I had created a set of puzzles for a series of activities when my wife and I first started dating. Each puzzle, when assembled, would reveal a set of clues pertaining to the date’s activity. Some were better than others. Each was curated as something I thought Beth would enjoy. Instead of dinner and a movie, I planned a series of dates that would allow us to converse and get to know one another while doing some other enjoyable activity. The clues provided a general overview of the activity, but not every detail. I wanted the actual activity to be a surprise.

It turns out, she wasn’t wild about surprises.

One of the activities involved a pottery store where you could select a piece, sit at a table, and paint the piece to your liking (presuming you’ve got the ability). The store then glazes and fires the pottery to finish the piece. In my mind this was great. The odds of a subsequent date increased if you have to return to pick up the pottery from the previous date. For this particular date, Beth knew that we would be painting and that I would arrive to pick her up mid-morning.

I walked up the steps to her parents’ house, rang the doorbell, and waited for the door to open. Beth’s mom opened the door and said that Beth would be down in a moment. Soon, Beth came down the stairs with plastic totes in each hand. Each tote was filled with brushes, tempura paints, sponges, and other supplies.

Puzzled, I questioned why she was bringing boxes. The clues revealed that she needed to dress appropriately to paint. Nothing was said about bringing supplies.

I learned a few valuable lessons that day. Beth likes to be prepared. Surprises also make her nervous because of the chance she could be ill-prepared. I thought the mystery would be alluring. She found it somewhat stressful.

The plan ultimately worked. We dated for several months before getting engaged on March 23, 2008. We were married on August 1, 2009. We just celebrated seventeen years of marriage by taking our five children to the lake for a few days.

WARNING: You May Not Be Ready

I once saw an amusing custom-made warning label on a piece of electrical equipment. It read: “Warning: Not only will this kill you, it will hurt a lot the entire time you are dying.” The message was clear. Don’t mess around with this if you do not know what you’re doing.

Every now and then I encounter a prayer that should come with a similar warning label.

“Warning: God will answer this prayer. You’re probably not ready for what that entails.”

Perhaps you’ve already heard this message. How many have said that we should prepare to be humiliated if we pray for humility? Or that we should expect things to try our patience when we pray to grow in patience.

I recently came across a prayer that should come with such a warning.

“Lord, we give You permission today to use us in any way You desire. And please give us the grace to see Your hand in action that we can give You all the glory.”

The sentiment is nice. It’s also somewhat familiar.

But are we prepared for God to answer it? More importantly, are we prepared for Him to answer it in any way He sees fit?

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I Surrender* (Maybe…)

It’s fairly common to be asked for a biography when I speak at conferences, events, and at parishes. I have a few different variations of my speaker bio, but they all begin in the same manner:

At his core, Adam Wright is a Roman Catholic striving to live the universal call to holiness through his vocation as a husband and father of five. Everything else is secondary.

In my previous post The Unrepeatable Saint, I shared a quote from Servant of God Michelle Christine Duppong.

“…we forget that God is calling each of us to follow Him and carry out the mission He gives us in a unique way.” -Michelle Duppong

I see my mission as a call to be a holy husband of Beth and to be a holy father to our children. When I successfully live out my calling, my faith stands at the center of everything I do and directs the actions of my day.

For many years, much of my prayer focused on discerning my vocation. I loved the idea of being a husband and father. I could also see myself being a priest. I attended several come and see weekends at our archdiocesan seminary and with various religious orders.

Those prayers shifted in the aisle of a grocery store on November 12, 2007. That was the moment I knew I had fallen in love with Beth and wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

The prayers changed forever on August 1, 2009, when we stood at the foot of the altar before the Church and her minister and entered into the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony. My prayer is now expressed in these simple words:

“Lord, how are You calling me to live my vocation today?”

Lately, though, I’ve come to see a flaw in this prayer. I am leaving myself an opportunity to say no if I do not like His response.

Lord, how are you calling me to live my vocation today?

Well, I’d really like you to cancel your plans and spend the evening volunteering at the soup kitchen.

No. I meant at home with Beth and the kids. Like a family rosary or something.

That would be a good thing to do, but you’re missing the point. I want your family to exemplify Christian service.

Oh! We can do that! They’re looking for volunteers for an event at our parish. I’ll sign us up for a few shifts after I watch the new episode of my show that drops tonight.

[It’s at this point I imagine my guardian angel would facepalm if angels were corporeal beings.]

A Daily Permission Slip

Most of the schools our children have attended have been located near parks. We would receive a permission slip at the beginning of the school year authorizing the teachers to go on walking field trips at any point during the school day for the entirety of the school year. Essentially, the school was asking for blanket permission to disrupt the daily routines of the classroom so that the students might benefit from some fresh air and sunshine as needed. The children loved these diversions.

We never hesitated to sign these permission slips.

Why am I so hesitant to offer the same permission to God on a daily basis? Why do I sometimes shudder at the thought of Him taking me away from the familiar and sending me out into a foreign mission?

There’s a world of difference between choosing from a list of options and volunteering to go where needed. The former is somewhat comfortable. The latter can be downright terrifying.

The Grace to See Your Hand in Action

I must admit, I do enjoy the times when God grants the request in the second half of this prayer: “and please give us the grace to see Your hand in action that we can give You all the glory.” But I must also admit that my reasons have been somewhat self-serving. I was seeking something else.

I wanted to know that my gift of self was making a difference.

Perhaps you’ve heard the Latin phrase “ad majorem Dei gloriam” (“to the greater glory of God”). I was first introduced to this phrase in my freshman year at a Jesuit secondary school. Every prayer would end with the words, “We dedicate all of our thoughts, words, and actions to the greater glory of God.”

Are we doing things for the greater glory of God or the greater glory of ourselves?

Would we be willing to keep offering permission for the Lord to use us even if, and especially when, He does not permit us to see His hand in action?

There have been many times in my life when God has granted the grace to see His hand in action. Many of these moments have been quite edifying. I’ve also been graced to see Him at work through the actions of others. Seeing Him at work has helped build the trust I need to offer my day to Him. But is the knowledge that I am seeking to do His will enough motivation for me to give permission for Him to use me without any promise of consolation?

“Lord, teach me to be generous,
to serve you as you deserve,
to give and not to count the cost,
to fight and not to heed the wounds,
to toil and not to seek for rest,
to labor and not to look for any reward,
save that of knowing that I do your holy will.”
-Ignatian Prayer for Generosity

Leave the Superfluous at Home

Beth and I had a good laugh the other night when I shared that I was using the story of our painting adventure for this post. She reminded me that I told her we were going to paint and I never told her that she would not need any supplies. She also reminded me that it’s prudent to be prepared for what may come.

Truth be told, I’m not much different from my wife in this regard. Whether it’s packing for vacation, preparing gear for a band gig, or heading out to do a remote broadcast, I’m always packing a bag of “just in case” supplies. Sure, the flashlight and multi-tool have come in handy a number of times, but most of what I pack ends up becoming extra weight that I did not need to carry.

Am I prepared for God to use me?

Perhaps this is the most frightening part of giving our Lord blanket permission to use us in any way He desires. I’m afraid that I am ill-prepared for the task.

For instance, I am a college dropout. I’ve long struggled with this reality. Most every job in the Church that involves catechesis, evangelization, or pastoral ministry requires a bachelor’s degree or higher. Fear of inadequacy has kept me from applying for positions that I’m sure I would have excelled if a degree was not a prerequisite.

It has also been tempting to look at my recent health struggles as a sign of insufficiency. Sure, I may have the knowledge and vision to do something, but do I have the energy needed for the task?

Time has been a great teacher and healer as I’ve confronted these fears.

I cannot be prepared for every possible scenario that I may encounter today. I don’t have the mental bandwidth or the physical energy to carry the excess supplies. But I can prepare for the things I know I will encounter. I can prepare to be a husband and father. I can prepare my radio program. I can prepare for the service I give to my parish. I can begin each day by striving to do these well. And if God calls me to serve Him in some other capacity today, I can trust that He will provide the necessary supplies.

“Lord, I give You permission today to use me in any way You desire with confidence that You will supply all that is needed for the task. And please give me the grace to see Your hand in action that I can give You all the glory. And when I cannot see Your hand… please give me the grace to trust You anyway.”

If these reflections are helping you seek God in the ordinary circumstances of your own life, I’d be grateful if you’d subscribe and join me.

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And if you know someone else who might be brave enough to pray this prayer, please share this reflection with them. Warning label included.

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The score was tied. It was the last chance to score a run.

I stepped up to the frisbee that we used as a makeshift home plate, lifted the wiffle ball bat, and pointed towards the neighbor’s pool on the other side of the chain link fence. My brother threw his best pitch and I clobbered the ball in a way not seen since Ham Porter smacked one over the fence in 1993.

It’s a familiar scene for any young boy of my generation who loved to play baseball. We all wanted to be the hero. We all wanted to point over the fence the same way Babe Ruth did in the stories of our youth and then hit the game-winning home run.

We dreamed that we could become legendary, just like our heroes, and that stories would be told for eternity about unbelievable victories against insurmountable odds.

I’ll never forget some of the greats that I’ve been privileged to see over the years thanks to my hometown St. Louis Cardinals. There was the record-setting duo of Yadier Molina and Adam Wainwright, Albert Pujols, Willie McGee, David Freese’s game 6 home run in the 2011 World Series, and let’s not forget the 2006 and 2011 World Series championship teams. I’ll never forget watching “The Wizard” Ozzie Smith, the best shortstop of all time. They were all greats.

Any debate about the greatest Cardinal to ever play the game would certainly involve Stan “The Man” Musial. Former MLB Commissioner Ford Frick rightly called him “baseball’s perfect warrior” and “baseball’s perfect knight.”

But who was the greatest? That question has been the subject of numerous heated conversations among everyone from young boys to old men who love the game. We all had a favorite and we would all die on that hill defending our choice for “the greatest.”

The “Greatest…”

A recent Gospel reading made me think of these fierce debates from my childhood.

“The disciples approached Jesus and said, ‘Who is the greatest in the Kingdom of heaven?’” (Mt 18:1)

Are we shocked that the disciples would debate who was the greatest? Would we be surprised if they turned to the Lord in hopes that He would confirm their choice and set them above the rest?

Much like my Cardinals, the saints offer us plenty of candidates that could be given the honor. There is no shortage of saints we could emulate just as we did our childhood heroes when we stepped onto the baseball diamond.

But Jesus does not go into that in his response. He offers a simple answer instead: “Amen, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the Kingdom of heaven. Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the Kingdom of heaven.”

It’s a pretty clear calling. Become like a child, receive Jesus, and become a saint!

Imitating Greatness

For the past few months, I have been focused on the upcoming beatification of Venerable Servant of God Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen. Aside from the fact that it will be a historic day in the life of the Church in the United States, it is a day I have been looking forward to for quite some time. A native son of Peoria, Illinois, will be declared “Blessed Fulton J. Sheen,” the penultimate step before becoming a canonized saint.

I have long been drawn to the preaching of Archbishop Sheen. I once purchased a DVD of his final Good Friday reflection (you can now watch the video on YouTube). I watched it several times in a row, finding new insights with every viewing. Before long, I started listening to more and more of his talks. I would watch clips and episodes of his television program “Life Is Worth Living.” His preaching was passionate, firm, accessible, and timeless. Several decades have passed since his death, but his words still resonate today.

My fondness for Archbishop Sheen has grown in the last few years. He was a pioneer of broadcasting the Catholic faith on the radio. I host a daily morning-drive show on Catholic radio. He hosted a television show where he presented the faith. I have appeared in several videos online conversing with radio guests to share the faith. I write here on Substack. He wrote sixty-six books. We have a lot in common. I would love to become a Blessed like him.

But make no mistake. I’m no Fulton Sheen. And that’s okay.

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The Call to Sainthood

I recently read a passage from Radiating Joy, a compilation of writings and talks by Servant of God Michelle Christine Duppong (available at michelleduppongcause.org/merchandise). She wrote:

“You were made to be a saint… I want to remind you that there’s no doubt in God’s mind that you CAN do it! He made you for it. The only way you can get to heaven is if you are a saint.

But, isn’t it true that at times when we read some of the stories of the saints, we can get a bit discouraged thinking we have to be just like them and do the things that they did in order to be among the favored ones of God?” (Radiating Joy p. 75)

Well isn’t that the truth?

I strive to be a good husband and father, but I don’t know if I could drop everything and whisk my family to another country on the advice of an angel in a dream. We’re trying to lead a holy family, we often seem to fail.

I work to make an impact through my speaking and writing. I don’t think St. Philip Neri, St. John Henry Newman, Mother Angelica, or Archbishop Sheen need to worry about me eclipsing them on the “must read” or “must watch” lists.

From the outset of my cancer journey, I’ve hoped to imitate the grace and virtue Michelle Duppong showed through her suffering. But as I’ve come to know more about her suffering and her story, it’s clear that she endured far worse than I have to this point and has impacted far more people than I imagine I have so far.

The list goes on. Michelle was correct. It’s discouraging to think of my shortcomings compared to their stories. If comparison is the lens through which we measure greatness, they certainly would be “among the favored ones of God” while I would be on the outside looking in.

But Michelle has more to say to us.

“…we forget that God is calling each of us to follow Him and carry out the mission He gives us in a unique way. We shouldn’t and can’t judge our holiness by comparing ourselves to others…God is giving each of us the grace we need to be holy in the everyday, ordinary tasks of our lives.” (Radiating Joy p. 75)

It is worth repeating. We have a universal call to holiness. We are all called to follow Him. No exceptions. To be a saint is to be holy. This is our mission.

The Unrepeatable You

Think about this for a moment.

Of all the people that have ever existed, there has never been and will never be another you.

There may be others like you. You might have the same personality traits as someone else. A famous celebrity may look like your twin. But no matter the similarities, no one else in all of time will live the life you have lived in the way you have lived yours.

God’s desire for your sanctity is not a generality. His love for you is deeply personal and intimate. He wants you, specifically by name, to become a saint!

At your baptism, God claimed you to be His. He brought you into a covenantal relationship with Him. The stain of original sin was removed from your soul. His sanctifying grace was infused into your soul so that you could enter the Kingdom of Heaven at the end of this earthly pilgrimage and be with Him for eternity.

While there will be similarities and common traits shared among the saints, your success or failure does not depend on how much you imitated Archbishop Sheen or Michelle Duppong. Your success or failure depends on one thing: the presence of God’s sanctifying grace in your soul at the moment of death. If it’s there, you’ll go to heaven. If it’s not, you won’t.

Each and every one of us is free to reject God’s gift of sanctifying grace. We are free to choose sin over grace.

As my friend Fr. Wade Menezes, CPM, of the Fathers of Mercy likes to say, “Without God, I can’t. Without me, God won’t.” (a paraphrase of St. Augustine)

In other words, we can choose to reject sanctifying grace. We are free to turn away from our call to holiness. He will not force an eternity with Him upon us against our will.

Conclusion

At the end of all things, it won’t matter if you preached with the eloquence of Fulton Sheen. You won’t be judged in comparison to St. Thérèse of Lisieux or St. Teresa of Calcutta. The frequency of your bilocation and height of your levitations won’t be a factor.

Every virtue practiced by every saint has always been a response to the gift of God’s love.

What is your response?

Will you hold onto the gift of His sanctifying grace? Will you make a return to Him when you choose sin at the cost of eternity? Will you be the saint He is calling YOU to be?

IMPORTANT NOTE: There are many things the Church teaches to be gravely sinful. We can know that some action is gravely sinful and freely choose to do it anyway. This is called mortal sin and these sins wound us in such a way that we lose sanctifying grace in our souls. We lose eternal life in Heaven and are subjected to the pains of Hell for eternity when we lose God’s gift of sanctifying grace. Nothing we can do will restore His sanctifying grace once we lose it.

That said, God loves you beyond measure. He sent His Son to become like us in all things but sin so that we could be saved from our sins, including the worst mortal sins. Jesus has given us the Sacrament of Reconciliation as the ordinary means by which sanctifying grace lost through mortal sin is restored. All that is required of us is a humble and contrite heart that seeks Him in the Sacrament of Reconciliation. We own and admit our sins, confess grave sins by number and kind (since our last confession), make an act of contrition, and do whatever penance is assigned by the priest. The priest, through the ministry of the Church and acting in the person of Christ, grants us pardon and peace before absolving us of our sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Sanctifying grace is restored in our souls through this beautiful Sacrament.

The talk itself begins with and draws from St. John Henry Newman’s meditation, “The Mission of My Life.” The talk concludes with a simple directive: be holy.

We’ve all been created to do some definite service for God. We will only do it well if we strive to be holy.

If you find something of value in my talk, please know it was a grace given by the Holy Spirit. It wasn’t the talk I originally planned to give, but it is the one I was guided to in prayer.

The Mission of My Life

God has created me to do Him some definite service. He has committed some work to me which He has not committed to another. I have my mission. I may never know it in this life, but I shall be told it in the next. I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection between persons. He has not created me for naught. I shall do good; I shall do His work. I shall be an angel of peace, a preacher of truth in my own place, while not intending it if I do but keep His commandments. Therefore, I will trust Him, whatever I am, I can never be thrown away. If I am in sickness, my sickness may serve Him, in perplexity, my perplexity may serve Him. If I am in sorrow, my sorrow may serve Him. He does nothing in vain. He knows what He is about. He may take away my friends. He may throw me among strangers. He may make me feel desolate, make my spirits sink, hide my future from me. Still, He knows what He is about.

-St. John Henry Newman

A Personal Invitation

When I began writing on CaringBridge at the beginning of my illness, I thought I was simply documenting an unexpected chapter in my life. Over time, it has become something much more. It has become one of the primary ways I can share what God is teaching me—not only with friends and family, but with readers around the country and, to my surprise, around the world.

As many of you know, my health continues to be uncertain. I still gratefully accept invitations to speak whenever I am able, but travel has become more physically demanding than it once was. Every invitation requires prayerful discernment, and there are some opportunities I simply cannot say yes to.

That’s one of the reasons I’ve committed to continuing this work on Substack.

A talk shared with a room of one hundred people can now reach thousands through a written reflection or a recorded presentation. Even on the days when my body limits where I can go, God continues to open doors through the written word. In many ways, this publication has become my widest mission field.

Meanwhile, life at home continues to move forward. This fall our second child will begin high school, bringing with it another substantial tuition commitment. As our children grow, so do the ordinary responsibilities and expenses of family life.

From the beginning, Beth and I have tried to approach this ministry with open hands. The story we are sharing ultimately belongs to the Lord. We have simply been entrusted with telling it faithfully. We are adamant that we will freely go where we are able, accepting only that which is freely offered. We trust that God will provide through the generosity of those who believe in this work.

If these reflections have encouraged your faith, I would invite you to consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Whether you choose $5 a month, $50 a year, or another amount, your subscription helps sustain our family’s ministry. It makes it possible for me to continue writing, recording talks, saying yes to speaking invitations when I am able, and sharing God’s story with people I may never have the opportunity to meet in person.

If a paid subscription isn’t possible, I completely understand. Sharing a post, recommending this publication to a friend, and praying for our family and this ministry are all meaningful ways to participate in what God is doing.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for praying. Thank you for walking with us. Every time you read a reflection, share a post, or encourage someone else to subscribe, you become part of the story that God continues to write through this ministry.

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The bishop was already kneeling on the step of the sanctuary when I entered. I was early. The other retreatants would not arrive for another fifteen minutes. I had difficulty settling into the silence. Yet, there the bishop knelt motionless, unfazed by the clinking metal or the creak of the floorboards. The sacristan whispered something into the bishop’s ear. A moment later he stood up and began leading us in a time of prayer and adoration.

To those who knew the bishop, nothing recounted above would be a surprise. He was renowned for his personal holiness and love of our Lord in the Holy Eucharist. Many of us were inspired by his example and strove for the same level of depth in our prayer.

If you're new here, welcome! This reflection begins a new chapter in my writing. My previous series, Don't Waste Your Suffering, tells the story of God's faithfulness throughout my cancer journey. You can begin reading it here.

Don't Waste Your Suffering

Lost In Prayer

Have you ever been lost in prayer? I imagine that the bishop was absorbed in his prayer that evening. We often use that term in a positive sense. We strive to be so incredibly focused on our prayer that we lose sight of all that is unfolding around us. Distractions cease. We are blissfully unaware of the passage of time. Our sole focus is the Lord.

One of the great blessings of suffering has been the focus and clarity it has brought to prayer. I often recall the story of Holy Week in 2025 as I prepared for neurosurgery. Beth and I attended Mass at our parish on Tuesday of that week (the morning before my surgery). My gaze was fixed on the crucifix as I silently asked God why He would permit the brain mass and surgery that awaited me.

The same could be said about the night after I received my NG tube following my liver surgery. The pains of recovery made it difficult to get out of bed. I spent the night reluctant to move, unable to sleep, and lying awake in bed. The quiet of the floor was sometimes breached by the sound of a monitor beeping or an IV pump alarming, but a certain peace permeated the heaviness of the moment. My mind turned once more to ask God why He had permitted these circumstances.

It is easy to look back at both of these moments and recognize the gift it was to be lost in prayer amidst the turmoil of the moments. That said, I cannot help but ask: was the turmoil the reason it was easy to become lost in those prayers? The focus of those moments went beyond what I would consider my “baseline” focus in prayer.

I don’t pretend to know what was going through the bishop’s mind that evening in the chapel, but I still look back to that moment as an example of a focus I would like to regularly maintain in my times of prayer.

In Conversation with God

It is fairly common for Beth to text me throughout the day when we are both at work. She will ask how things are going and give a brief check-in. I often respond with how I am feeling in that moment, what I am dealing with at work, and what I am looking forward to when I get home. It’s a quick situation report that takes place throughout the day.

There is a particular aspect of prayer that mirrors this. I will take a few moments for a quick situation report with God.

“Lord, here’s what’s going on. This is how I feel. I hope that this is the outcome.”

But in these moments there is another question that is added at the end of the report.

“Can You help me to see how You are calling me to love You through this situation?”

“For me, prayer is a surge of the heart; it is a simple look turned toward heaven, it is a cry of recognition and of love, embracing both trial and joy.”

-St. Thérèse of Lisieux (Manuscrits autobiographiques, C 25r.)

Renewed Anxiety & Frustration

I have encountered a certain anxiety in recent weeks accompanied by a renewed frustration.

When new tumor growth was found earlier this year in February, the plan recommended by my medical team was to continue “active surveillance.”

My most recent scans show potential growth in one of the tumors; though it could be within the margin of error for measurement. My labs looked good with the exception of one test. A lab that looks for excess serotonin in my system came back “high.”

I spoke with my oncologist about these results. He was not alarmed by them.

The measured growth could easily be attributed to the position of a computer mouse. The “high” test result was above the clinical threshold by one tenth of a milligram. He often sees results 100 milligrams above the threshold.

Active surveillance would continue until a new round of scans and labs are obtained later this month. The results will help guide what happens next.

The scans and tests are only part of the equation. Exhaustion has increased since my last appointment. There have also been increased episodes of flushing and hot flashes. They could be an indicator that something is happening below the surface.

This is where anxiety and frustration come into play.

“Do the increased symptoms mean there is active tumor growth? How fast could the tumors be growing? Should I be worried?”

The doctors have told me that I should not be worried at this point. The only lab result outside of a normal range is only marginally high. The scans have not shown anything that would indicate aggressive, rapid tumor growth.

Therein lies the frustration.

I find it incredibly frustrating when the data does not support the experience. My symptoms would easily be explained had my lab result come back 100 mg or higher than the clinical threshold. My medical team is not denying the existence of my symptoms, but they seem to find them puzzling. Symptoms without a sensible explanation frustrate me to no end.

“Lost” in Prayer

Recently I found myself “lost” when trying to pray. The frustration made it difficult to know, let alone verbalize, what I was seeking.

While anxiety seems to be under control, frustration has been a thorn in my side. I try to pray, but I find myself at a loss for words. I lack clarity in both that which I am asking and how God may be responding. The clouds have not parted, nor has God’s voice thundered from the clouds, but the internal exchange has gone something like this:

“Lord, I am tired of being frustrated.”

“Why is that?”

“I am more and more exhausted and I keep having these episodes of flushing and hot flashes. Everything I’ve discussed with my doctors seems to indicate it shouldn’t be happening.”

“Okay. But it IS happening. Would you prefer worse lab results that corresponded with the symptoms?”

“I suppose not. It has been comforting to know that the lab tests and imaging don’t seem to indicate aggressive growth.”

“So what are you asking?”

“I don’t know. I’m just tired. I’m tired of being frustrated. I’m tired of feeling exhausted. I’m tired of questioning why I keep flushing and having hot flashes.”

“You’ve said a lot. Can we reframe the question?”

“How so?”

“Here are three different scenarios to consider. Would you rather…
A) Have worse scan/lab results that explain your symptoms?
B) Be at peace with the fact that the labs don’t explain your symptoms?
C) Have fewer or no symptoms with your scan/lab results staying the same?”

“Well… I suppose the third option seems best. Though I would rather be free of the cancer and the symptoms.”

“Now you’re talking. Ask for healing.”

Learning How to Pray As We Ought

As I reflect on this theme, I realize that I presumed quite a bit about the bishop, both in the moment as it happened and looking back on it some twenty years later. It is easy to recall the saying, “still waters run deep.” Was it a fallacy to say that the bishop’s stillness indicated a great depth in his prayer? Bishops do carry a great weight of responsibility. I can only imagine that the weight can be a distraction at times. Perhaps he was struggling to verbalize his prayer intentions that evening. If so, I couldn’t tell. Everything about him exuded calmness and peace.

“Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words. And he who searches the hearts of men knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.”

-Romans 8:26-27

The eighth chapter of St. Paul’s letter to the Romans can be a great comfort when I am unable to find the words to pray. Verses eighteen through thirty offer a great catechesis for the struggle I recently encountered in my prayer.

Earlier in the chapter, St. Paul exposes the opposition of living according to the flesh versus living according to the Spirit. Death is the result of setting the mind on the flesh, but “setting the mind on the Spirit is life and peace.”

Have I been too focused on the flesh? Am I too encumbered by a desire to relieve the pain, fatigue, nausea, restlessness, and sadness that have accompanied my life with cancer?

St. Paul continues in verse eighteen by sharing that he does not regard the sufferings of the present to be worthy of comparison with the glory to be revealed. He speaks about the longings of creation that has been subjected to futility and the desire for freedom and how the difficulty of waiting is met with hope. He offers me a stark reminder that a life in heaven is incomparable to what I presently endure.

Sometimes, though, the present sufferings can be overwhelming. Our human frailty lays bare the limits of a life outside of Heaven. I doubt that anyone would be surprised that I encounter difficulty in prayer. I take great comfort in St. Paul’s confirmation that I am not alone in this difficulty.

“For we do not know how to pray as we ought…” (Romans 8:26)

This is where St. Paul then offers a great consolation. The Holy Spirit is here to help us! The Spirit “intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words…because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.” (Romans 8:27)

The Will of God & The Desires of My Heart

If you ever sat in while I make an examination of conscience, you’d probably walk away with the same assessment that I reach. Sometimes I’m really terrible at following Jesus and loving Him with all of my heart, soul, and mind. I really do want to love Him and I continue to ask for the graces necessary to do so.

Unfortunately, my words fail. I certainly do not always know how to pray as I ought. I don’t pray as often as I should. Again and again I forget that God acted first in our conversation of prayer and that my prayer is a response to Him. The response does not need to be complicated.

“Lord, I am at a loss for words in this moment. You know the desires of my heart. Help me to better love You. Align the will of my heart to Yours. And if it’s not too much trouble to ask, please give me the grace necessary to know what that is.”

One question remained. Was the surgery a success?

We knew that it would be difficult. We knew that recovery would be tough. We may not have known that I would have an ileus or need an NG tube, but we knew that these were possibilities. We had weighed the pros and cons and decided to proceed.

Now we found ourselves on the other side of surgery, wondering if it was all worth it.

It was.

The initial report from my hepatobiliary surgeon was the one for which we had prayed. She was confident that she had resected the eight tumors previously seen on my scans. She had also found an additional three by ultrasound and used ablation to burn them. The urology surgeon also reported that the mass in my right kidney was successfully removed without taking the entire kidney.

Did She Really Get It All?

Perhaps it was the drugs, but I kept doubting what I had heard.

I frequently turned to Beth during my hospital stay, “did she say that she got it all?”

“Yes. She said she successfully removed eight and burned away another three.”

“Okay. Good.”

I honestly do not know how I would have endured the post-operative pain and complications had the surgeons reported anything other than success. It did not matter. The surgeries were successful. Moments of pain and misery were eventually eased by the knowledge that they were not in vain. Success came at a price, but it was a price we were willing to pay.

This cycle repeated as I continued my recovery at home. I would encounter a particular difficulty and soon ask Beth to remind me what the surgeons had said. Beth would reassure me that the reports were favorable.

“Okay. Good. That makes this worth it.”

Soon the pathology reports were posted in my online portal. I was fully aware that I did not possess the knowledge needed to fully understand the reports, but I could not bring myself to wait for my follow-up appointments to learn what they might reveal.

The reports brought the surgeons’ assessments into question. Pathology indicated there may not have been clean margins. Tumor tissue could have been left behind. The kidney mass was identified as a clear cell papillary renal cell tumor. Had I actually developed a second cancer? Could it come back in the same kidney or my left kidney as well?

It was time to set aside the pathology report and wait for my follow-up appointments. It was time to set aside fear and doubt and return to a place of trust. Eventually, enough weeks had passed and it was time for my follow-ups.

First, I met with the urology surgeon. She asked if I had taken a look at the pathology report. I admitted that I had and that I was confused. The report said the mass was a “clear cell papillary renal cell tumor.” I had read enough online to know that both clear cell tumors and papillary tumors in the kidney were generally bad things to have. Did I have both? I expressed my confusion to the surgeon with the caveat that I recognized I needed to stop reading online and wait for the appointment. The surgeon explained to me that I was partially correct. Clear cell tumors in the kidney are bad. Papillary cell tumors in the kidney are bad. Clear cell papillary renal cell tumors are benign. The surgeon and I chuckled at the naming convention of my tumor and the confusion it causes. The bottom line? There was no reason for concern. I was discharged from her care.

Next, I met with the hepatobiliary surgeon’s team. Once again, she was confident that she had resected all eight tumors. She was not concerned by the pathology report’s note on the tumor margins. She reviewed the additional three tumors found during the surgery and how she ablated them. I was healing well and she was confident post-operative scans would show no evidence of disease. I would still need to follow-up with her practice early the next year, but for now I was able to return to my oncologist with instructions for a new PET scan.

No Evidence of Disease

I was scheduled for a PET scan on December 15, 2025. The hepatobiliary surgeon urged us to wait at least eight weeks between surgery and the scan as healing of the resected/ablated tumor sites could absorb the radioactive agent if the scan was prematurely scheduled. We received the results before my oncology appointment. The radiology report noted a few concerning spots, but the spots corresponded with tumor locations on previous scans. The surgeon warned us this could happen after eight weeks and encouraged us to disregard these spots if they appeared.

We met with my oncologist on Tuesday, December 23, 2025. I was encouraged to bring my family with me. My oncologist reviewed the PET scan results with me. He advised us on the overlap of the concerning spots with previously known lesions on the liver. No other signs of active tumor growth were seen on the scan. One year, seven months, and ten days after I was first diagnosed, my oncologist was comfortable saying there was “no evidence of disease.”

I could not find words to express the joy and gratitude overflowing in my heart. Five hundred eighty-nine days had felt like an eternity. The day had finally come. It was time to “ring the bell” and celebrate the greatest gift we could have asked for that Christmas. I wasn’t finished, but it was time to move to the next chapter of my cancer journey.

My oncologist moved me to a surveillance protocol and my next MRCP scan was scheduled to coincide with my next surgery follow-up. I would not need to see my oncologist until the following March.

I left the exam room, gathered with my family, and rang the bell mounted in the waiting area of the cancer center. The waiting area filled with applause. Tears welled in our eyes. I quietly said a simple prayer of thanksgiving, confident that God knew the feelings in my heart that words could not express.

Five Hundred Eighty-Nine Days

On December 24, 2025, I sent an updated out to our friends and family on my CaringBridge site. I started the post by sharing the good news that there was no evidence of disease and that I was able to ring the bell. I then shared a summary of everything we had endured together beginning with my first hospitalization on April 26, 2024. I closed at the time by writing:

I mentioned at the beginning [of the post] that I felt it was important to share again what we’ve been through. There has been a lot of worry and anxiety peppered in between every milestone of the story. I still cannot adequately verbalize the emotions we’ve experienced from the first hospitalization and diagnosis with Stage IV Cancer until now. We have been through a lot.

But then I look at those who have suffered through cancer before my diagnosis and treatment. I look at those who suffer now. There are far more cancer patients who have suffered through greater trials than I have. There are many who will never ring the bell. My suffering pales in comparison to theirs. God has blessed us.

I recently shared with a priest friend that I look back at every turning point in my journey and see God’s grace and the fruit of the multitude of prayers offered on my behalf. I could have had a full bowel obstruction. That quickly could have led to rupture, infection, sepsis, and/or death. I could have had metastasis in my brain. That would have meant a bleak outcome measured in months or even weeks. Liver surgery could have remained unfeasible. Anxiety and depression could have taken a far great toll on our family. Yet, in spite of every difficulty, things went the way we prayed they would. Each surgery has been a success. The bell has been rung.

One of my favorite TV characters would now say, “What’s next?” Next is surveillance and survivorship. As blessed as we have been, there are still physical and emotional scars that will continue to heal. Anatomical changes to my body will continue to mandate lifestyle changes. We will face the healing and adaptations head on. Your prayers will continue to edify us as we move forward. We will cherish this Christmas together as well as each and every day our family spends together. Above all, we give thanks to God for His many blessings and answered prayers.

Please pray for all those who suffer from cancer this Christmas. Do not forget them in your prayers in the New Year. Pray for those who have lost loved ones to this terrible disease. Let us especially pray for all those who have no one to pray for them and feel the weight of suffering alone. We trust that we are not alone. We trust that God is with us. We pray that those who feel alone may experience the merciful and compassionate love of Jesus Christ who desires that they be made whole with Him for eternity in Heaven.

On behalf of Beth, our children, and our families, thank you for your prayerful and temporal support over the past nineteen months. We pray that this chapter of life’s story has come to an end. We would not have wished it for ourselves, but we are grateful for all of God’s blessings and the multitude of ways He has brought us closer to Him through this particular “Way of the Cross.” Please know of our prayers for you this Christmas season.

Merry Christmas,
Adam Wright

We spent the remainder of Christmas Eve in Church and gathered with family. There was no other place we could fathom spending our time. It was truly the best Christmas I have ever celebrated in my life.

The End of the Beginning

On Friday, February 27, 2026, my care team informed me that new tumor growth was detected on my surveillance scan.

God’s story is not finished.

He is ready for what comes next.

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Author’s Note: This chapter has taken much longer to write than I initially anticipated. Unfortunately, my health has been a challenge lately. Fortunately, my time has also been preoccupied with many important family matters that have brought great joy. Thank you for your patience.

It is also worth noting that this post involves descriptions of bodily functions and procedures. I have tried to keep them from being graphic, however some level of description is necessary to convey the experience.

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.” -William Shakespeare, The Tempest (Act IV, Scene 1)

I was a student in high school when I first came across this quote from William Shakespeare. I was captivated by it for some reason. It had a weight that lingered, despite my lack of context.

Years later, I heard this quote once more—this time spoken by the character Prospero during a 2005 production of The Tempest at the St. Louis Shakespeare Festival. I found myself drawn into his words. Illusions were unraveling. Prospero reminded us that everything we see—what our senses have come to trust—can vanish.

“Our revels now are ended. These our actors… are melted into air, into thin air…” -William Shakespeare, The Tempest (Act IV, Scene 1)

Prospero opened our eyes to a vision collapsing. Substance gave way to nothing. All appeared as though it had never been.

On October 14, 2025, I entered a theater of my own. The players included my doctors, their assistants, the nurses, and OR staff. The performance took place—not on a stage, but on an operating table. The anesthesia was pushed through my IV. I began to drift away. It was not a dream, nor was it sleep. I found myself somewhere in between—where time disappears and reality seemed to melt into thin air.

The Reality of the Wounds

I was taken from pre-op to the operating room around 1:30 pm on Tuesday, October 14, 2025. The fear that had started taking hold in pre-op faded away and joy returned. This was it. I was actually going into surgery to, hopefully, have the remaining metastatic tumors removed from my liver.

As we entered the operating room, I found myself amused by something I noticed during my previous cancer surgeries. The operating room did not look anything like those I’ve seen on television. Once again, the room seemed more like an incredibly clean mechanic’s garage or carpenter’s workshop than anything else.

I slid from the stretcher onto the operating table. The nurses and anesthesia team worked to get me comfortable. Then everyone present paused for something called a “timeout.” They quickly verified that I was the patient they were expecting, that I was there for a liver resection/ablation and partial right nephrectomy, and who would be doing what. I said a quick prayer of thanksgiving as they reviewed the plan and asked my guardian angel to watch over me during the surgery. I asked Jesus to lovingly welcome me home if I did not survive. Within moments of the timeout concluding, the anesthesia team placed an oxygen mask on my face and began pushing meds into my IV.

I don’t remember closing my eyes.

Coming out of anesthesia was a blur. I had just been lying on the surgical table with a mask on my face, but here I was in a quiet, dimly lit room. I am told I was in the operating room for over ten hours. The chill of IV meds flowing into my arm had ceased. Instead, I felt the dull, aching pain of the incision that stretched across my abdomen. The oxygen mask was replaced with a nasal cannula in my nostrils and an NG tube running up my nose and down the back of my throat.

I vaguely remember seeing Beth and my parents in the recovery area. I have an inkling of a memory of being transferred to the floor where I would recover. Beyond that, my first firm memory is of rounds the following morning where I had already started asking if the NG tube could be removed.

An Invitation to Go Deeper

Up until this point, the only “surprise” was the NG tube. Everything else was aligned with my expectations following my previous surgeries. I was groggy. It was difficult to move or adjust myself in bed. There was a dull ache at the incision site. I had a sore throat from intubation tube that had been placed and removed. It was how I imagined it: similar, but more intense.

I went into this surgery with the mindset that, while this would be the most difficult surgery, I would make good progress if I could stick with the strategies learned in the previous surgeries: get up, move, walk, try to avoid using the PCA button (pain meds), and keep pushing through when it hurts.

It was a slow start. The NG tube and foley catheter kept me in bed. The length of the incision and the scale of the work performed by the surgeons made pain more challenging than I initially expected. But the NG and the catheter were removed later on Wednesday. It was time to try and walk. Just as I had expected, it was painful and depleted what little energy I had. We did it anyway. Wednesday may have been a slow start to recovery, but progress was made.

Thursday built upon the progress we had made on Wednesday. Beth helped me find the drive to walk. My nurse pushed me to be up in the chair instead of sleeping in bed. My diet was advanced from “sips and chips” (occasional sips of water with limited ice chips) to clear liquids. I still had the PCA button for pain meds, but was only using it following a transfer into bed. Thursday was a good day. It was exhausting, but we could clearly see that recovery was moving in the right direction.

Friday had the potential to be a “big” day. We knew we wanted to build upon the progress made on Thursday. My diet was advanced from clear liquids to “Whipple one” (a bland offering somewhere between liquids and soft foods). It was difficult to get started on Friday. The enthusiasm I had on Thursday had given way to a growing despondency. I was sitting in the chair when the hepatobiliary team came for rounds.

“Adam, how are you feeling today? You don’t look as good as you looked yesterday.”

I wasn’t feeling well.

My fatigue felt different than it had on Thursday. I was feeling nauseous. Did I push too hard on Thursday?

The hepatobiliary team cautioned me to listen to my body. Being in the chair was good and walking was still important. They advised me to stick to liquids if I was feeling nauseous.

“Don’t push it.”

Friday also brought a new concern. Not only was I getting nauseous, I had not passed gas or had a bowel movement since coming out of surgery. My care team was increasingly concerned that I had developed an ileus. That is to say, they were worried that a portion of my small intestine had not mobilized following the surgery. I wasn’t feeling much better by the time visiting hours ended at 9:00 pm. Beth went home. I tried to settle in for the night and get some rest. Perhaps I had just pushed too hard the previous day and needed time to recover.

I did not sleep much overnight. My night shift nurse did what she could to keep me comfortable. The discomfort and nausea continued to worsen overnight. My nurse came in just before 5:00 am to take my vital signs.

“Adam, I am going to speak with your doctor about a KUB.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

I learned that a KUB is an x-ray of the abdomen. The tech brought a portable x-ray machine to my room, slid a plate behind my back, and took the images. Rounds had started when my results came back. The floor doctor informed me that my small intestine was dilated and they were increasingly concerned that I had developed an ileus. The doctors reviewed a few scenarios that would require a new NG tube to be placed: continued inability to pass gas or have a bowel movement, worsening nausea, and/or vomiting.

My outlook was grim. My care team had already administered any medicinal aides they could give to help things move. It was no longer a question of “what we could do.” The only question: “will the medicines work in time?”

They did not. I was given my morning medicines shortly after 9:00 am. I gagged on one of the pills and proceeded to vomit. Luckily, Beth and my nurse were standing by with an emesis basin. My nurse looked at me and apologized.

“I’m sorry, Adam. I will need to let the doctors know this happened and they are most likely going to order the NG tube.”

I failed to see this in the moment, but this turn of events was an invitation to journey deeper with our Lord and enter more fully into His suffering.

A New Wound

I have often reflected about the surgical wounds I have received as a result of my diagnosis. One thing in particular sticks out as I ponder them as a participation in the wounds of Jesus on the Cross. Our Lord was fully awake and conscious as His wounds were inflicted. I was neither awake nor aware as the scalpels pierced my skin. I was given the comfort of general anesthesia. He was given a sponge soaked in wine mixed with gall. My wounds, though they were painful, were a fraction of what Jesus endured. This changed on October 18, 2025.

My nurse came into the room after conferring with the doctors. Two things were going to happen in a relatively quick fashion. First a nasogastric tube (NG tube) would be inserted into my nose. It would go through the nasal cavity to reach the throat, down my esophagus, through my stomach, and into my small intestine. The nurse would then place a foley catheter as there was also a growing concern that I was not sufficiently emptying my bladder. I would be awake for both procedures. She then left to gather the necessary supplies.

The nurse returned, sat me up in bed, and laid the supplies out on the table. I held onto the side rails of the bed as she unwrapped the tube. As she inserted the tube into my nostril the sensation was unbearable. I remember several times I went swimming as a kid where I would jump into the pool or my older brother would dunk me and water would rush up my nose. The tube placement took this to a new dimension. It was a prolonged version of the same sensation, but worse.

She advanced the tube into my throat and I immediately triggered my gag reflex. I suddenly felt an urgent need to vomit. My nurse was prepared for this and already had given me an emesis basin to hold. I finished vomiting. She resumed her work advancing the NG tube. Soon, it seemed she had finished. The sensation was still awful. Comfort felt completely out of reach.

My nurse then informed me that, while she was confident the NG tube was properly inserted, she would need to ask the doctor to order another KUB before we could secure the things. I would need to sit still until we had confirmation. Moving could dislodge the tube and possibly require withdrawing it and reinserting. I desperately wanted to lay down, but I sat frozen as she left the room. I lost track of time while we waited for the scan. My nurse sat patiently with me. Minutes seemed like an eternity. I was inconsolable. The tube started creeping out on its own. My nurse slowly and gently advanced it to resume its original depth.

The KUB showed we needed to advance the NG another few inches. I asked if we could go slowly, perhaps a few millimeters at a time. It was much more bearable than the previous rate of insertion. She was confident the NG tube was now sufficiently advanced. An additional KUB image confirmed her confidence. She taped the tube to my nose and face so that it would remain in place.

It was now time to lie down so that a foley catheter could be inserted into my bladder. The nurse warned me that it would be moderately uncomfortable, but that it should not be painful. I cannot imagine I would tolerate catheter insertion as well as I did in that moment. The pain and discomfort of the NG tube had such a tight grip on me that I did not really flinch when the catheter was inserted.

The doctor had come into the room at some point during this course of events. He could clearly see that I was miserable and apologized that things had come to this point. Unfortunately, I would need these interventions for at least twenty-four hours. In the midst of his explanation, I was overcome by the sure feeling that I was about to have a bowel movement. I somehow communicated this to my nurse through the gagging caused by the NG tube. There was no conceivable way that I would be able to make it out of the bed. The NG tube, foley catheter, and my IV’s were like ropes lashing me to the bed. My nurse was prepared for this. She instructed me to use my feet and arms to lift my hips off of the bed as high as possible. She quickly slid a bed pan lined with an absorbent pad underneath me. Within seconds I felt the quick expulsion of mushy stool from my body. I was immediately reminded of every “blow out” diaper our children had as infants. I was both a literal and figurative mess.

Looking back, this was the closest I think I’ve come to participating in the piercing of Christ’s hands and feet with the nails of His crucifixion. My participation paled in comparison to what He endured, but it was the single worst experience I’ve endured so far.

The Balm of Compassion

The series of events that afternoon was, without a doubt, one of the most defeating moments of my journey. I had vomited multiple times, was lying in a pile of my own feces, and any pretense of modesty had been removed when the catheter was inserted. I couldn’t move and was fully dependent on Beth and my nurse to now clean me, change me, and change my sheets (all with me still in the bed).

And yet, one of the most amazing things of the experience was my nurse’s demeanor. She exhibited nothing but compassion. At no point did I feel as if she was repulsed by what had transpired. Her focus was clear. She cared for me with great tenderness, reminding me through each step that “it [was] okay.”

By the time all was said and done, she had me resting as comfortably as possible in my freshly changed bed. The hours that followed would continue to be agonizing. I could not turn my head or move my body without gagging. I did not sleep much that evening. Instead I laid awake in bed praying a variation of a familiar prayer.

“It’s for You, Lord. If You want it, please help me to want it too because I do not want it.”

Morning came and Beth soon arrived to sit quietly with me. At a certain point she helped me muster the energy and motivation to walk despite the misery.

My nurse returned that day shift and was assigned to me once again. It was a great joy when she informed me that my bowels had made enough progress moving in the right direction for the NG tube to be removed and that she was the nurse who would remove it.

“Mr. Adam, can we still be friends?” she asked after removing the NG tube the following day?

I laughed and said, “yes.” We may not be actual friends, but an overwhelming gratitude remains in my heart for the care she gave me and the manner in which she gave it.

Wounds Glorified

In the moment, I never thought the NG tube would come out. I had lost confidence that my muscles would heal. I was frustrated by my near complete dependence on others to accomplish simple tasks of self-care. Darkness, pain, fear and frustration seemed to be my only companions.

Over eight months have elapsed as I write this reflection. The unbearable NG tube placement is now a memory. I can use the bathroom without assistance with few exceptions. I am able to clean and dress myself. But the scars remain.

An 18 inch scar transects my abdomen from the surgical incision. Abdominal pain and discomfort still linger due to adhesions, scar tissue, and changes in anatomy. I am reminded daily of what elapsed and at times haunted by the memories.

There is also hope.

My utter dependence on others during my initial recovery was a sobering reminder of my dependence upon God to make it through this life. One day I will die. My hope is that every aspect of my journey with my cancer has brought me closer to God. I continue to pray that He is using it to mold me into the saint He has called me to be. Heaven will be the measure of success.

“I believe in one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church.
I confess one Baptism for the forgiveness of sins
and I look forward to the resurrection of the dead
and the life of the world to come.

Amen.”

-The Nicene Creed

I profess the Nicene Creed at Mass every Sunday. I do not take it lightly. I do believe in the resurrection of the dead. I believe that we will be reunited with our bodies as Jesus was with His following His resurrection on Easter Sunday. I believe that, if I make it to Heaven, my body will be glorified just as His was.

My hope is that I will one day look upon my scars, not as reminders of the pain that I endured, but as instruments that God used to lead me to sainthood. Rather than dwell in the shame of the day my NG was placed, I will rejoice knowing that God reached into the mess of my life and drew me closer to Him through the grace bestowed in the moment.

“Those who share in Christ’s sufferings have before their eyes the Paschal Mystery of the Cross and Resurrection, in which Christ descends, in a first phase, to the ultimate limits of human weakness and impotence: indeed, he dies nailed to the Cross. But if at the same time in this weakness there is accomplished his lifting up, confirmed by the power of the Resurrection, then this means that the weaknesses of all human sufferings are capable of being infused with the same power of God manifested in Christ’s Cross.” -St. John Paul II, Salvifici Doloris (p. 23)

Reflection Questions

1. When have I found myself completely dependent on the help of others? How did that experience affect me?

2. Who has shown me the compassion of Christ during a difficult season of my life?

3. Are there wounds, scars, or painful memories that I still view primarily as sources of shame rather than places where God has been at work?

4. What would it look like for me to trust that God can bring grace even from the most humiliating or painful moments of my life?

5. When I profess belief in “the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come,” how does that hope shape the way I view my present sufferings?

If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d be grateful to hear about a time when God met you in the midst of suffering, weakness, or dependence on others.

This reflection unfolds over two parts. This is the first.

Monday, September 8, 2025, was a long-anticipated day.

The increased symptoms of the previous months brought concern that my disease was progressing. I had resumed treatments, despite their side effects, in the hope that they would prevent further tumor growth. Liver surgery was the goal. It was the only natural means available to rid my body of this cancer.

New imaging would be needed to make a determination. The scans were scheduled for September 8th.

I’m Ready. Let’s Go.

The hepatobiliary surgeon called me on Monday morning, September 15, to review the results of my scan. I didn’t waste time in getting to the question at hand.

“Doctor, how did the scans look? Are you willing to do the surgery?”

She enthusiastically shared that the scans showed no disease progression. She was willing to do the surgery.

I was ecstatic. I was also anxious to get things scheduled.

The doctor informed me that I would need to come in for an office visit to review the surgery, sign the consent forms, and meet with her scheduler to book an operating room.

“Great! When can I come in for the appointment?”

The surgeon was in clinic on Mondays. She was scheduling clinic appointments two weeks out.

“I’ll be there. But please don’t hesitate to call if you get a cancellation. I live and work fifteen minutes away from the clinic. I will drop everything to come if you get an opening before then. This is my top priority.”

It just so happened that she did have an opening that afternoon. I had already cleared my afternoon schedule by the time she finished asking if I could possibly make a same-day appointment work. I made it to the office. We reviewed the scope of the surgery. I signed the consent forms. The scheduler came into the exam room, we consulted our calendars, and a date was set. After nearly eighteen months of waiting, surgery was scheduled for October 14, 2025.

A Necessary Diversion

I have often said that I feel like I have been auditing medical school through the course of this journey. This is especially true when I receive radiology results. I've noticed that radiologists note everything they see on the scan, not just the things we have been watching. A list of other abdominal organs has accompanied each MRCP scan I have had. Aside from the gallbladder, they have always listed the other organs as “unremarkable.” This scan was different.

There was a notation beneath the notes regarding the tumors in my liver. It simply read:

“Kidneys: Symmetric renal enhancement. No hydronephrosis. Stable size of a mildly enhancing and diffusion restricting lesion in the interpolar region of the right kidney now measuring 1.0 cm.”

I asked the hepatobiliary surgeon for her impression. She replied that it indicated suspicion of a tumor on the kidney.

“What do we do about it?”

Her response was straightforward. Surveillance would be the typical protocol. But she would ask a urology surgeon to take a look and meet with me since I was already going to be opened for the liver surgery. I saw my oncologist a few days later and he concurred. I was contacted by the urology surgeon’s office shortly after the appointment.

I learned that this was possibly a new tumor, but that it was unlikely to be a neuroendocrine tumor. Instead, it was suspicious for a different cancer called renal cell carcinoma. The urology surgeon confirmed that surveillance would be the normal protocol, but that, in lieu of surveillance, we would take advantage of the fact that I was already going to be open for liver surgery. A different urology surgeon from the practice would scrub in and join the surgery to remove the mass from my right kidney.

The Hardest Thing I’ve Ever Done (So Far)

Preparations for surgery began a few days before I reported to the hospital. One of our priests administered the Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick. The Center for Preoperative Assessment and Planning had given me supplies to clean and disinfect my abdomen beginning the night before surgery.

The morning of the surgery was a joyous one. I was able to drop off our children at school and go to morning Mass. Beth had left for work earlier in the morning to attend a few meetings before my report time of 10:45 am. She would join us in pre-op.

As I sat in the church before Mass, I contemplated the significance of the day. I had sat in the same church the morning before my brain surgery. The weight of that surgery was far removed. The morning of my liver surgery was filled with an air of peace and hope. Was it possible that I would come out of surgery cancer free? That was the goal we sought.

We knew the day would also be difficult. The surgery would be the most extensive one of my journey. Recovery would be challenging and take time. These things were secondary. It was a day worth celebrating. I donned my favorite zebra t-shirt and my sequined jacket. I wanted to radiate the hope and joy that filled my heart as I walked into the hospital.

After a few laughs with the refreshingly jovial registration team, I was taken across the hospital to pre-op. I knew the drill. I would change out of my clothes and into a gown, gripper socks, and a “stylish” hair covering. They tucked me into warm blankets and placed my IVs. A parade of medical personnel soon began. Each representing a different team for the surgery.

The anesthesiologist reviewed my history and detailed his plan for how they would put me to sleep, keep me under, and then wake me following the surgery. We reviewed the risks, signed consent forms, and prepared to move forward.

My hepatobiliary surgeon’s team came in as well. It was the last chance to ask any questions. I was focused on one question. “Is it time?” We reviewed the procedure and its accompanying risks. We discussed where I would go following the surgery. We also discussed the plan in case of significant blood loss, a distinct possibility with the liver. I signed a consent form to receive blood products in case they were needed. The team headed back to the operating room to prepare for the surgery.

Pre-op was where I met my urology surgeon for the first time. We reviewed what I previously discussed with her colleague during my office visit. The tumor in my right kidney could present some challenges. She had me sign a new batch of consent forms including the form for a “partial right nephrectomy” to remove the tumor. She also had me sign a consent form for a “radical right nephrectomy” in case of complications during the surgery. There was a possibility she would have to take the entire kidney. This was the moment fear and hesitation overpowered the joy and optimism of the day.

I had always known that this would be the most difficult and challenging surgery when compared to the primary tumor removal and the brain surgery. The vascular nature of the liver increased the risk of significant bleeding that would require transfusions or cause death. The proximity of tumors near bile ducts created a risk for bile leakage, infection, and sepsis.

Exuberance was replaced with pensiveness. I asked for a few private moments with Beth while the surgical teams made final preparations. I was scared; afraid of dying and afraid of the pains of recovery that, ideally, waited for me following the operation.

“I Don’t Want to Do This”

I asked for a few private moments with Beth while the surgical teams made final preparations. I was scared; afraid of dying and afraid of the pains of recovery that, ideally, waited for me following the operation. The nurse and my parents stepped away and closed the curtain.

“I don’t want to do this.”

I quietly started to cry as she held my hand. I thought of “Plan A” for my family. God had called me to be Beth’s husband and our children’s father. It was a familiar thought that I had turned to every time I had taken stock of the difficulty this surgery and recovery would present. Love for them demanded that I set aside my desire to escape the cross laid before me. Fighting for them meant consenting to the surgery.

“But we are going to do this. I am doing this for you. I am doing this for our children.”

Agony in the Garden

I often think of Jesus’s agony in the garden on the evening before His death. He withdrew from His disciples, taking only Peter, James and John with Him to pray. The words of Matthew’s Gospel still resonate with me as I look back at the moments just before my surgery.

“Then he said to them, ‘My soul is sorrowful even to death. Remain here and keep watch with me.’” -Matthew 26:38

Beth had learned during my previous surgeries that she does not do well in a waiting room. She much prefers to be occupied. We had decided that she would go into work for a series of staff meetings she did not want to miss on the day of my surgery. She was given the flexibility to step out of the meetings to “keep watch with me” as I waited in pre-op. My soul was both joyful and sorrowful. Beth’s presence was a sustaining force, keeping the fear from getting the upper hand.

“When he returned to his disciples he found them asleep. He said to Peter, ‘So you could not keep watch with me for one hour? Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’” -Matthew 26:40-41

Excitement had been the prevailing sentiment from the moment surgery was put back on the table as an option to rid me of this disease. I was faltering in these final moments. But even in those moments, I once again tasted the goodness of the Lord. His grace was at work; through the sacraments in the preceding days, through our marriage, through the prayers we said together behind the curtain of my pre-op room.

It Was Time to Go

We prayed quietly together in those final moments. Soon the staff would come to wheel me to the operating room. Once again, ready or not, I was as prepared as I could be. It was time to go. We said our goodbyes and I was wheeled away to the operating room.

This reflection is part of the “Don’t Waste Your Suffering” series, exploring faith, suffering, and trust in God.

Reflection Questions

1. Have I ever experienced a moment where excitement or hope was suddenly overshadowed by fear? What changed in that moment?

2. What am I afraid might happen if I fully embrace what God is asking of me, even if it leads to something hopeful?

3. Do I expect peace and clarity before I act, or am I willing to move forward when my heart feels divided?

4. Who has been a steady presence in my life when fear begins to take hold? How have they helped me remain grounded?

5. What would it look like for me to say, “I don’t want to do this… but I will,” even as hope and fear coexist?

If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d be grateful to hear how this reflection connects with your own experience.

“Two down. One to go.”

Recovery from brain surgery was progressing. It was a slow, but it was a somewhat predictable process. Movement and walking helped with faster healing. Medications were tapered, and my energy started to rebound. Recovery could not happen fast enough, as my hopes focused on one goal: liver surgery.

The Peace of Recovery

The recovery period following brain surgery turned into an immensely fruitful time of prayer. Much of my daily routine was eliminated out of necessity. Screens caused migraines, as did constant noise. I was unable to drive myself anywhere. I spent much of my time at home in quiet, sitting outside when possible, and going for daily walks. The time was a gift, despite the physical pains that made it necessary.

One of the lessons of redemptive suffering seemed to be unfolding before me.

“Lord, why have You allowed this to happen? Was it to force me to stop and be with You?”

Whether that was the intention or not, it was the reality. The rhythms of my life were disrupted. I was given the gift of time. Distractions were removed. My prayer was focused.

“Lord, I want to be healed. Miracle or surgery, could you please provide a way?”

As I continued this time of recuperation, the stillness that came with it did not just bring peace; it sharpened my focus on what was ahead of me.

A Singular Focus

The hepatobiliary surgeon had set a date for my next MRCP scan. I would go for the scan on September 8, 2025. The results of this scan would determine whether or not we could proceed with surgical resection to remove the metastatic tumors from my liver. Scheduling a surgery seemed simple, but this goal had eluded us from the beginning of the journey.

We met with my oncologist in the weeks following the brain surgery. The last scan had shown no new growth in my tumors, but there was concern with the emergence of new physical symptoms. Was this an indication of growth?

My oncologist brought up the subject of treatments and the potential to resume the first line of defense. The same injections that brought “intolerable” side effects the first time we tried them were now back on the table. For me, it was a conversation about treatments now in an effort to keep the surgical option. His focus was different. What did we need to do immediately so that I would not be in a difficult place with limited options and a poor outlook ten years later?

I may have been focused on the short term, while he was focused on the long term, but the plan was the same: reduce disease burden as much as possible. Injections to prevent further tumor growth and surgical resection were both strategies to employ. Surgical resection could dramatically, perhaps fully, reduce tumor burden. New growth could take away the option.

The Cost of Acting

Somatostatin analogue (SSA) injections came with a physical cost. The side effects from my first three rounds of injections included:

• Several days of steatorrhea followed by days of diarrhea (each intensified by the burning sensation of bile acids)

• Abdominal cramping that would come in waves.

• Incredible nausea that would only abate with the use of medications.

• Debilitating migraines intensified by light sensitivity and the anti-nausea medications.

The side effects would crescendo into run away pain that could only be resolved by intravenous medication administered in the emergency room. We had come to presume that I would miss 4-5 days of work and family life following each injection in a “best case” scenario.

This would almost certainly be the case if we decided to act. Were we willing to pay the cost?

The Cost of Inaction

There was another option before us. We could do nothing and wait.

I would not receive injections. There would be no side effects to endure. I would still go for a scan on September 8th. The hepatobiliary surgeon would still make a determination as to whether or not surgery was still an option.

Waiting was an attractive option. It had already been a year since my first hospitalization. I had already endured the pain and recovery of two surgeries. The previous rounds of treatment with SSA injections made me miserable. I couldn’t help but think it would be nice to have a break from the cross.

But inaction came with a cost as well.

The developing symptoms could have been a sign of tumor growth. Inaction could mean the disease would progress to a point where surgery would no longer be a viable option. Each symptomatic episode was already triggering a simmering anxiety that had been festering beneath the surface.

If the cost of acting was a physical toll, the cost of inaction would be a mental one. It was a choice I did not want to make.

“What must I do?”

Once more I returned to a familiar conversation.

“Jesus, why have You called me here?”

My prayer kept returning to a passage of scripture as I carried the weight.

“And as he was setting out on his journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?’ And Jesus said to him, ‘Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the commandments: ‘Do not kill, Do not commit adultery, Do not steal, Do not bear false witness, Do not defraud, Honor your father and mother.’ And he said to him, ‘Teacher, all these I have observed from my youth.’ And Jesus looking upon him loved him, and said to him, ‘You lack one thing; go sell what you have, and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.’ At that saying his countenance fell and he went away sorrowful; for he had great possessions.”

-Mark 10:17-22

Like the rich young man, I was striving to keep the commandments. I was frequenting the Sacraments. I would go to confession and seek reconciliation when I failed. It seemed, though, that the man recognized something lacking in merely keeping the commandments. Perhaps he, like me, was doing those things to avoid punishment.

I was struck by the next four words our Lord spoke to the young man: “you lack one thing”. Jesus then instructed him to sell his riches, all that he had. Obedience would mean treasure in heaven. He invited the rich young man into a deeper, lasting relationship when He said, “and come, follow me.”

What was I lacking?

Were Beth and I called to have a yard sale in the midst of everything else?

As I continued to reflect, I thought about the man’s possessions. Jesus had not asked others to sell their possessions before following Him. Was there something wrong with this man’s possessions? I could hardly imagine that his possessions were intrinsically bad. Many of them could have been good things. If so, why would Jesus ask him to give up something good before he could go and follow Jesus?

Was Jesus asking the same of me?

I was lost in this question.

I could not believe that physical health was a bad thing. Was my health the good Jesus was asking me to relinquish so that I could follow Him? Was this why He allowed my illness to persist through so many difficult days?

“And Jesus looking upon him loved him, and said to him, ‘You lack one thing; go sell what you have, and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.’”

-Mark 10:21

I imagined Jesus looking at me, loving me, and saying to me,

“Adam, here is something you lack. Let go of your desires for good health, offer your sufferings to me and come, follow me.”

A Clear Choice

The question still remained. Would I resume SSA treatment in spite of the side effects that would accompany each injection?

One path offered assurance, but not certainty, that surgery to remove the metastatic tumors would still be possible. The other path seemed to offer greater physical comfort, but came with a higher risk that the tumors would grow. Not only could this preclude surgery, inaction could negatively affect future treatment options. The cross would remain in either case.

“The lukewarm do not embrace the cross; they merely drag it along.”

-St. Teresa of Avila

The choice was clear. It was time to resume treatment.

I was once again reminded of a reason we believe our Lord allows suffering: so that a great good may come about.

Embracing the cross would mean enduring the side effects from the injections. But doing so was not just a strategy for the best physical outcome; it was an opportunity to grow deeper in relationship with Jesus.

I resumed treatment on July 22, 2025.

A Prayer

I had pre-recorded the content for the next week’s radio shows knowing that I would likely miss several days of work due to the injection side effects. I had the occasion to revisit St. Ignatius of Loyola’s “Suscipe” prayer.

“Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will, all I have and call my own. You have given all to me. To you, Lord, I return it. Everything is Yours; do with it what You will. Give me only Your love and Your grace, that is enough for me."

-St. Ignatius of Loyola

I thought of this prayer in the context of the coming week. All of the good health I had enjoyed throughout my life, all of the “good days” throughout this cancer journey, all of the moments of consolation in the midst of the bad days had been gifts from God. The prayer changed as I continued to sit with it in silence.

“Jesus, please help me to joyfully accept the cross set before me. Please help me to let go of the memories of ‘better times’. Jesus, please give me the grace to surrender my desire that the side effects be more tolerable. Please help me see with greater clarity the gifts that You have given to me and give me the willingness to surrender them back to You. Help me to understand how You are pouring out Your love and Your grace through the cross of this treatment and to trust that You are, even if I do not understand how. Jesus, please give me the grace to see that Your love and Your grace are, indeed, enough for me.”

Reflection Questions

1. When faced with a difficult decision, do I tend to avoid the cost—or honestly weigh what is at stake?

2. Where in my life am I tempted to choose comfort over what is necessary or good?

3. Have I ever considered that inaction can carry a cost just as real as action?

4. What am I currently unwilling to sacrifice—and why?

5. Do I trust that God can work through both my decisions and their consequences?

6. What might it look like for me to say “yes” to the cross in my current circumstances?

If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d be grateful to hear how this reflection connects with your own experience.

“Surgery went well.”

That is the extent of what I remember being told as I came out of anesthesia. My focus quickly shifted to the emesis basin as the nausea from the anesthesia overwhelmed me.

The Grace of Joy

Things moved relatively fast once Beth and I decided to proceed with brain surgery. The neurosurgeon could only rely on the most recent brain MRI for a matter of weeks before a new one would be required. My most recent brain MRI was on Friday, March 14, 2025. We made the decision to proceed with surgery the following Tuesday. Surgery was scheduled for Wednesday, April 16, 2025.

Preparations for surgery were fairly straight-forward. We developed a plan at the radio network so that the radio show could proceed during my absence. We made arrangements with our parents to make sure the children would be cared for the duration of my stay at the hospital. I planned to shave my head knowing they would shave my hair around the incision site and that I would be unable to wash my hair for a period of time as the incision healed. We pivoted to a mohawk after my eldest daughter suggested it would be the only time in my professional life that I could get away with it.

Spiritual preparations were also underway. I asked God for the grace to be joyful as surgery approached. We soon took great delight in saying “Let’s have brain surgery!” I quipped that brain surgery would be, without a doubt, the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

The grace of joy made it easier to trust that God was at work. Even when the darkest moments of doubt took root in the days leading up to surgery, the joy was a gift. It was very clear to us that the surgery and outcome were out of our hands. Our Lord and the neurosurgeon were at the helm.

Into the Operating Room

We arrived at the hospital at 5:30 am on the day of surgery. We were quickly taken from the registration desk to the pre-op unit. I changed into a gown and nestled under some warm blankets on the stretcher. The anesthesia team came to review their plan with me. My neurosurgeon came to review his plan with me. Consent forms were signed and it was time to head to the operating room (OR).

Leaving Beth to head to the OR was not as difficult this time. There was a quiet confidence that everything would go well. I told Beth that I loved her and that I would see her soon. She said the same. With that, they wheeled me away.

Once we arrived in the OR, the surgery team performed a “time out” and reviewed all details related to the surgery. Everyone was in agreement of who I was, why I was there, and what they were going to do to me. The nurse anesthetist put a mask on my face, pushed some drugs through my IV, and I drifted into the deep slumber of anesthesia.

Prior to the surgery, they told us that I would be taken directly from the operating room to the intensive care unit (ICU). I don’t remember the journey. I do remember beeping of the monitor and the soft glow of a light above a sink as I started to wake from the anesthesia. A nurse was hovering over me; adjustments were made to the sensors adhering to my head and chest.

“How did we do? Did it go well?” I asked.

Beth replied, “surgery went well.”

There was a dull, radiating pain on the side of my head. Nausea from the anesthesia was overwhelming. I reached for the emesis basin as the nurse quickly grabbed an IV medication to help combat the nausea.

I started to notice that a lot of things were attached to me. I had an IV in each arm. An arterial line was coming out of my left wrist. Telemetry leads were attached to my forehead and chest. Every attempt I made to move either disrupted a monitor or jostled a puncture site. Even the slightest movement of my wrist irritated the arterial line sending a sharp pain up my arm. The nurse repositioned pillows and blankets to help keep everything in place.

“Let’s get you comfortable. Unfortunately, you’re not going to get much rest tonight. We need to perform neuro checks on you every hour.”

I was exhausted. It turns out that having brain surgery uses up a lot of one’s energy.

“To the suffering brother or sister Christ discloses and gradually reveals the horizons of the Kingdom of God: the horizons of a world converted to the Creator, of a world free from sin, a world being built on the saving power of love.” -St. John Paul II (Salvifici Doloris p. 26)

An Unexpected Outcome

The nurse was correct. I did not get much rest overnight. My nurses came every hour to check my vitals, ask me a battery of questions, and check my muscle functions. It was unpleasant, but it was expected. We knew this time would pass and soon there would be a chance to rest.

We thought everything was going according to plan until the resident came for rounds in the early morning following surgery. We had planned on a night in the ICU followed by a night or two on the neuro floor before discharging. The resident started discussing the likelihood that I would discharge to an inpatient rehab facility. This was news to us. My nurse quickly mentioned to wait for the surgeon before worry about this possibility. She thought it was unlikely if the neurosurgeon had not mentioned it in our pre-op appointment.

Occupational Therapy came to visit. They performed an additional battery of neuro tests. They had me demonstrate that I could perform some rudimentary tasks such as putting on my socks and tying my shoes.

The neurosurgeon also came to see me. He was very pleased with my vital signs and neuro checks. Most importantly, he said that I could go home if Occupational Therapy and Physical Therapy signed off as well. We were stunned.

The nurses stopped in their tracks. They had been preparing to transfer me to another floor. They immediately pivoted to prepare me for discharge. Their experience gave them the confidence Physical Therapy would approve of my discharge. They were correct. Physical Therapy soon came for their evaluation and the therapist was very pleased with my evaluation.

I was heading home within thirty-six hours of my arrival. Brain surgery was a success.

The Measure of Success

The neurosurgeon’s report about the surgery was relatively straightforward. He anticipated surgery would take four hours. He was finished within two and a half hours. The mass broke up easily and was removed without any trouble. He encountered no difficulty in patching the skull and closing the incision. The doctor was confident it was not a tumor. He strongly felt that he had removed a cavernous malformation of blood vessels from my brain. Pathology would later confirm that he was correct.

Was this the measure of success?

By the time we made it home from the hospital, I was hungry and tired. Beth prepared something for me to eat and then helped me to bed. It was easy to fall asleep, but difficult to stay asleep. I laid awake in bed several times overnight pondering everything that had occurred in the last 48 hours. My mind was preoccupied, but not with the success of the surgery.

“Jesus, I’ve tried to go willingly with you to this point. Are you here? Is this working? Am I growing closer to You?”

These were questions I had been asking for quite some time. There was a tangible sense that He was right there with me as I was in my hospital bed in the ICU following my brain surgery. Awake in the middle of the night, I felt like He was asking me one question: “Do you trust that I am making you holier through this?”

At a certain point I realized it was now past midnight. It was now Good Friday. Once more I thought about the crucifixion of Jesus. Every ache and pain was drawing me deeper into the mystery of the Passion. The pain at the incision site became my own crown of thorns. I could only imagine how exhausted Jesus must have been at this hour of His Passion. I could not fathom how He could have kept going based on how I felt at this point. The arterial line site in my wrist and the IV site in my foot were healing. I still winced if they were manipulated, but the pain led to a deeper contemplation of the pain inflicted by the nails driven into His hands and feet.

I was under the illusion that I felt well enough to attend the Service of the Lord’s Passion at our parish. In hindsight, I was still receiving some benefit from the anesthesia and pain medicine administered in the hospital. It quickly became apparent during the reading of the Passion that they were finally wearing off. My energy was quickly fading and my pain intensifying when we arrived at the Veneration of the Cross in the solemn liturgy.

Everything I had been reading and reflecting on in the prior weeks was reaching a culmination. The moment in the liturgy was a visible reminder of the witness of the Church and countless saints. No matter what lies ahead in my journey, God has gone as far as death so that I could follow Him with the assurance that there is something more than this earthly pilgrimage. I couldn’t stop thinking that He was saying to me, “I’ve gone here [to the Cross] so that you wouldn’t have to go to your cross alone. I am with you. Do not be afraid.”

As I began to stand up, I had to lean heavily on my cane and on Beth to be able to make it to the cross setup for veneration. Several people told me before and after the service that I certainly had a reasonable excuse to stay home, or at least stay in my pew, but how could I do that when He had gone to the Cross for me?

I still fail to articulate how, but I can wholeheartedly say that this was the most impactful Good Friday I’ve ever experienced in my life. Sadly, I did not make it back to Church for Easter. The pain and fatigue were too overwhelming.

Over the next few days, I heard the voice of Jesus say to me, in everything from a serious tone to a lighthearted chuckle, “Adam, your Easter celebration is coming, but let’s stick with the Passion and Good Friday for a little longer.”

It was a stark reminder. We are made for the glory of the resurrection, but we aren’t there yet. We linger in a tension during this life where we have a foretaste of Heaven, all while still experience the pains inflicted in the wounds of sin. It may seem we are perpetually caught in Good Friday, but we have assurance that Easter is coming! We have reason to HOPE!

This reflection is part of the “Don’t Waste Your Suffering” series exploring faith, illness, and trust in God.

Reflection Questions

1. Do I try to move quickly past suffering toward resolution, or am I willing to remain with Christ in the experience of it?

2. Have I ever said “yes” to something difficult, even without fully understanding what it would require of me?

3. In times of exhaustion, pain, or limitation, how do I respond to God’s invitation to draw closer to Him?

4. What might it look like for me to linger at the foot of the Cross a little longer in my current circumstances?

If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d be grateful to hear how this reflection connects with your own experience.

Start at the Beginning

“Do you trust me?”

It is a question that I imagine Jesus was asking me throughout the entire ordeal. Oddly enough, it is not a question my doctors ever asked me aloud. I suppose the question was implicit in the consent papers signed before every procedure, treatment, and surgery.

“We’ll make a curved incision, similar to a question mark, above and in front of your right ear. We’ll pull that back and then cut a one-inch hole in your skull, which we will set aside while we do the surgery. I will go in through that hole and use computer guidance to snake my way through your brain to the mass. This will allow me to disturb as little brain matter as possible. I will then remove the mass and wind my way back out of your brain. We’ll replace the skull fragment and secure it with titanium plates and screws before we close the flap and suture the incision.”

That is my recollection of what the neurosurgeon said at my four week follow up appointment after the mass was discovered in my right temporal lobe. At no point in the conversation did the doctor say, “do you trust me”.

The Ease of Trust

Beth has been a registered nurse for over twenty years. She has spent the entirety of her nursing career working for the health system where I was receiving my cancer care and would be having my brain surgery. She would be the first to tell you how skilled the doctors and surgeons are. It was never a question in her mind if we would seek care elsewhere. There was nowhere better in Saint Louis. Better care would have meant traveling to Mayo, MD Anderson, or Memorial Sloan Kettering. I knew better than to question my wife’s judgement in these matters. We researched the neurosurgeon and she said, “this is the one you want.” That was enough for me.

We kept things open with the neurosurgeon as we left the consult. Brain surgery was a strong possibility, but it had significant risks. It was a frightening proposition filled with many questions of “what if…”. He urged us to take some time to weigh the pros and cons. He would be ready as soon as we were. He gave us the phone number for his assistant and told us to call her if we wanted to proceed.

I had recently transferred my oncology care to the Neuroendocrine Specialist in Saint Louis. We had met before when my first oncologist sent me for a consult early on in my journey and had done our research on him as well. Transferring to his care brought a renewed sense of security as we navigated the unknown.

The appointment with the neurosurgeon was on a Friday. I met with my new oncologist the following Tuesday. The conversation quickly turned to my brain. After recounting what the neurosurgeon shared in the appointment, we asked my new oncologist what he thought.

“I cannot tell you what to do. There is something in your brain. It is causing you issues. It could be cancer and we would like to know if it is. If it were me, I would have it removed.”

We left the exam room and headed to the parking garage. I was already on the phone with the neurosurgeon’s assistant to say I wanted to move forward with the surgery.

It amazes me to look back at the ease with which we made the decision to proceed with brain surgery. I cannot think of many people I would trust to operate on my brain after meeting them one time.

Reluctance to Trust

Beth and I had the opportunity to go to Mass at our children’s school on the morning before my surgery. We sat off to the side. Shortly before Mass began, I glanced at the crucifix hanging above the sanctuary. I glanced back a few moments later. Within minutes, I could not divert my gaze away from the crucifix. I spent the entire Mass staring at the wood carved image of our Lord.

I was frightened. I was anxious. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would come out of the surgery with some permanent impairment.

There is a passage in the eighth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel about the healing of a leper.

“When Jesus came down from the mountain, great crowds followed him. And then a leper approached, did him homage, and said, ‘Lord, if you wish, you can make me clean.’ He stretched out his hand, touched him, and said, “I will do it. Be made clean.” His leprosy was cleansed immediately.” -Matthew 8:1-3

Once again, I wrestled with a question for Jesus.

“Do you want to heal me too?”

The stark image of the crucifixion pierced my heart.

“Adam, I do. I died on the Cross for you. Why would I not want you to be healed?”

But did I trust Him? Did I trust this to be true?

Between the daily radio show, a handful of interviews, and three speaking engagements, I had spent the preceding season of Lent exhorting others to trust in God even when things are difficult. I encouraged others to look at the crucifix and see the measure of love poured out for their salvation. Time and time again, I spoke of the witness of countless saints and teachings of the Church, that God wants to reach into their brokenness and offer them the glory of the resurrection.

Them. Not me.

The enemy was sowing weeds of doubt.

“If God wanted to heal you, why are you going through this in the first place?”

I was willing to trust the neurosurgeon to go into my brain even though we had only met briefly in his office on one occasion. I was willing to trust the counsel of my new oncologist whom I had only met twice. Why was it this difficult to trust in God, who had been planting seeds of faith over the course of forty-two years?

The Providence of Holy Week

Neurosurgery was scheduled for Wednesday of Holy Week in 2025. The providence of this timing was incredible. I had repeatedly said that God was inviting me to walk a very particular Way of the Cross with Him through my cancer diagnosis. I did not know the specifics, but I knew the preparations, surgery, and recovery could provide for a spiritually rich celebration of the Passion of Our Lord.

I thought of a beautiful hymn composed by St. Thomas Aquinas that is sung on Holy Thursday.

“Faith will tell us Christ is present when our feeble senses fail.” -Pange Lingua Gloriosi (sung during the procession with the Blessed Sacrament to the Altar of Repose)

“Adam, your senses are failing. Do you still trust that I am with you? Do you still trust that I want to heal you?”

Reflection Questions

1. Where in my life does trust come easily—and where does it feel costly or uncertain?

2. Do I find it easier to place my trust in human expertise than in God’s providence? Why might that be?

3. How do I respond when doubt arises alongside faith rather than replacing it?

4. Have I ever given consent outwardly while remaining inwardly hesitant or afraid?

5. When my “senses fail,” what helps me continue to believe that God is present and desires my healing?

6. What would it look like for me to say yes to God even while doubt remains?

This reflection is part of the Don’t Waste Your Suffering series exploring faith, illness, and trust in God.

The “newest normal” was in full swing.

The mass in my brain was regularly affecting daily life. Migraines and spells of vertigo were now accompanied by overwhelming fatigue from the anti-seizure medication. Anxiety and stress continued to manifest themselves with unpleasant GI distress. The combination of these symptoms led to restless nights, which only worsened everything.

We even reached a tipping point where I was taken to the emergency room by ambulance due to the nature of the symptoms. Why? Because “the doctors said so” — the familiar refrain when reviewing discharge instructions. Medication doses were adjusted, and I was sent home once again.

My MRCP scan results had come back in the midst of this. The liver surgeon called to tell me everything looked the same. Surgery to remove the liver metastasis would be possible, but not yet. Prior to this, she was not willing to operate because she thought it would be unsuccessful. Now she was unwilling to operate until the doctors resolved the issue with my brain. The hope at the beginning of the call was immediately followed by disappointment. It was another instance of the “new normal.”

A Fitting Season

Whether it was coincidence or providence, this latest part of the adventure coincided with the season of Lent. I have regularly practiced this season of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving throughout my entire life. The routine was simple, find something that is part of daily life and willingly choose to abstain from it from Ash Wednesday through Easter. Why? There are many reasons, but a significant reason for me has been the desire to grow closer to God by detaching from the comforts of life and focusing on my dependence on Him. Little did I know that I would be living this out in a extraordinarily different way this time around.

There were some key instructions when I was discharged from the hospital after my brain mass was discovered. One stood out among the others. I was advised to rest. This made sense. Afterall my body was fighting cancer. The symptoms were significantly disrupting my sleep cycle. But the doctors took it a step further.

“Adam, it is very important that you listen to your body. When you get tired, you need to stop what you are doing and rest.”

They were very clear. I would get tired. It would happen frequently.

I had been conditioned for most of my life to push through fatigue. If I was tired at work, I would pour another cup of coffee and do whatever I could to tighten my focus. Home life often involved a “check-list” mentality when tired. I would be able to sleep after I finished whatever tasks had to be accomplished that evening. Social opportunities were routinely weighed against my need for sleep. I was happy to be tired the next day if it meant we could have some fun tonight.

Once again, the doctors were very clear. Ignoring the symptoms would make things worse and carried significant risks. There was still some debate whether or not the symptoms that first led to diagnosing the brain mass included partial seizures. My doctors warned that, if they were seizures, pushing through the fatigue could trigger more seizures.

It soon became a regular occurrence that I would have to abstain from the activities of daily life due to exhaustion and fatigue.

I Cannot vs. I Should Not

Earlier in my journey, I ventured through a season I called “I Cannot”. It was immediately following my first surgery and stemmed from the reality that my muscles were torn, my body recovering, and I literally could not do simple things such as sitting up on my own. In many ways, I was forced to the sidelines. I couldn’t have participated in many of the daily activities of life no matter how much I tried.

This season was different. If the previous one was a season of “I Cannot,” this one would be better named “I Should Not”.

It was a difficult path to walk. I had similar restrictions following the surgery. They were easier to follow because I did not have the physical ability to push beyond them. Now it was a matter of temperance, prudence, and fortitude — virtues that require choice, not just acceptance.

Fatigue would come. It was incredibly frustrating and particularly disruptive. There were several times I walked into my boss’s office and said, “I have to leave now. I’m not sure if I will be back.” The voices of my employer and co-workers were incredibly supportive. They constantly urged me to take care of my health. The voices in my head were constantly ridiculing me, “Does the big boy need a nap?”

The temptation to ignore the fatigue was strong. I did not want to yield to my limits. Pride had a firm grasp on my resolve. After a few days of following the doctor’s orders, I decided to ignore their warnings and push through my fatigue. I had work to do and I was going to see that it was finished. It was difficult, but I did it. I powered through the day’s agenda, went home, ate dinner, and went to bed. I thought I had achieved a victory. The next morning showed how wrong I was.

I did wake up when the alarm clock went off the next morning, but I could not muster the energy necessary to get out of bed. I finally managed to get from our bed to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and proceeded with my morning routine. Everything felt as if I was moving in slow motion. After a few minutes of standing in the shower, what little energy I had quickly faded, I knocked on the wall to alert Beth that I needed help. I no longer had the strength to turn off the shower, get out, and dry myself without assistance. She came to help and then assisted me back to bed.

I called my boss before going back to sleep. I would not be able to come in to do the morning radio show. They would need to cover the program with something else. In my mind, I had failed.

The consequences of doing what I “could” do clearly illustrated the price of ignoring what I “should” do.

It took a few days to recover from this particular episode. Another opportunity to put my resolve to the test soon arrived. I remembered the consequences. I listened to my body this time. I went home and took a nap. I even woke up feeling somewhat refreshed and headed back to the office. While the rest of the day proceeded without incident, the next morning did not.

I was once again unable to muster the energy needed to get out of bed and get ready for the day. It was not for lack of willpower. I just did not have the energy. This experience quickly joined the ranks of the “new normal.”

The Burden of Suffering

A friend messaged me when I first publicly shared my cancer diagnosis. He had heard me say, “Jesus is inviting me to walk a very particular Way of the Cross with Him.” His message was simple: “When you fall, remember that Jesus fell three times too.”

We had started praying for the grace to suffer well at the onset of my journey. Somewhere along the way, the fruit of that prayer became harder to recognize. I couldn’t help but wonder where the grace had gone. Was God no longer offering it or was I failing to receive it? Frustration had replaced patience. I went from viewing my brain mass as “just another thing” to constantly questioning “why” within a matter of weeks.

“Jesus, why are you allowing this?”

Peace That Does Not Depend on Answers

Another constant throughout my illness was sacramental anointing. Our parish regularly offered Anointing of the Sick during a Mass on the first Saturday of the month. Several priest friends had come to anoint me. A good friend had made arrangements for the Archbishop of Saint Louis to anoint soon after I was discharged from the neuro unit. It just so happened that his schedule best aligned with this period of desolation.

The ritual itself is fairly straightforward. It includes asking for God’s mercy, asking for healing, and asking for assistance to bear the burden of suffering. We ask God, if it be His will, to heal us of our ailments. We also ask Him to prepare us to be with Him in Heaven when this earthly life has ended.

The ritual began with the Archbishop offering a seemingly simple greeting.

“Peace be with you.”

As the ritual continued, I was struck by the familiar words of the prayer as the Archbishop anointed my forehead and hands with the Oil of the Infirmed.

“Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up. Amen.”

So much of our prayer had been focused on physical healing. We were constantly petitioning that God would remove the cancer. Prayers were added that the mass in my brain would be also be healed. The ritual did not discount these intercessions, but focused on a higher priority.

We returned to a question of trust. Did I trust the efficacy of these words? Our Lord granted the Church, and the bishops and priests of the Church, the authority to act in the person of Christ when administering the sacraments. The Archbishop, a successor to the apostles, possessed the fullness of Holy Orders when conferring the Sacrament. If he was offering the peace of Christ and asking the Lord to assist me with the grace of the Holy Spirit, how could our Lord refuse to pour out peace and grace?

My friend texted me later in the evening to thank me for allowing him to be present and pray with us. He asked how I was feeling. I shared with him that I was tired, but very much at peace following the anointing. I didn’t believe it was coincidental. It was the efficacy of the Sacrament. It was the power of prayer. It was the trust that hope gives, reminding us that Heaven is greater than any melancholy or suffering we might be enduring at the present time.

Reflection Questions

1. Where in your life are you able to do something — but perhaps should not?

2. How do you typically respond when your limits feel imposed rather than chosen?

3. Do you find it easier to accept incapacity or to obey restraint?

4. Where might God be inviting you to receive grace rather than prove endurance?

5. What does “peace” mean to you when answers are still absent?

Series: Don’t Waste Your Suffering

“That’s the better brand of bed. At least I’ll get some rest.”

These were the words I spoke to my wife as they wheeled me into a hospital room sometime just before 3:00 am on Wednesday, February 12, 2025. It was not a planned visit. But there we were.

How did we get here?

The preceding weeks were relatively calm. I had finally found a peace as I waited for the next MRCP scan of my liver. Optimism was beginning to return. Things felt stable. Perhaps — just perhaps — the scan would show no growth and we would be scheduling liver surgery sometime in the spring of 2025. January had come to a close. February had started. We were now less than a month away from scan day.

Things changed within a few days.

It started with a headache as I was leaving the house to pickup one of our kids from my in-laws’ house. Headaches had become a frequent experience. Their frequency increased as I journeyed further into my cancer journey. As I left my in-laws’ house, something else changed.

Have you ever had dental work? There’s a particular feeling — the strange, fading numbness as anesthetic wears off after dental work. That was the feeling that suddenly radiated throughout my right cheek. It was accompanied by some minor pain in my right thigh and my right forearm. This was not normal.

I called a good friend who worked as a nurse and was married to a doctor. We talked through the familiar “does Adam need the ER?” checklist. Things seemed to settle down almost as quickly as they had started. I made the decision to stay home with the intention of calling the doctor first thing in the morning. The rest of the evening was uneventful.

I called my doctor the next morning and he was able to get me into the office later that afternoon. The symptoms had returned off and on throughout the day. He performed some neuro checks and was satisfied with the results. He did not think I was having a stroke. Rather, the symptoms were consistent with hemiplegic migraines. Confirmation was rather simple. He offered me samples of a migraine medication and said the symptoms should abate within 40-60 minutes of taking the medication if the diagnosis was correct. We would also schedule an outpatient brain scan just to be safe. I took the medication before leaving the exam room before putting on my coat and preparing to leave. Just before I opened to exam room door, I asked if there was anything else I needed to keep in mind.

“Yes,” the doctor answered. “Go straight to the emergency room if anything gets worse or if the symptoms don’t respond to the medication.”

And that’s exactly what happened.

We were going to the grocery store a few days after I saw my doctor. I suddenly started experiencing intense vertigo. The dizziness was so severe that I could not stand without assistance. I took the migraine medication thinking it was just another symptom, but it did not provide any relief. I turned to Beth and said, “I think we need to call your parents, have them meet us to get the kids, and go the emergency room.”

Not the “Normal” Experience

Most of what we had been through at this point would not be considered “normal”. Cancer diagnoses are becoming more and more frequent, but the changes in lifestyle that result from symptoms, treatments, surgery, etc. are far from normal. Things that once would have merited an office visit or trip to urgent care now meant a trip to the emergency room. It had become a familiar experience, one that bordered on becoming “normal”.

Most times, my visits to the emergency room were accompanied by Beth, my parents, or both and went something like this:

“It’s good that you came, Mr. Wright. The good news is that we ran some scans and tests and did not find anything alarming. We are going to discharge you and recommend you follow-up with your doctor/oncologist (choose one or both).”

This visit was a little different. I don’t remember the doctor’s exact words, but they were something like this:

“It’s good that you came, Mr. Wright. The good news is that we ran a CT and an MRI and you are not having a stroke. The scans do show a mass on your right temporal lobe that we did not see last June. We would like to admit you for observation and testing to determine what this mass is.”

I wasn’t sure what Beth or my parents were thinking at the time. It was now past 1:00 am. Through some grace, I had detached from any fear in that moment. I just wanted to sleep. My biggest concern at this point was which brand of bed I would find waiting for me in the hospital room when they took me upstairs. This particular hospital had two different makes of hospital bed. One is significantly more comfortable than the other.

A tech came just before 3:00 am and brought me upstairs to the neuro unit. Beth and my parents followed close behind. We approached the door to the room I had been assigned. I glanced inside and chuckled.

“What?” Beth asked.

“That’s the better brand of bed. At least I’ll get some rest.”

Just another thing…

This admission came just shy of ten months since my first emergency room visit. We didn’t know much in that moment. I knew I was tired. Like so many moments in the journey so far, there was an unexpected grace found in this moment. Detachment.

The doctors narrowed their focus over the next twenty-four hours. They had come to the conclusion that it was one of two possibilities. Either my neuroendocrine cancer had metastasized to my brain (extremely rare) or I had developed a cavernous malformation (CVM) — an abnormal cluster of blood vessels slowly leaking and creating pressure on the surrounding brain tissue (also rare). Metastasis to the brain would almost certainly have come with a poor prognosis. A CVM could lead to a stroke or seizures. Neither prospect was a good one, and yet I was somehow at peace in that moment.

I couldn’t help but think of everything that had happened leading up to this point. It started with a week full of visits to urgent care, the doctor’s office, and the emergency room that ultimately lead to a hospital admission. I was discharged with orders for a follow-up liver biopsy. The biopsy confirmed a malignant tumor. I was diagnosed with stage four neuroendocrine tumors of the small intestine.

A planned hemicolectomy to remove the primary tumor was unexpectedly pushed ahead of schedule due to a blockage at my terminal ileum. The treatments that usually involve minimal side effects brought “intolerable” side effects. The planned liver surgery was no longer an option. There were multiple visits to the emergency room for anxiety induced chest tightness and breathing problems. Perhaps it was delusional, but this mass in my brain was just another thing in a growing list of maladies.

The following days did not bring many answers. A discharge plan was in place. I was discharged with some new medications. I would have another brain MRI in the coming weeks. A neurosurgeon would then meet with me to discuss options. Everything followed what had become a very familiar pattern.

I was very content with the discharge plan. I could go back home and resume what little normalcy I still had in life. More than anything, it meant that I could be with Beth and the kids.

It’s Your plan, Lord. I am going to sleep.

I was reminded of a favorite story about Saint Pope John XXIII who convened the Second Vatican Council. He had the weight of the Church on his shoulders at a time of great civil upheaval. There were many questions about the relevancy of the faith. It is said that he would nightly detach from the pressures and anxieties of his pontificate with a simple bedtime prayer, “it’s your Church, Lord. I am going to sleep.”

It turns out my priest friend was right when he said, “sometimes the catechesis is in the doing.” The lessons of the previous nine months ultimately brought me to a place of trust. The stakes were been high. My ultimate prognosis was completely unknown as we worked to discover what was growing inside my brain. But the trust came easy this time. I had confidence that God knew what he was about. It was easy to pray like John XIII.

“It’s your plan, Lord. I am going to sleep.”

Reflection Questions

1. When uncertainty enters your life, do you instinctively grasp for control — or retreat into fear?

2. What would it look like to say, “It’s Your plan, Lord. I am going to sleep,” in your current circumstances?

3. Is there something you are carrying that God may be asking you to set down for the night?

4. Have you experienced peace that did not make logical sense?

5. What would trust look like for you — not in theory, but tonight?

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"Don't Waste Your Suffering"

Active surveillance is an unsettling term.

Every other illness in my life had been met with action—tests, treatments, procedures, surgery. Something was always done.

This time, the plan was to do nothing.

The doctors would watch. They would wait. And they would intervene only if something changed.

Twelve weeks eventually passed. Some days felt longer than others. Some weeks seemed to pass faster than the week before. We had successfully watched and waited for three months without new symptoms of cancer growth. It was now time for another MRCP to make the best observation possible.

An Unexpected Phone Call

Despite the planned “inactivity”, I still had monthly appointments with my oncologist. Each was an opportunity to check-in, ask questions, and confirm that we wanted to keep moving forward with active surveillance. I knew that I would have an appointment with my oncologist in December following the MRCP. It was planned. We would go over the results together and make a determination about what would happen next.

I was somewhat surprised when the patient portal app notified me of an upcoming telehealth appointment with the hepatobiliary surgeon. What was left to talk about? Surgery was not an option. The number of tumors seen on my scan made success unlikely. The surgeon was not willing to offer surgery as an option. I did have a few questions about a symptom that had become rather annoying. Perhaps she could assist in finding a remedy for that.

The appointment started like any other. The surgeon asked how I had been doing since the last time we spoke. She asked about any new symptoms or changes of any kind. I shared that I was surprised she had setup the appointment and told her I did have a few questions.

My first question was about the appointment itself. I was happy to speak with her, but I still did not understand the reason for the call. Everything discussed to this point had been covered by my oncologist. I was not prepared for what happened next.

The surgeon started discussing my most recent MRCP scan. She reminded me that in April we thought we saw five tumors. We recalled my first appointment with her where I learned what we see in a scan should normally would be doubled in preparing for surgery. They usually find at least twice as many tumors once they get inside and scan the liver with an ultrasound probe. She reminded me that in September we saw eight tumors on the MRCP and how they verified there were actually eight on my original scan.

“Adam, here is the remarkable thing. Your tumors have not grown since April.”

She was encouraged that not only had the existing tumors remained unchanged and no new tumors had grown, but also that this happened while I was foregoing treatment for several months. It wasn’t unheard of, but she gave me the impression it was less common.

“What’s the bottom line?” I asked.

“Adam, this gives me more confidence that the eight tumors we see are the only tumors present. I would be willing to offer the surgery if your next scan in March yields the same results.”

Renewed Fervor for an Unchanged Intention

Our prayers throughout the journey had been fluid. At first we were praying the symptoms were caused by something simple and easily remedied. Our prayers during the biopsy phase were that the tumors would be benign. Once malignancy was confirmed, we prayed that it would be curable. We prayed that the planned surgeries would successfully remove all of the cancer from my body. And we prayed for a miracle when the offer to perform liver surgery was rescinded.

Throughout all of this, the intention had remained the same. “…we ask for the grace of complete physical healing.” Praise God if He wanted to provide a miraculous cure. Praise God for the gift of modern medicine if the cure would be achieved through surgeries and therapies. We were happy to leave the “how” up to God. We were very particular about the “what”.

It is difficult to describe the hesitation I felt inside. Wasn’t this good news after all?

I wanted to be excited. If nothing else, the cancer had not grown over the past three months even though I was not receiving the treatments. Surely we could breathe a sigh of relief over that fact. But now we had to see if it would remain stable for another three months. The doctors were very clear. Anything was possible. That is all we know with certainty.

Hope of a cure had left me that October. A large part of me didn’t want to hold out for a miracle. A miracle would take the control out of my hands. A surgery may or not be successful, but at least we could say we tried. What if God did not grant a miraculous cure? Would that mean He did not try or that He did not want to grant one? And if not, why not?

I was not ready to hope again. I wanted surgery to be possible, but I did not feel the strength inside me to raise my hopes and then have them dashed in three months.

There was a pragmatic attitude that could be adopted. The phone call with the surgeon did not actually change anything. She was unwilling to offer surgery prior to the call. The prospect of surgery being a possible option in the future did not change the fact that it was not an option that day.

A friend and I were discussing the update a few days after the telehealth appointment. He asked if we were now praying that the next scan would allow for surgery. I hesitated to answer. My friend was curious. Why would we not pray for this outcome? After all, our overarching intention had not changed. We were asking God to grant me complete physical healing. Why start being selective about how we wanted God to answer this prayer?

My friends admonitions were clear. Focus on the outcome, not the method. Keep asking God for complete physical healing. Let Him decide how He would answer that prayer.

They have no wine. I have cancer.

As I recall this part of the journey, I think of a homily I once read by Pope Benedict XVI given at Kapellplatz, Altötting, on September 11, 2006 . He was preaching about Jesus’s first public miracle at the Wedding Feast of Cana.

“Mary does not really ask something of Jesus: she simply says to him: ‘They have no wine’ (Jn 2:3).”

I had never considered this fact before reading Pope Benedict’s words. I had missed the noticeable absence of a question mark. Mary had not asked Jesus to do anything.

Pope Benedict continued.

“Now the bride and groom find themselves in trouble, and Mary simply says this to Jesus. She doesn't ask for anything specific, much less that Jesus exercise his power, perform a miracle, produce wine. She simply hands the matter over to Jesus and leaves it to him to decide about what to do.”

Pope Benedict reminds us that the Blessed Virgin Mary gives a beautiful example of trust. I had cancer. I had been told it was inoperable. Then I was told surgical resection might once again be an option. I did not know what to do. Was I prepared to ask for nothing and hand the matter over to Jesus? Did I trust Him enough to leave it in His hands?

A Prayer from a Favorite Saint

St. John Henry Newman has long been one of my favorite saints (even before he was canonized). His writings are treasures of faith. Among his writings, there is this beautiful reflection.

“God has created me to do Him some definite service. He has committed some work to me which He has not committed to another. I have my mission. I may never know it in this life, but I shall be told it in the next. I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection between persons. He has not created me for naught. I shall do good; I shall do His work. I shall be an angel of peace, a preacher of truth in my own place, while not intending it if I do but keep His commandments. Therefore, I will trust Him, whatever I am, I can never be thrown away. If I am in sickness, my sickness may serve Him, in perplexity, my perplexity may serve Him. If I am in sorrow, my sorrow may serve Him. He does nothing in vain. He knows what He is about. He may take away my friends. He may throw me among strangers. He may make me feel desolate, make my spirits sink, hide my future from me. Still, He knows what He is about.” -St. John Henry Newman

In the midst of my uncertainty, He knows what He is about. In my refusal to hope, He knows what He is about. In my fear, He knows what He is about.

Reflection Questions

1. Where in your life are you being asked to “watch and wait” rather than act?

2. Is there an outcome you are still willing to pray for—but no longer feel ready to hope for?

3. Do you find it easier to trust God with methods or with outcomes?

4. What would it look like for you to say, “They have no wine,” and leave the response to Christ?

5. Is there a place where fear has quietly shaped the way you pray?

6. How do you ask God to help you overcome fear?

If one of these questions speaks to you and you’re willing, I’d love to hear your reflection in the comments. Your words may help someone else who is learning how to wait.

How long can you endure something that makes you miserable in the hope that something better will come along—even if its time has not come?

That was a question I started asking myself after my second cancer treatment. A different injection drug for my third treatment gave us hope that the side effects would be less severe. New prescriptions to help with the potential side effects gave us hope that I would better tolerate this round of treatment.

Those hopes were short-lived.

Hope of a Cure

In September of 2024, I asked my oncologist about the current plan. The hepatobiliary surgeon wanted me to receive 4-6 treatments before performing surgery to remove the metastatic tumors from my liver. Was this a hard and fast number? Significant parts of our original treatment plan had already been modified due to complications. Would it be possible to move up the surgery date, remove the tumors, and, possibly, not forego further treatments? My oncologist was willing to modify the plan. A new MRCP scan was ordered (an enhanced MRI) to see if the lesions in my liver had grown in number, size, or both. I was told the tumor board would convene to discuss my results. The tentative plan was to schedule liver surgery as soon as possible.

It was now time to wait once more.

In the midst of this, I received a jury summons. I did not hesitate to call the hepatobiliary surgeon’s office to request a medical note saying I would be having surgery and would be unable to serve. The secretary told me that she would ask the doctor and I should receive something soon. “Soon” is a relative term, and as several business days passed without a response, I began to worry that something was wrong.

I inquired again. Another message was taken. Soon I received word that the surgeon wanted to speak with me about this at our upcoming appointment. This was another clue that something was amiss.

Hope Taken Away

I soon was able to meet with the surgeon for an in-person appointment. It did not go how I expected. The surgeon informed me that my recent MRCP scan now showed eight lesions in my liver instead of the five previously seen when I was first hospitalized in April. The surgeon gently reminded me what we had initially discussed when I first saw her for a consult earlier in the summer. Neuroendocrine tumors often metastasize to the liver and can be difficult to see on scans. Experience has shown that it is prudent to double the number of tumors seen on a scan when planning for surgery. This meant that seeing eight lesions likely meant there were at least sixteen tumors present in my liver. A successful surgery would remove a high percentage of the tumors without causing too much damage to the liver itself. In her estimation, success was extremely unlikely. She was no longer willing to offer surgery as an option. Beth and I maintained a calm façade, but we were both silently devastated. If there was any good news, it was that they went back and reviewed my initial MRCP from April and found all eight lesions on that scan (radiologists initially did not count three) and that all eight remained unchanged. The surgeon sent me back to my oncologist who would guide what happened next.

We saw my oncologist two days later. We certainly carried a heavy weight into the appointment. My oncologist stated the new goal. Rather than surgical excision to make me cancer-free, the goal was now to help me live a long life with cancer—and ultimately die of something else. How long of a life? There was no way of knowing. Some patients only live months, many live five years and beyond, and some live for decades. The doctor reminded us that all pathology reports showed my previously biopsied and excised tumor materials to be the slowest growing grade assigned to neuroendocrine tumors. He assured us that we had time to process the news and make some decisions about resuming treatments as a defense against future growth.

Ultimately, we decided to forego treatment for a three month period and do a repeat MRCP in December. By skipping treatment in September in hopes of surgery, we had unknowingly gotten a jump start on the plan. Treatment would be skipped again in October and November. A new MRCP was ordered before we left the office. This would give us a good baseline of how quickly the tumors in my liver were growing, if at all. It would also allow any new tumors time to show themselves. We could then make better decisions about what course of treatment to begin and, more importantly, when to begin treatments.

I struggled in the moment, and still struggle, to find adequate words that describe the emptiness and brokenness felt in these moments and the months that followed. We had a plan. I would have surgeries. The cancer would be removed surgically. It was all possible until it wasn’t. Hope had been taken away.

Some twenty years earlier, a Christian songwriter named Matt Redman wrote a song called “Blessed Be Your Name.” The lyrics draw from the Book of Job in the Old Testament. The first verse begins by proclaiming that the singer will bless God’s name in times of plenty. It continues by iterating that the singer will also bless the name of the Lord in a place of desolation. This is reinforced in the chorus. It is a song I’ve used as a musician when leading prayer for youth groups, retreats, prayer gatherings, and more. The bridge is taken from Job 1:21, “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!”

The lyrics of the song and the prayer of Job are easy to pray in times of comfort, abundance, and consolation. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to pray them after learning I would have cancer for the rest of my life. But like the prayer from Blessed Chiara Badano (“It’s for You, Jesus; If you want it, I want it too.”), there was value in praying this prayer from Job: “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!”

I need to be careful in how I say this. Sometimes it comes across as me saying “God gave me cancer” and “God took away any hope of a cure”. I don’t particularly think God directly did these things as much as He allowed them to happen through His permissive will. He permitted me to have cancer. He permitted hope of a cure to be removed. Why? So that I could encounter Him in my brokenness and receive the grace He offers that is more powerful than any cancer. Once again, He was inviting me into deeper intimacy with Him. It was almost as if He was saying, “Adam, you’ve trusted me to bring you this far. Will you trust me to take you even farther? Do you trust that I can work through this?”

“We can ignore even pleasure. But pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”

― C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

This was the challenge before us. Did we have the courage and the grace necessary to keep praising God in the midst of this turmoil.

The physical manifestations of stress and anxiety that followed this change in plan were intense. There were two episodes where the symptoms sent me back to the emergency room. In one instance, I could not breathe normally and my oxygen saturation would not stay above 93%. In the other, I was having incredible tightness and pain in my chest and upper back. Tests quickly ruled out anything acute. The providers diagnosed each episode as an intense spell of anxiety. They kindly reminded me that I had every reason to be anxious and encouraged me to follow up with my primary care provider to see how the anxiety could be managed. They were confident it wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.

St. Paul exhorts us in his letter to the Philippians to “have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7). How could Paul say this? How could Job, who literally had everything but his wife taken from him, say “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord”?

Perhaps the answer began with something as simple as the Morning Offering prayer that I had begun praying daily in 2020 when I started hosting a morning radio show. Four and a half years had laid a foundation of offering “my prayers, works, joys and sufferings” to Jesus through the Immaculate Heart of Mary. A priest friend once remarked, “sometimes the catechesis is in the doing.” How do I go about having no anxiety and blessing the name of the Lord? The more I prayed with this question, the more I came to see that it wasn’t a matter of never having anxiety. Rather, it was an invitation to surrender that anxiety to Jesus when it would come.

“Jesus, I am anxious about this right now. What if the cancer gets worse? What if my time is short? Would you please take this anxiety from me and pour out Your grace upon me? You have shown time and time again that You are with us. Please help me to trust that You are with us now.”

“Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. In all circumstances give thanks, for this is the will of God for you in Christ Jesus.”

— 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

The Ultimate Hope of Healing

At some point in this part of the journey, one of our children asked me a difficult question. The weight of our family’s cross impacted our five children in different ways and she bore a heavy burden. It was not easy for her to accept that I had been diagnosed in the first place and now she carried the weight of hearing that I could not have the tumors removed.

“Dad, will you ever be cured?”

A beautiful conversation followed. We pivoted from the word “cured” and instead focused on the word “healing”. We talked about what it meant to be healed. The conversation ultimately focused on one point: the ultimate healing we could ever hope for is found in Heaven. We focused on Pope St. John Paul II’s letter Salvifici Doloris where he writes, “It can be said that man suffers whenever he experiences any kind of evil” (SD 7). He later continues, “We could say that man suffers because of a good in which he does not share, from which in a certain sense he is cut off, or of which he has deprived himself.” Ultimately, what is that good? Heaven. And we’re not there yet.

Our petitions shifted during this time. We asked God to miraculously remove the cancer from my Body. We prayed that, if He willed the cancer to remain, He would grant me decades of life to spend with Beth and the children. More than anything, we prayed that He would use this to make me a saint so that I could be with Him in heaven for eternity.

If I could make it to heaven, the suffering of cancer would no longer have hold over me. The scars of surgery would be transformed. There would be no room for anxiety in the presence of God. His love would occupy every ounce of my soul. The more we focused on this goal of sainthood, the less concerned we became with the possibility of surgical excision.

“Lord, you have given us an opportunity to grow closer to you through this cancer. You have allowed our hope of a surgical cure to be taken away so that we may put our hope in You. Blessed be Your name!”

Reflection Questions

1. When a hope you were holding onto was taken away, how did you respond—emotionally and spiritually?

2. Where in your life are you being asked to trust God without knowing how the story will end?

3. Is there a difference between asking God for a cure and asking Him for healing? How do you understand that difference?

4. What anxieties do you find hardest to surrender to Jesus—and why?

5. How might God be inviting you into deeper intimacy through a disappointment or loss you did not choose?

6. What would it look like to place your ultimate hope not in an outcome, but in heaven?

If one of these questions stirred something in you and you feel comfortable sharing, you’re welcome to reflect in the comments. Your words may be a gift to someone else walking a similar road.

Have you ever willingly chosen something you knew would make you miserable—trusting that it was the only path toward healing? For me, that choice was always the dentist. I don’t have great teeth, I don’t like needles, and I grow restless in the chair whenever serious work is required. Still, I go—because the alternative is far worse. What I didn’t know then was how much those small, uncomfortable acts of endurance would prepare me for a far more difficult “yes” called cancer treatment. Only later did I begin to wonder if God had already been training my heart for suffering I could not yet see.

Read the previous post in this series.

Injection Therapy

Neuroendocrine tumors are a different form of cancer. Chemotherapy is not the usual first line treatment. My oncologist had explained to me that he wanted me to start a monthly injection of a somatostatin analogue called Lanreotide. I had already learned a little about the injections. They are a hormone analogue that have been successful in halting tumor growth. They do not shrink or kill tumors, but they could potentially stop growth for a period measured in years.

Author’s Note: Unpleasant side effects are part of the story. I do share some “bathroom issues” in this post. I do my best to avoid graphic descriptions, but I ultimately feel that the side effects are a necessary part of this post.

Like any drug, somatostatin analogues have a risk of side effects. My oncologist went through them with me before I signed the consent for treatment. Some patients experience fatigue following the injection. Others may have a mix of diarrhea and steatorrhea (loose, clay-colored, oily stools). Allergic reactions are also possible. My oncologist said that some people do not experience side effects, the majority of people have very mild side effects lasting a day or two, and others have severe side effects. There was no way of knowing which group I would be in before receiving the injection.

The plan at this point was simple. I would start SSA injections in June of 2024, receiving an injection every 28 days for a course of 4-6 injections. My response, and more importantly my tumors’ response, to these injections would dictate when and how we would proceed with surgery to remove the metastatic disease from my liver.

I received my first Lanreotide injection on June 26, 2024.

We Were NOT Ready for This

The first few hours after my injection felt normal. There was some lingering pain at the injection site, but that was the extent. I left the cancer center and headed into work. After about two hours at work, my assistant asked me if I was feeling alright. She mentioned that I was starting to get a “glassy” look in my eyes and that she could see my energy was depleted. She accurately described exactly how I felt. Brain fog was quickly taking hold of me. I went home and went to bed.

I woke up after a few hours and did not have much of an appetite. Beth prepared me some scrambled eggs and urged me to eat them to get some protein into my system. I did. I soon returned to bed. Nausea was starting to take hold and I was hopeful I could sleep my way through it.

I distinctly remember waking up in the early morning with an urgent need to use the bathroom. I made it to the bathroom with what felt like seconds to spare, but then nothing happened. I remained seated for a few moments as I did not have enough energy to stand. Suddenly, everything moved. It felt as if my entire digestive system emptied itself at once. This was my first experience with steatorrhea. It would not be my last. I returned to our bedroom and soon was in the throes of severe abdominal cramping. I somehow managed to get back to sleep.

This cycle repeated several times throughout the early morning. I notified my boss that I would not be able to come to work. I called my oncologist the next morning and his nurse assured me they would send in prescriptions to help with the nausea and cramping. She suggested an over the counter medicine to help with the steatorrhea. The medications helped alleviate most of the symptoms. The fatigue persisted. We were hopeful the worst had passed.

On June 28, 2024, I was still incredibly tired. The side effects had lessened, but enough remained to keep me home again. A new side effect crept in that afternoon. I described my first post-treatment migraine as “the worst headache I’ve ever had in my life”. It was bad enough that the oncologist covering the after-hours call sent me to the emergency department out of concern I could be having an aneurysm or stroke. A head CT showed no evidence of either. I was given non-narcotic pain medicine and was sent home. By the time I woke up the next morning, the nausea and cramping had abated. My trips to the bathroom were returning to normal. The migraine had ended and showed no sign of returning.

This cycle became the new “normal” for the days following each injection. Stronger anti-nausea medication and a combination of migraine medication supplemented with caffeine also helped keep me out of the emergency department after my third injection. There was a cost associated with these medicines. Particularly burdensome was the new anti-nausea medication. It was known to cause excessive drowsiness. I fell asleep within two hours of taking it. Beth had to wake me up around 7 pm to encourage me to eat something. I didn’t wake up again until 10 am the next day. I ate a small meal at that time and went back to sleep. I finally woke up for a few hours around 5 pm.

Choosing to Endure

“Why am I doing this?”

That is a question I asked myself with each injection and its side effects. Certainly there was something else we could try that wouldn’t be as miserable. I did not want to do this.

My good friend Brian came to visit me in the hospital while I was waiting to have my first surgery. At a certain point he shared a story about a gentleman who was also going to undergo surgery. The gentleman had been talking with a friend and in the course of the conversation mentioned, “I just pray God would take care of my family if something should happen to me.” The friend replied, “who do you think has been taking care of them this entire time?”

I started thinking about my vocation as a husband and a father. God called me and He called Beth to marriage. We fell in love and, feeling called to the vocation of marriage, chose to marry one another. As part of our vocation, we lovingly welcomed five children into the world and surrendered one lost in the womb to the merciful love of God. This has been “Plan A” for our call to holiness. This is how God has worked to care for our family up until this point. This is why I consented to the treatment.

Beth and the children were certainly reason enough to endure the side effects that came with each injection, but there was something more that could be done.

The Redemptive Power of Suffering

Another friend had reminded me of a quote from St. Teresa of Avila. “The lukewarm do not embrace the cross; the merely drag it along.”

What does it mean to embrace the cross? In answering this question, I think of another quote from the late Cardinal Archbishop of New York. John Cardinal O’Connor was known for saying “Do not waste your suffering.”

Suffering is something we all encounter in our lives. Sufferings can vary in their difficulty. Some are great. Others are small. But all suffering can be offered to God. Whether it’s for our own sanctification or for a soul in purgatory, we can make a gift of our sufferings and do some good for the Church and the world.

Many of us have a favorite story or scene from a movie where a hero offers himself or herself in place of the one whom they love. Beyond the fiction, real life is filled with these stories as well. For instance, take the story of St. Maximilian Kolbe. St. Maximilian Kolbe was arrested by the Gestapo during World War II and ultimately ended up in the Auschwitz concentration camp. A group of men were chosen by the guards and sentenced to death by starvation. St. Maximilian Kolbe was not among those selected, but offered himself in place of one of the prisoners who had a family. He was executed by lethal injection after enduring starvation and dehydration for two weeks.

The Church teaches that the effects of sin affect us all. It does not matter if we are the ones committing the particular sins, which we all do in the course of life. Whether it is the stains of original sin, the consequences of our sins after baptism, or the sins of those around us, the effects can be seen far and wide. Look at the disparity between the poor and the wealthy. Look at the starvation that happens throughout the world. Look at the genocides that have been and still are committed in the world. Look at the scourge of violence in our culture. The list goes on and on.

Christ is the remedy for the effects of sin. He alone offers us salvation through His passion, death, and resurrection. We cannot be saved without Him and He does not need us to accomplish His salvific work. And yet… He invites us to participate in the work of the Cross. He invites us to unite our sufferings to His so that they can be offered in reparation for sin. Whether it is for a particular intention, for a soul in purgatory, or for our own purification, Jesus offers us an opportunity to give meaning to our suffering as we offer it to Him.

For years, the phrase “offer it up” seemed rather cliche to me. It felt more like a polite way of saying, “get over it.” The side effects of my injections became the catalyst to abandon this view and get intentional. After all, I wasn’t able to leave the house and I wasn’t able to do much around the house either. So I started listing off intentions with each side effect.

There are some great stories of heroic suffering in the Church. St. Maximilian Kolbe is one.

I also think of St. Jose Sanchez del Rio who was offered the chance to escape execution by firing squad if he would renounce Christ. He instead proclaimed, “Vivo, Cristo Rey!” (“long live Christ the King!”).

Venerable Servant of God Emil Kapaun served as an army chaplain during the Korean war and had an opportunity to evacuate before his fellow troops were captured. He chose to stay so that he could minister to them in the P.O.W. camp where he brought hope, saved lives, and touched souls before ultimately dying in the camp. As his captors took him to the “camp hospital” where he would be left to die, Fr. Kapaun turned to the prisoners and said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m going where I always wanted to go, and when I get there, I’ll say a prayer for all of you.”

These two heroes offered something extraordinary for the sake of our Lord. I, however, found myself in the bathroom offering nausea, cramps, and insufferable bowel movements for our Lord. I felt ridiculous. But then there was that phrase from Cardinal O’Connor exhorting us not to waste our suffering. I started thinking about my sufferings from the perspective of a soul on the cusp of purgatory. What if I was in their place? Would I really say, “Lord, I want to leave purgatory and get into heaven, but could You pick a different suffering? Does it have to be his visit to the bathroom?”

No. Heaven is heaven. I would happily take the ridiculous if it helped me cross the finish line into an eternity with God.

We do not usually get to choose the crosses we bear. We can choose to embrace them. We can choose to offer them for some greater good. Even if they seem ridiculous, we can turn our sufferings over to God and leave it to Him to know what to do.

Offering my side effects from each injection in prayer did not lessen their severity. But God’s grace transformed them, giving them meaning and purpose. Through this grace, God gave me the strength to endure and suffer with Him for the good of souls.

Reflection Questions

1. Where in my life am I avoiding something difficult that could lead to deeper healing—physical, spiritual, or relational?

2. Have I ever chosen short-term misery for a long-term good? What sustained me through it?

3. What crosses in my life feel small, embarrassing, or “ridiculous”—and do I believe God can use those too?

4. Where might God be inviting me to stop dragging the cross and begin embracing it?

5. What suffering am I being asked to consent to—not because I want it, but because love requires it?

If this stirred something in you and you’re willing, feel free to share a brief reflection in the comments. Your story may be a quiet encouragement to someone else.

Preparation for surgery began the moment I had been admitted to the hospital. My diet was restricted. Lab tests were ordered. A cocktail of sports drink and laxatives was mixed to clean out my intestines and reduce risk of infection.

Spiritual preparation was also underway. In addition to the graces God had already been sending, a priest friend came to hear my confession and administer sacramental anointing. Beth and I spent time in prayer together. Friends came to visit and pray as well.

I was given special instructions for showering the night before surgery. The hospital tech would carefully change all of my linens while I showered. I could no longer wear my own clothes. Infection control was now the predominant concern. It would be “designer” gowns from here on out.

The morning of surgery was a fairly relaxed one. I was not the first case of the day which afforded me the luxury of a slow pace. The only agenda items were to wipe down my entire body with special disinfecting wipes, don a new gown, relax in bed with another set of fresh linens, and be wheeled down to the pre-operative area at some point. I was able to do all of these things without much effort at all.

Even my journey to the operating room was fairly easy. They wheeled me into the operating room on a gurney, but asked if I could transfer myself to the operating table. It was an easy slide from the gurney to the table and I was happy to do it myself. Up until this point, being a surgical patient was pretty easy.

One more simple task remained. It was time to take a deep breath from the mask they put on me, relax as the IV meds were pushed, and count backwards from ten. I think I made it to seven.

Waking Up

I don’t really remember waking up in the PACU (post-anesthesia care unit). I vaguely remember being wheeled into my hospital room. Somehow I was already in my hospital bed when they wheeled me into the room. I hurt. My abdomen was incredibly sore. My shoulders had a radiating pain. I felt nauseous. My nurse told me to rest. She gave me a button to press if the pain became overwhelming. Shift change was fast approaching and a new nurse would be checking in with me in just a few minutes.

Soon, a new nurse came into my room and introduced herself. She would be my nurse for the night shift. I didn’t anticipate we would interact much. I felt miserable and wanted nothing more than to rest. She had a different plan.

“Adam, the doctors want you to get up and walk within four hours of your surgery. We need to do this by 10:00 pm. When would you like to walk?”

This was ludicrous in my mind. I did not want to walk. Nor did I want to sit up in bed. I just wanted to lie still and try to sleep the pain away. This was not an option.

I proposed she go check on all of her other patients and then come back. I wouldn’t be ready, but, hopefully, she would have more time to spend with me if she had already settled her other patients. She agreed to the plan.

Shortly before 9:00 pm, my nurse arrived with a gait belt, a walker, a wheelchair, and a plan. I would sit up in the bed, swing my legs to the side, plant them on the floor and stand up. I would grab the walker. She would hold onto me with the gait belt wrapped around my waist (while also managing my IV pole). Beth would follow us with the wheel chair, ready to scoop me up and take me back to the room if I necessary.

We did not make it to step one. I went to sit up in the bed, something I’ve done countless times since I was a baby. The muscles did not work. I could not get my abdominal muscles to function no matter how hard I tried. Trying to use these muscles did nothing more than intensify the pain.

“Adam, can you sit up?”

“I cannot.”

My nurse was prepared for this. Some of my muscles had been cut. Others had been manipulated. It was not a surprise to my nurse that I was unable to sit myself up in the bed. She assisted me, elevating the bed and grabbing my arm.

“Adam, can you turn your body and swing your legs over the side of the bed?”

“Possibly, but I will need help.”

Beth and my nurse each held out an arm for me to grab to stabilize myself. I was able to turn my body and put my feet on the floor. The pain was excruciating.

“Adam, can you stand up?”

I could not.

My nurse grabbed me underneath my shoulder, told me to place my hands on the walker, and helped lift me out of the bed. I was standing and I could not believe it. It was now time to walk.

There was no set distance goal. We were going to walk as far as I could, turn around, and come back to the room. I slowly made it to the door and out into the hallway. I made it about four feet outside of the room and felt like I was going to vomit. I urgently begged to get back to the room as quickly as possible. I wanted to go back in the wheelchair. My nursed assured me we would make it back, but we would be walking.

We did make it back to the bed where they sat me down as I started to dry heave. Both Beth and my nurse did all they could to help me through the heaving. Each contraction of my stomach sent immense waves of pain throughout my body. It was unbearable. Thankfully some antinausea medicine quickly counteracted these lingering effects from the anesthesia and things seemed to settle.

Everything about what we had just done felt like a failure. I could not sit up on my own. I could not get out of bed on my own. I could not walk without assistance. I could not walk more than fifteen feet.

My nurse settled me back in my bed and administered my pain meds. She gave me a button to push when the pain was overwhelming. She told me not to be shy about pressing it. The machine would not allow me to have more medicine than the doctors had prescribed. It was time to try and sleep. More work of recovery would be waiting in the morning.

Once again, I could not.

I tried to sleep, but could not get comfortable. I tried to get comfortable, but could not move on my own to do so. Each attempt brough mounting frustration and increasing pain. The entire night was a cycle of trying, failing, and giving up further attempts.

On top of this, I developed a new problem. I had the hiccups and I could not stop them. I learned that they had inflated my abdomen with carbon dioxide during the surgery so that the surgeon could better see the area of concern. The gas now needed to escape. Some people pass it in the natural way. Others burp to release the excess gas. I had the hiccups for four hours. Each one caused a shooting pain in my abdomen. I was powerless to stop it.

My doctors came in the next morning for rounds. They joked that I must have set a record by pressing the pain button two-hundred eight times. They also shared some upsetting facts.

The doctors made it clear that the only way out of the pain would be through the pain. Walking would help my body process the carbon dioxide faster. This would relieve the shoulder pain where the gas had settled. Walking would also reactivate the abdominal muscles which would reduce some of the abdominal pain. Coming off the narcotic pain medicine would help me heal faster. Narcotic pain medicine can make you tired, causing you to work harder to get up and walk. I would heal, but more drugs very clearly meant things would take more time.

“I know it sounds counterintuitive to do this, but doing the very thing that is making you hurt will actually help you heal faster.”

I did not have much confidence. The entire night had been a lesson in humility. I couldn’t do anything on my own. How would I do this?

They had an answer for this question. Together.

My nurse would walk with me. Beth would help too. My job was to surrender and let them lead me. Would I be willing to let them push me beyond my perceived limits?

Goals were set. It was time to move.

What Love Feels Like

Post-op day one had a simple goal. Get up two times and walk a lap around my side of the unit. Something I would normally be able to do in five minutes or less would now take thirty to forty-five minutes with a great deal of assistance. I knew it had to be done if I was going to heal and return home to Beth and the children.

I had asked my nurse if I could listen to music in my earbuds as we walked. Beth grabbed my phone and I turned to a track from Christian artist TobyMac.

“I am tired, I am drained, but the fight in me remains. I am weary, I am worn, like I’ve never been before. This is harder than I thought, harder than I thought it’d be. Harder than I though, takin’ every part of me…” -Love Feels Like (TobyMac)

By the end of the day shift, I had somehow made it. Two walks were completed. The pain button was taken away. My body was starting to give me subtle clues that the doctors and nurses were right. Getting up to do what seemed impossible was actually making things more tolerable.

Post-op day two had similar goals. We aimed to do four walks around my side of the unit. We wanted me to spend more time sitting in the chair than lying in the bed. God continued to give me the necessary drive to move and heal through the lyrics of TobyMac that now played on repeat with each walk.

Despite the good progress I was making with my walks, there was still much I could not do on my own. I could not get out of bed without assistance. It was incredibly difficult to stand up from the chair in my room without assistance. I had difficulty cleaning myself in the bathroom and required assistance. I was restricted from lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk.

Empty’s Never Felt So Full

“Harder than I thought, so much harder than I thought it’d be, but empty’s never felt so full… Poured out, used up, still givin’, stretching me out to the ends of my limits, this is what love, this is what real love feels like.” -Love Feels Like (TobyMac)

I discharged from the hospital on Saturday, June 1, 2024. The doctors said I had made enough progress in healing that I was able to go home. But two words came home with me.

“I cannot.”

These words haunted every aspect of my life. The physical limitations remained. It was difficult to leave the house. The time I would spend on recovery activities (like walking) would drain me of energy, making me particularly useless for the rest of the day. I was told many times that healing is a process and that the pace is sometimes slow.

I frequently questioned whether or not it would actually progress. What would I have to offer the world? Would I be able to help Beth with the kids? Would I be able to do “dad things” with our family? Would I be able to return to the radio show? They kept telling me yes, but it was difficult to believe in the midst of the trial.

At some point in my radio career, I was introduced to the life of Blessed Chiara Badano. Blessed Chiara was born in 1971 and died at the age of 18 in 1990. She had been diagnosed with osteogenic sarcoma at the age of 16. It is said that she suffered great pain as a result of her cancer. She had a simple prayer that I now treasure.

“It’s for You Jesus. if You want it, I want it too.” -Blessed Chiara Badano

I started to internalize this prayer one night in my hospital bed. But questions came with it.

“Jesus, why do you want it?”

“Jesus, what are you asking of me?”

“Jesus, what am I supposed to do?”

I found answers in my journey with “I cannot.” It’s not that the ceiling tiles of the room split and a voice from Heaven thundered, but several thoughts kept repeating over and over as I asked these questions. Jesus was inviting me to see how dependent I was on Him. He had not left me abandoned. He had come in simple, ordinary ways. He responded through the care of my nurses and medical team. He responded through the graces of our marriage. He responded through the love of our children. He responded through our extended families and through the community that brought us meals and helped with household tasks. There was a very certain reassurance that came to me in prayer.

“I am with you. You are not alone.”

There was a particular day following my discharge where I was well enough to be left home alone while Beth and the children attended a family gathering. I had a hankering for a particular meal. It could not be ordered for delivery. Pride kept me from asking friends if they would be willing to go to the restaurant and pick up this particular meal for me. After all, I had plenty of food at home. Through some grace, I started praying, “Jesus, as much as I want this meal, help me to want You more.”

Perhaps that was it. The time I spent in bed unable to move and the time I spent at home unable to go out both afforded me more time for prayer. I still struggle to adequately put into words the depth of this experience. I spent every ounce of energy I had on the work of healing. I poured out my soul and emptied it before Jesus, asking for some understanding of why He permitted my cancer and this surgery. His grace gave me the strength to invite Him into my brokenness. Somehow, when I was at my lowest, Jesus filled the voids created by my limitations.

As I look back at this first surgery, I recall a specific moment during one of my walks around the unit. There I was, pouring every last ounce of physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual energy into a simple walk down a hallway. It took everything I had to give to make it happen. Sure enough, it happened and within hours I felt a noticeable change in my symptoms. My shoulders hurt less. My abdomen was not as uncomfortable. My confidence was higher. I was not afraid. God asked me to let go of a lot and turn myself over to His care. I emptied myself, and “empty’s never felt so full.”

This reflection is part of an ongoing series of reflections on growing in faith through my journey with suffering.

Read the First Reflection in this Series

Reflection Questions

1. Where in my life am I being asked to say, “I cannot,” instead of forcing myself to push through?

2. What emotions surface when I need to depend on others—and what might God be teaching me there?

3. How has God shown His presence through people caring for me, even in ordinary or uncomfortable ways?

4. What might it look like to surrender today without knowing the outcome?

5. Where might Jesus be saying to me, “I am with you. You are not alone”?

As we continue to walk this road, our family has been deeply aware that every step—whether strong or assisted—is a gift. In gratitude for the many graces God has poured out since this journey began, we invite you to join us in prayer.

The first few weeks of my cancer diagnosis leaned heavily on two words: suspicion, waiting, and confirmation. We left the hospital after my first admission with nothing but suspicion. A mass had been found on my terminal ileum. The biopsy performed via colonoscopy was inconclusive. Suspicion remained. We saw lesions on my liver that were suspicious for metastatic disease, but interventional radiology could not work me into their schedule while I was hospitalized. An outpatient appointment was scheduled with interventional radiology and I was discharged without confirmation of anything. We would have to wait.

I rested at home for a week while waiting for my liver biopsy appointment. I returned to the hospital for the procedure. Once again, I was sent home with suspicion but not confirmation. It was time to wait again.

I vividly remember the day my phone buzzed with a notification that “new biopsy results [were] available” in the online portal. I was sitting in a plush chair in the chapel at the radio studio spending some time in prayer. I was sitting beside one of my favorite images of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I opened the app and saw the words that would change my life: “positive for malignancy; consistent with a neuroendocrine tumor (NET).” We finally had confirmation. The lesion was cancerous.

I took a deep breath, looked towards the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and silently prayed, “Jesus, now we know. I am not ready for this, but I know that You are. Let’s go.”

The next several days were another whirlwind of phone calls and appointments. I returned to my primary care provider who referred me to an oncologist. The oncologist’s office setup my first PET Scan. We waited for the results. Confirmation was given the following day at my first oncology appointment. The official diagnosis was “ Stage IV Neuroendocrine Tumor of the Terminal Ileum with Liver Metastasis.”

Ready or not…

If there is a silver lining to the cycle of suspicion, waiting, and confirmation that we lived between April 26, 2024, and May 21, 2024, it was the time we had to process. We were note surprised when my oncologist told me I had cancer. We were expecting it. In our minds, spiritual preparation for this diagnosis had begun the moment I asked Patty to text me a picture of her Michelle Duppong Prayer Card. It was time for the work to continue.

The prayers were simple.

“Jesus, I am not ready, but You are. Let’s Go.”

“Jesus, help me to trust in You.”

“Jesus, please give me the grace you gave to Michelle as she faced her diagnosis. Help me to suffer half as gracefully as she did and I know we will be alright.”

One of the first phone calls I made following the phone notification that said “malignancy confirmed…” was to a priest friend. I explained the situation and shared that I knew Jesus was inviting me to walk with Him on a very personal “Way of the Cross,” one that I have never walked before. I asked if he could recommend a spiritual director to help prepare me and accompany for this particular journey. I wanted a guide to help keep me focused on the work of the Cross, focused on hope, and ready to prepare me for a holy death should things ever go in that direction.

My spiritual director was a great blessing as I began the journey. He immediately recommended a spiritual writing titled, “Trustful Surrender to Divine Providence.” For whatever reason, God was either willing this cancer to grow in my body or He was permitting it to grow. We did not spend much time discerning which of these was the case. Instead we focused on a much more important question, “Jesus, how are You leading me to deeper intimacy with You through this cancer?”

Father then warned me of a few things I was sure to encounter along the way. Doubt, fear, anxiety, and hopelessness would all rear their ugly heads at some point along the way. God could use my cancer to draw me closer to Him. The devil would use it to try and pull me away. Prayer and the sacraments would be vital if I were to stay the course along the way.

A Plan of Action

The plan from my oncologist was fairly straightforward. First I would see a colorectal surgeon who would evaluate the best course for surgical excision of my primary tumor. Following that, I would see a hepatobiliary surgeon who would evaluate the best course to resect the metastatic disease from my liver. We also received another grace. My oncologist shared that neuroendocrine tumors grow very slowly. We needed to act with urgency over the next few weeks, but we did not need to rush to put together a plan within days. Once again we had time to process as we waited.

When Plans Fell Apart

Memorial Day weekend in 2024 started out as a gift. Beth was working the weekend shift at the hospital and my in-laws offered to take our children for the weekend so that I could have the time to relax and prepare for the next steps. A good friend took me out to dinner on Friday evening so that I could enjoy some “normalcy.” Another good friend took me out on Saturday evening because he knew the importance of being in good cheer and high spirits before a time of trial. The time spent with these friends was a great gift. The timing was impeccable.

Shortly after I returned home on Saturday evening, I started feeling significant discomfort in my abdomen. It was different than the pain that first sent me to the hospital a few weeks prior. I tried some antacids. I waited patiently for the medications to work. Time passed without any relief. I finally made the decision to wake Beth from her sleep.

My oncologist had warned us of a potential complication called a “bowel obstruction.” Essentially, the tumor could choke my small intestine from the outside, preventing things from passing through the choke point and into my ascending colon (the terminal ileum is where the small intestine and colon join together). We were once again suspicious and in need of confirmation. Ignoring the symptoms could lead to a rupture. Rupture would cause raw bile to spill into my abdomen and the resulting infection could easily lead to sepsis and death. We headed to the emergency department and received confirmation that I was partially obstructed. A partial obstruction could easily become a full obstruction within a matter of hours. It was now early Sunday morning and I was admitted for observation and a review of “the plan.”

What was supposed to have taken place over the next several weeks was now being condensed into the next few days. I was under observation for the duration of Sunday and Monday (Memorial Day). The colorectal surgeon would see me on Tuesday and, most likely, set a day for surgery. I was placed on a clear liquid diet until further notice. I would be taken into emergency surgery if at any point the partial obstruction became a full obstruction. By God’s grace, the obstruction remained partial. The surgeon saw me on Tuesday and said that he had a cancellation in his schedule for Wednesday. Surgery would be Wednesday if the operating room was still available. It was and surgery was scheduled.

Good Cheer & Gratitude

“Cheerfulness strengthens the heart and makes us persevere in a good life. Therefore the servant of God ought always to be in good spirits.” -St. Philip Neri

A priest friend’s devotion to St. Philip Neri is another grace that has paid many dividends in my life despite the fact I was not actively looking for this grace. Whenever I would join him for dinner at the Oratorian House in Formation, a passage would be read about the life of St. Philip Neri. I was more interested in the food at first, but politeness certainly meant participating in this practice of my host. As time went on, I was fascinated by St. Philip’s focus on the importance of joy and good cheer.

Another priest introduced me to an Ignatian practice called the mid-day examen. He suggested a modified version that I still practice today. The method is simple. Pause everyday at lunchtime and think of something you are grateful for from that day. Pray aloud, “Jesus, thank You for (fill in the blank).” Next think of an area in your life where you could use more grace to better live for Jesus and love Him. Pray aloud, “Jesus, please give me the grace to (fill in the blank).”

This simple practice has done more to help see the good work of God in my life than I could ever have predicted. I’ve noticed a pattern that has developed when I keep this devotion well. The more I thank God for His gifts, the more I see for which to be grateful. The more I see? The more grateful I am. Gratitude fills my heart with cheer. “Look at all God has done for me!”

The same could be said about the daily practice of asking for His grace. More often than not, I’ve been blessed to see how He answers these prayers. I ask for grace and the Lord is not shy in giving it.

This exercise of prayer became as important as daily physical exercise. You cannot use muscles you have not exercised. Numerous saints have spoken about the importance of spiritual training. A day will come when our faith will be tested. Will we be ready?

Faith Under the Weight of Doubt

On Wednesday morning, May 29, 2024, I was taken from my hospital room to the OR pre-operative area. I signed more forms. More IV’s were placed. My abdomen was shaved to prepare me for the surgery. Beth and my parents accompanied me to this point. There was still a lot of laughter and joy in these moments. This changed when they were ready to wheel me out of the room and down the hall into the operating room.

At a certain point, fear came over me. What if this was it? What if I do not survive? What if this is the last time Beth and I see each other in this life? I knew that I had been sacramentally prepared for this moment, having received Anointing of the Sick and the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Doubt crept in anyway.

I asked if we could pause for one more moment so that I could say a prayer with Beth. I told her that I loved her and how grateful and fulfilling the 15 years of our marriage had been. I thanked her for loving me. As we prayed, I thanked God for loving me. I apologized for all of my failings. I asked Him to help my unbelief and see me through the doubt that had crept into my mind.

And how could He not?

Why would a God who had already done so much that I had seen, not come through now? Why would He leave me abandoned? I had already witnessed to His goodness many times in my life leading up this. What had really changed?

Nothing.

There was a small moment of peace that came over me when we entered the operating room. I don’t remember the exact words I prayed as they placed the oxygen mask on my face and administered the sedative, but it was along the lines of “Jesus, I trust in You. I love you. I believe in Your love for me.”

The Fruit of Unknown Preparation

Earlier in the day, two friends had come to visit with us in my hospital room while we waited to be taken to the pre-operative area. One of our friends asked me a very pointed question about everything that was happening. She mentioned my love for a letter by St. John Paul II that I had found some twenty years earlier titled “Salvifici Doloris” (“On the Christian Meaning of Human Suffering”). I’ve often described this moment as “being hit with a spiritual 2x4.”

“Adam, have you ever considered that God gave you this love for ‘Salvifici Doloris’ and the theme of redemptive suffering, not so that you would share it with the world, but rather to prepare you for this very moment?”

I mentioned earlier that we thought the work of spiritual preparation had begun when I asked for a picture of the Michelle Duppong prayer card. God was already preparing me through St. Philip Neri, St. Ignatius Loyola, St. John Paul II, and those who introduced them to me. There must be countless other moments that have done the same.

I may not have been ready for the road ahead, but God was, and I was better prepared than I knew because of Him.

Reflection Questions

1. Where in my life am I waiting for clarity, and how am I responding to the waiting?

2. What fears surface when I realize I cannot control the outcome?

3. How is Jesus inviting me to trust Him more deeply in this season?

4. What am I grateful for today, even in the midst of uncertainty?

5. Where do I need the grace to say, “Jesus, I trust in You”?

April 26, 2024 is a day that I will never forget. It was the day I first heard the word “cancer” as a possible diagnosis. It was a frightening moment filled with tears and anxiety. A new chapter was beginning in my life. Little did I know that God had been preparing me for this moment through little graces for over twenty years.

It felt like this journey started on April 24, 2024, when I first went to the Emergency Department at one of our local hospitals. There was some gastrointestinal discomfort that had been ramping up over the past week and I had experienced some moderate back pain over the course of a few days. Things finally reached a breaking point when I woke my wife up at 3:00 am to tell her things were worse and we needed to go to the hospital. I had two unbearable pains in my abdomen. It felt like the strongest person I knew was jabbing two knuckles from each hand into the tissue below my ribcage on both sides of my stomach. My pain level had reached a 10/10 by the time we made it to the hospital.

At first, the doctors were suspicious that my diet over the past week had caused pancreatitis (an inflamed pancreas). They offered some pain medications, advised that I move from the previous week’s less than ideal diet, and follow up with my primary care physician after scans showed some inflammation in my terminal ileum and a lesion on my liver. Things did not improve over the next 48 hours and we found ourselves back in the emergency room.

The second visit to the emergency room had a noticeably different tone. The doctors showed care and concern for my well being during the previous visit, but there was an air of calm. They had a reasonable explanation that was supported by the lab tests and imaging taken on the 24th. Lab tests and imaging on the 26th no longer supported the initial diagnosis. We had a gut feeling that something was seriously wrong in my gut.

At approximately 4:00 pm, a new doctor walked into the room, introduced himself as taking over as the previous doctor had finished his shift, and then shared that my scans now showed five lesions on my liver and a “mass” on my terminal ileum. There was no longer any surprise when he continued and said, “I am not saying it is cancer, but we are suspicious that it could be. We would like to admit you for further observation and testing.”

We cried. Next we called our parents. They cried. But then, grace unexpectedly stepped into the equation.

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A Small Unexpected Grace

About nine months earlier, my friend Patty introduced me to the Cause for Canonization for Servant of God Michelle Duppong. Michelle’s story is inspiring. She was diagnosed with stage four cancer following what was supposed to be a routine surgery to treat ovarian cysts. Upon opening her for the surgery, doctor’s discovered cancer had grown throughout her entire abdomen. It was initially predicted that Michelle would have approximately two months to live. By the grace of God, she lived for twelve months and died at the age of 30 on December 25, 2015 (Christmas Day).

Her story is an inspiring one. So much so that a documentary was made about her life, suffering, and death. As Msgr. James Shea notes in the documentary about Michelle, there isn’t much that is remarkable about the diagnosis part of the story. It happens frequently that young adults are diagnosed with terminal medical conditions and die. What makes Michelle’s story remarkable is how she suffered with grace and a desire to grow closer to Jesus through her suffering. Michelle had a desire to lead souls to Christ and allowed God to work through her suffering to lead others to Him.

There was no initial call to action from Patty when she first introduced me to Michelle’s cause. She was sharing because she was inspired by it and thought I would enjoy hearing the story.

The first call to action came in November of 2023 when Patty contacted me to say that Michelle’s parents would be in St. Louis for an event and that she had arranged an interview with them for my radio show.

The second came when there was a preview of “Radiating Joy: The Michelle Duppong Story” at a local theater in February of 2024. Patty told me that I was going. It wasn’t a question. I watched the movie sitting by myself towards the back of the theater. I was moved to tears by Michelle’s faith and courage as she endured an illness her spiritual director described as Holy Week stretched out over 12 months.

I distinctly remembered these conversations and testimonies while sitting in the exam room of the Emergency Department. I called Patty with my own call to action. She had given me a Michelle Duppong prayer card with the official prayer for her Cause for Canonization. I knew that I would be in a good place if I could face this diagnosis with half as much grace as Michelle faced hers. I also knew that Patty always kept a copy of the prayer card in her purse. I called her and explained the situation. I asked Patty to text me a picture of the prayer card. We immediately began praying for Michelle and asking Jesus for the grace to suffer with the grace He gave her and for the grace of complete physical healing. It was the first day we prayed a prayer that has changed my life.

Grace unfolding before our eyes

I did not know that I would soon be facing my own cancer diagnosis when Patty first told me about Michelle Duppong. I did not know how the stories of holy trust and surrender shared by Michelle’s parents would radiate in my life as I began my journey. I did not know that a documentary would provide a blueprint for suffering. I shudder to think what would have happened if I had ignored Patty when she first introduced me to the story of Michelle Duppong. Can you imagine if I had said, “What does this have to do with me? Why should I care?” and moved on?

I don’t like to use the term coincidence for events like these. I prefer the term “providence.” God provided Patty an opportunity to share something with me. She could have dismissed it just as easily. God provided grace that nudged me to pay attention. It wasn’t forced upon me.

Being diagnosed with a “mass and lesions” that would eventually be named Stage Four Neuroendocrine Tumors, a rare cancer that does not typically respond to chemotherapy, was a life changing event that hit us in a matter of minutes. The grace of hearing and receiving Michelle’s story is one that unfolded over the better part of a year. It was, in many ways, a grace that unfolded quietly and fell upon us more like the dewfall than a torrential rain.

Reflection Questions

1. What graces do you see unfolding in your life in small, quiet ways?

2. Where have you expected God to act dramatically, but have seen Him choose to be gentle and work over time?

3. What small grace sustains you when nothing “new” seems to happen?

4. What graces would you have missed in your life if you were only watching for miracles?

As we start the new year, maybe change won’t come through one big moment—but through the graces that keep showing up.

Sincerely,
Adam Wright

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Most of all, thank you for being here. May we learn together how to recognize God’s grace—especially in the small places.