I've known several people who have died from cancer, recovered from it, or lingered somewhere in between for what I can only describe as an embarrassingly long time. I’ve also been fighting cancer myself, with the help of all of my tireless heroes in the medical profession, for four years now.

At first, I thought there was a good chance I’d die pretty quickly. The tumor, nearly the size of a tennis ball, had blocked my first colonoscopy. They had to cut that part of my colon out before they could see the rest of it. Surgery revealed that the cancer had metastasized to my liver, and I was diagnosed with stage IV colorectal cancer. My first oncologist said that with chemotherapy, he could add as much as a year to whatever time I otherwise had left.

I felt so bad for my wife in her impending grief that I told her she could start dating again, just so she would not be left completely alone when I passed. I know that sounds weird and borderline inappropriate. My first instinct as a husband is not to encourage my wife to move on from me! But it’s excruciating to realize you can’t support the person you love the most while she is going through that much pain.

The trauma of cancer is felt by loved ones very keenly, and in some ways, it’s even harder for them. As a loved one, they’re scared too, but they have to “be strong” for the person fighting for their life. It’s absolutely gut wrenching. But I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know, my wife did not start dating. I share this embarrassing detail as an example of how bad it was for us. If it’s very bad for you, I understand.

I often marvel at the incredibly hearty people we have in this world. Strong people, who make great soldiers, first responders, and medical professionals. I am not one of those people. I’m a grown-assed man with the hollow bones of a bird and the fragile ego of a tiny dog. If I can offer myself as an example of anything, it’s that even I found a way to get through this.

Having cancer brought me to several counterintuitive realizations. Some were paradoxically harsh, yet comforting. For example, cancer felt like it interrupted my life, but it didn’t. I just had to broaden my understanding of what life is. The world is full of happiness, but also sadness. Some things in life are great, and some terrible. Sometimes it gets so bad you can hardly believe it. I remember telling my parents, who were visiting to help me after surgery, that the only limit on how painful life can be is death itself. But here’s the part I find comforting: There is nothing broken in the cosmos. This is just the way it works. You are still living your life. Nothing has been interrupted. You may die young or old, but we all die of something, sooner or later. Unless we die very young, we all lose loved ones. The experience you’re having, in every moment, is what life is.

I remember as a new cancer patient thinking about my former self before cancer, wandering around the mall, counting calories at Wetzel’s, honestly perplexed about what shoes to buy. Probably happy enough. For a while after my cancer diagnosis, I longed to get back to the everyday--those routine activities that took up space in my life that were so mindless and familiar, unencumbered by treatment or discomfort or Death sitting at my table. Waiting. And yet, my own forced detour from that comfortable, well-worn path changed me in surprising ways. I ultimately found I was not in such a hurry to get back to all of that after all.

At one point, I needed to regain some weight after the nausea of chemotherapy had kept me malnourished for a while. During a break in my treatment, I finally got my appetite back, and food tasted much better than usual. For breakfast each morning, I prepared a very rich, opulent meal with plenty of fattening ingredients. It was an omelet with sausage, bell pepper, sharp cheddar cheese, onions, and tomato with well-buttered sourdough toast and fresh-squeezed orange juice. The meal was so phenomenal that I made it four days in a row, and for the first three days, it was amazing. But on the fourth day, I didn’t even want to finish it. I had reached the limit.

That was about the time I started to realize that mortality can be seen as a gift.

The bad things about being sick are obvious. But the comfort of unremarkable good health had lulled me to sleep on my feet. I realized how the routine of it can make one day bleed into another.

The second day after my liver surgery, my doctor said it was important that I get up and moving. So there I am with this amazing physical therapist, managing all my various new “appendages” as he helps me down the hall of the hospital wing. We have my IV tree, the “pee” bag from my catheter, a tube leading from my liver to a rubber vessel to collect excess fluid which I’m carrying in a fanny pack, some localized pain relief gadget which also interfaces with my surgery wound, and a bunch of electrical wiring monitoring my vital signs. Suddenly, I’m nauseous. Without missing a beat, as we continue to walk down the hall, my new best friend gets this plastic tray under my chin just as I start to throw up. In that moment, I’m blindsided with awe by how good at his job this man is, and I just start laughing.

And in that laughter, I understand that I’m going to be okay, even if I’m not going to be okay.

When you get cancer, it’s natural to focus on whether or not you’re going to live. I practically shudder when I think about how I tortured myself with that one. But maybe it’s the wrong question.

I used to anticipate death as the ultimate defeat. I imagined trying to hang on as long as possible, fearing the loss of my loved ones, the loss of myself. I imagined coming to the last of my strength, dissolving into sadness and despair, and then nothing. But I now see that it won’t be like that at all. Along the way, I became aware of myself as something more than I had realized. More indomitable. Less vulnerable, and yet more sensitive.

In the end, that invisible brush will add its final strokes to me and make me a masterpiece. And in that last moment, I will take a knee and bow, and be knighted by the Majestic as my spirit flies into oblivion.

What happens after this life, if anything, is above my pay grade, so to speak. But I believe in life. I believe in the path that brought me to this point. My life has been a journey up until now, and even if I’m dying in this moment, that journey is not yet over.

Let me encourage you to enjoy the good parts. Endure the bad. Continue your journey to the very end.

Believe that it’s going somewhere. Oh, it definitely is.

Matt Reagan is the founder of several enterprises that have provided jobs, training, and opportunity to immigrants, former inmates, and people in recovery. He has worked as a writer, a photographer, and a cinematographer. As a one-time medical naysayer, he now jokingly refers to himself as a hypochondriac.

USC Norris Cancer Survivorship Advisory Council Blog provides a broad range of opinions which do not necessarily represent the opinion of the USC Norris Comprehensive Cancer Center. This and all information related to cancer, cancer treatment and healthcare should be discussed with your physician.