins to a man who could run a small pharmacy out of his kitchen drawer. Ten pills every morning—ten! If you put them in a bowl and added milk, it would qualify as breakfast.
If it weren’t for Medicare Part D, the cost of these medications would have been staggering—north of $70,000 in a single year. I paid a tiny fraction of that.
And this is the part no one warns retirees about:
One day you’re golfing and tying flies.
The next, you’re on specialty drugs that cost more than a used Honda.
If I could give a PSA more important than the medical one, it’s this:
Buy Medicare Part D. Even if you think you’ll never need it. You might. And when that day comes, you’ll be grateful you were prepared.
The Emotional Whiplash
The hard part wasn’t the treatment. It wasn’t the pills. It wasn’t the side effects—though losing testosterone at my age turned me into a walking Hallmark movie. I cried at commercials. I cried at dog videos. I cried at one of my own jokes, which, to be fair, was pretty good.
The hard part was the mental shift.
You start scanning your life differently. You look at time differently. Every plan gets filtered through a new lens:
How will I feel by then?
Will I still be on this medication?
Will I still be here?
I wasn’t afraid of dying. I was afraid of not really living. Afraid of letting fear shrink the edges of my life until all I had left was test results and appointment reminders.
And then Colorado, in its own odd way, saved me again.
Finding My Feet in the Rockies
There’s something about mountains that quiet the mind. Something about big sky, fresh air, and friends who play golf like it’s their personal Olympics. Something about dogs pulling you down sidewalks, trout rising in alpine lakes, and the crisp honesty of a Colorado morning.
Life at altitude does not let you stay small.
I kept golfing. I kept fishing. I kept laughing with friends who understood that a joke, well-timed, can be medicine. I kept writing, because the strange truth is that survivorship makes things sharper—colors brighter, moments heavier, gratitude louder.
Cancer was back, but so was I.
The Treatments That Tested Me
Radiation cystitis wasn’t fun. Being told I needed 20 hyperbaric oxygen treatments wasn’t thrilling. Spending hours in a tube breathing pressurized oxygen wasn’t exactly on my retirement bingo card.
But here’s what I learned:
You can get used to anything.
You can adapt to anything.
You can survive more than you think.
After the tenth session, something shifted. My mind quieted. My body mended. My fear deflated—not gone, but tamed, like a dog that finally stops barking at the mailman.
A New Kind of Strength
People love to talk about “fighting cancer” like it’s a wrestling match. But survivorship is rarely about strength in the traditional sense. It’s about:
Humility
Patience
Letting people help you
Finding humor in ridiculous moments
Choosing life every single day
It’s not heroic. It’s human.
Life After the Call
If you’re expecting a dramatic ending where I declare victory and ride off into a Colorado sunset, that’s not real life.
My cancer story is ongoing. I monitor it. I treat it. I live with it.
But I also:
Fish every chance I get
Play golf with friends who make me laugh
Write essays that keep me grounded
Love my wife for her courage and her chaos
Appreciate Colorado for giving me a second (and third) chance at joy
The day I learned my cancer was coming back divided my life into before and after.
But here’s the twist:
After has turned out to be deeper, richer, and more meaningful than before ever was.
And for that—for all of it—I’m grateful.
