The scan was all clear!!! Unremarkable was the term used multiple times in the report. I have never been so excited to be unremarkable in my life. The day was full of celebration and a little surprise. A former student worker from the Career Center popped in my room during my exam to see if I qualified for a research project she was doing. I am excited that she is doing such meaningful work about the connection to body image and head and neck cancer patients!

One year is a huge milestone - the odds of it coming back lower a bit AND if it does come back there are more treatment options. I really like the first part of this, and appreciate my doctor for always keeping it real with me. That said there is no bell to ring for a year or anything like that. Just move along and celebrate that I go back in four months instead of three!

That said - the below essay is a submission from class last spring. I have been saving to share it until the one-year mark. Ringing that bell is something I was fortunate to do AND while celebratory it for sure doesn’t mark the end the journey.

Thanks for being part of this community with me. If you have time read the essay and let me know what you think.

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The Bell

Ringing Out

Ring this bell

Three Times Well

It’s toll to clearly say,

My treatment’s done

This course is run

And I am on my way!

—       Irve Le Moyne

History says the bell at Wofford College was cast in New York by the Meneelys, a family of bell makers.  A father and two sons, each working at the foundry. Andrew Meneely left home at age fifteen to become an apprentice to a bell foundry in New York.  He and his wife had ten children, only six made it to adulthood.  Three of those were in the bell-making business.  Andrew died three years before the bell was delivered to Wofford College.  The bell is stamped with “From Meneely’s, West Troy, NY 1854.  President Carlisle described the Wofford bell as being known for its pure and clear tone. 

This bell first rang for me in 1992, a freshman from Ruby, SC, “the jewel city.” My goal was to major in accounting, much like a cousin who drove by far the nicest car in the family. Accounting didn’t suit me; I scored a 28 out of 100 on my first test in Intro to Accounting.  This ended up being the highest test score I ever received in a college accounting class. I did fall in love with economics and quickly became a major.  These classes were taught on the third floor of the Old Main building, just right down all from the bell tower that housed the Meneely bell. I was drawn to the surprise and deep tone every time it would interrupt a class and lecture.

 For me, its tone was a mischievous exercise after finishing a test early.  I would go to the northern stairwell and lean across the cold black metal railing to grab the thick rope, worn smooth from some 150 years of ringing.  I would pull on the rope, letting it give way back up into the tower before pulling harder down.  It would take a few times before the pure and clear ringing would come, ringing throughout campus.

Bronze melts at over 1000 degrees Celsius. In the 1850’s, someone would make a mold with rough tools, using mathematics and lived experience to create just the right form.  The mathematicians determined the curvature and width of the metal, all helping create the desired tone.  At 700 lbs., this mold would have been on the larger side, and the makers would have one chance to pour molten bronze into the large mold to ensure the bell was solid and performed well.

The first time I walked by the bell hanging in Gibbs Cancer Center, I was on my way to receive my first dose of radiation.  The oncologist said the protocol called for a 60 gray dose, spread over 30 days.  A week or so before, I had my “mask” made. A hard plastic mesh mask that would lock my head and neck in place so the machine would dose my tongue and neck with these grays of radiation. It took only five minutes for the mask to be molded specifically to my face, and a CT scan provided the exact location for the rays to enter my body.  A bonus was a crude mouthpiece, a piece of Styrofoam on a popsicle stick covered in what I could only imagine was a condom, which was to hold my tongue in place.

I never really understood exactly what the radiation was doing, but I knew the machine would spin around my body three times before it was finished.  The whole time, I would count my breaths and repeat, “Radiation kills the bad cells and spares the good ones.”  I discovered this mantra from a Substack post.  I found that visualizing the radiation like a storm wiping out the bad and saving the good made the treatments feel more effective.  The whole process would take less than 10 minutes from the waiting room till I would walk past that bell.

The Navy has a tradition of ringing a bell after a tough assignment is completed. Irv Le Moyne, a decorated Navy SEAL, was the first to ring a bell upon completion of cancer treatment. He brought a small brass bell to his last radiation treatment at MD Anderson.  We share a similar diagnosis – head and neck cancer. Wofford also has a bell tradition of ringing the bell three times for every student.  The first comes when you join the college at orientation.  The second time is at your graduation.  The last is when you die.  This bell last rang for me in 1996. 

Every day, walking by the small bell, I wondered what it might feel like to ring it. I knew it would at least be six long weeks before I got there, and there were plenty of other things to worry about. My main concern was whether I could make it through the six weeks and still be able to eat. Several folks had discussed a feeding tube, and this was something I was quite opposed to.  I was infuriated when the cancer nutritionist approached me in the waiting room to ask how I was doing. I was a week in, and some mild sores were starting in my mouth, but I was feeling mostly good.  She patted her stomach and said, “You got the feeding tube in at surgery, right?”

“Nope, and I don’t plan to get one; maybe you can help me with that,” was my response.  The audacity and cluelessness really didn’t sit well.

I was on treatment twelve, not quite halfway, when I saw someone ring the bell for the first time.  A man, ten to fifteen years older than me, dressed in black yoga pants and a black polo shirt.  His accent was strong, and I guess Eastern European.  The nurses had to plead with him to ring it.  They took pictures with his camera.  I was less than halfway through my own journey, and its clangy, awkward sound captivated my mornings in the radiation department.  I began to obsess about this bell.

I called my mom to tell her about the man ringing the bell alone. “I don’t think anyone was there when I rang the bell either,” she said.

“I was,” my dad yelled out.

Of course, my dad was there; my parents did everything together.  I don’t think it was her intention, but I sure began to ponder how little I had shown up for her during her cancer journey.

When you go every day for cancer treatment, you begin to see the same people.  The appointment before you and the one after.  The memory of the man in yoga pants made me ask questions of those around me in the waiting room.  I got worried when folks didn’t show up for days, and I hadn’t seen them ring the bell. 

People bring their real selves to cancer treatment, at least that’s how I felt.  The woman who had the appointment after me didn’t show for four days.  I missed her smile and her telling me how tired she was.  Her drive to the treatment center was ten times longer than the treatment.  Her husband always made some kind of joke and wore a Vietnam Veteran hat every day.  Her treatment was to end six days before mine, and that day came and went without me seeing her ring the bell.  Knowing it was probably against HIPAA rules, I asked the radiation tech about her.  I had feared the worst but was relieved to learn she was coming in the afternoons now.

I was fortunate to have someone walk with me every day to radiation.  We would usually sit in the same spot, closest to the radiation spot and far away from the bathroom. There was a rhythm of the place, a control, of knowing where you would sit, who was going to be in there, and the radiation techs that would call you back. The room opened to the fifth floor like an atrium in an 1980s hotel.  When the conversation was short, I would look up and count the light bulbs that were burned out and try to fathom how they would be changed. 

It was the radiation techs who brightened the day.  Calling each of us by name, often providing a hug when needed, and holding the hands of those shaky on their feet as they walked to the machine.  I walked by the bell on treatment number 29 and paused, chuckling to myself that I might ring the bell off the wall the next day.  My neck was burned so badly that the skin had opened, and my tongue was covered in sores.  I would swish my mouth out with the “magic mouthwash,” a combo of Benadryl, Maalox, and lidocaine, before trying to get down some form of pureed meal.  Often, I would stop mid-meal rinse again and finish.  I would ring that bell without a feeding tube!

Day thirty was emotional.  I rang the heck out of the bell with a waiting room full of friends.  Its tone was high and clanging. Its meaning profound.  This part of the journey was over. 

I am one of the lucky ones who can look back on this process and write about what it taught me.   LeMoyne died six months after ringing the bell.  For me, I get to wait for the third ring of that 700-pound MeNeely bell at Wofford. 

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Hot Dogs

Growing up, hot dogs were a staple for my family. I loved them. I also loved asking my dad to tell me stories about growing up in Honea Path, SC, on a farm. This was one of my favorites. Dad was a great story-teller.

He would sit on the edge of the seat and begin and here is how I remember it. It was hot and the smells had to be strong. The boys’ responsibility was forcing the male cows into the chute, where they would momentarily get trapped. Their dad encouraged them to hurry; time and daylight were constantly running out. The air smelled of fresh dirt, manure, and hot tar. Once the cows were in the chute, a boy positioned on each side of the metal chute holding the animal in place, their dad would close a gate trapping the animal and would call to the boys to grab them. Them, were the cow’s back legs – held tight while a hot knife cut a quick line through the cow’s scrotum. Hot tar was quickly applied and the front gate opened so that the cow could be free.

I loved listening to his vivid stories about this time. These intimate encounters with cattle did not affect our family’s hot dog consumption. Honestly, I wonder if these stories, and the work needed to make a living on the farm in the early 50’s contributed to our family’s frugal leanings. We didn’t waste anything; extra vegetables donated to us after my dad preached, were jarred or canned for later.

Brought to the United States by German immigrants, the hot dog is a divisive food. The humble origin is debated with both Frankfurt, Germany, and Vienna claiming to own the hot dog. A food born of no-waste, using every part, a concept my grandfather and father would surely support. Once in America, you could easily buy hot dogs in New York City sold on push carts. America can claim the addition of the bun, a fantastic collaboration between a sausage seller who ran out of white clothes to serve on, and a baker in the cart next door with fresh buns.

One thing that has endured over time are the jokes around what is in a hot dog. Many early eaters would wink at the name thinking the name and mystery meat had something grossly in common. Modern day jokes about what parts are included are often shared by those choosing not to eat them. A family favorite was suggesting that a hot dog included everything from the “rooter to the tooter.”

My mother was one who refused to eat hot dogs, even after returning to work at a local eye doctor and handing over dinner preparation to my father. Thursday nights were hot dog nights. My mother didn’t grow up on a farm, she was a city girl who after we moved to Ruby, SC removed us from public schools when my brother and I began putting a few too many syllables in words. She loved English Royalty, watching the weddings and funerals were quiet times in the house.

Ever since I read the “man in the arena” quote by Theodore Roosevelt I have been a fan. What I didn’t know was that he served hot dogs to the Queen on her state visit in 1939. The menu dismayed Roosevelt’s mom who thought it was a bad idea; I am quite sure my mom would agree. It’s said that the Queen was confused on how to eat this American staple, to which Roosevelt replied, “just push it in your mouth and keep pushing until it’s gone.” Stories say they loved them, and I wonder if this would have changed my mom’s thinking about hot dogs. The closest I ever saw my mother come to eating a hot dog was at a school fundraiser when she asked them to remove the dog and just add chili. She has been a pescatarian for the last two decades so I don’t think she will ever have one.

On Thursday nights, we would grab a plate that dad sat out on the round wooden table, open the hot dog buns, and serve ourselves from the pot on the stove. There were no sides to this meal. My mom would open a slice of American cheese and line the bun and stick it in the toaster oven. I believe this is what led me to try wrapping my hot dog in a slice of American cheese, and I credit that culinary discovery as the first step in my quest to find and eat hot dogs with the strangest toppings imaginable.

For me, hot dogs are a symbol of simple times and creativity. On my 50th birthday I served a collection of “different” hot dogs that ranged from buffalo sauce and blue cheese to masala and roasted chickpeas. I am constantly experimenting with new hot dog flavors.

The most unforgettable hot dog experience was last year on Memorial Day. It was almost a month after being diagnosed with tongue cancer, and I was two weeks post partial tongue glossectomy (I had about a third of my tongue removed) and I committed to having a hot dog. Prior to surgery, my brain was convinced this was plenty of time to enjoy a hot dog. As the holiday approached, I began to realize that this was a bit ambitious.

It was also the time that I developed an extraordinary theory that if you typically eat a food together, pizza, burrito, and chicken pot pie as examples, when you blend them up, they are equally as good. Taste over texture every time. The science might not agree fully on this one, with most studies saying that texture is an important part of the taste process. For me, these things smelled the same, temperature was the same, and for me this equalled the taste being the same. Scientists claim that taste also includes texture. I am guessing their sample didn’t include tongue surgery survivors.

I had not calculated restaurants would be closed for the holiday and I was hoping not to ask my wife to go to the store. On the third try, I found an open barbecue place that sold hot dogs. I door dashed two chili dogs and waited. The 30-minute delivery time allowed the excitement to build, it was like realizing it was hot dog night back as a kid. I had the beef broth and blender ready when they arrived. My experimentation had led me to know that a fourth of a cup of beef broth was the right amount. I also decided that two buns were too much and tossed one of them in the trash. The excitement had been built and I quickly dumped the dogs in and turned Vitamix to 3 or 4. I had learned with prior foods that any higher would create more puree than pate texture. It doesn’t take long to blend cooked food, 15 to 20 seconds. It was a very dull pink, almost brown color and it looked like a hot dog in its natural state before being injected into the casing. The texture was warm, and thick like pudding, sorta like a hot Wendy’s frosty.

This hot dog wasn’t served on a plastic plate but a bowl. I didn’t get to push it in my mouth and keep pushing till it was gone. It was more of a spoon it in and avoid the stitches on the left side of my tongue. I made a video of the process and posted it in the family group chat. The kids respectfully asked for me to stop.

This Memorial Day, things are different. I planned my lunch out specifically to order an all-beef hot dog with so many toppings I needed a fork and knife to handle, just no stitches to avoid. I am fortunate to be here, enjoying a non blended hot dog. Turns out Roosevelt was on to something more than just eating hot dogs, “just keep pushing.”

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Thanks for following along. Happy Memorial Day!!!

Slim’s taste pallet remains strong with a sustaining love of savory with sweet, sweet with savory, sweet with sweet. Throughout the journey, Slim thrived with experimenting with textures, allowing comfort foods to remain a comfort even when they were blended up with a splash of broth!

What a year it’s been! I know every cancer story and journey is different. Writing about it all has been a key to the healing journey. Thanks for being part of the story!

Now let’s eat some cake!

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Things we Remember

  It was just after lunch, and the Barnett Hotel in the French Quarter of New Orleans was buzzing with conference attendees and businesspeople. The place just reeked of old school business, maybe even a mob movie. The walls were deep green, moody, as many HGTV hosts would say. Color drenched from the floor and onto the ceiling. The chairs seemed both inviting and antique, the leather and wood worn just enough to convey they were comfortable. It even smelled of business, coffee, and bourbon. Both phrases “timeless retreat” and “limitless experiences,” from my pre-trip website searches, seemed to ring true. I stood at the bar, admiring the selection of small-batch bourbon and a brass espresso machine, eavesdropping on conversations about new launches, weekend fundraisers, and vacation plans.

            I was there for a career development professionals' conference. I was slated to speak at 2:30 pm, and my colleagues and co-presenters had met in the bar to make a game plan. I felt we knew our stuff – it’s what we do every day – and felt like we could just meet briefly and set a time to be in the ballroom for our talk. Honestly, there was a lunch spot I wanted to check out. While the vibe of The Barnett was great, the conference food was dry chicken at best. We had just started talking when my phone rang.

            The caller ID said “healthcare,” and I excused myself to take it. The week before I had a biopsy on my tongue. I was a habitual tongue biter, had been for six years.  I spent my late forties painfully enjoying ketchup and other acidic foods, and worrying if this was indeed scar tissue, as the first biopsy had said. My mind oscillated between “damn, I am never going to eat without a stinging sensation in my mouth, and that’s ok” and “ok, I have cancer, and it’s spreading throughout my body.”  

            I ignored the helpful concierge as I walked outside. The sun was bright on Carondelet Street; Dr. Worley’s tone was not. Maybe this is just how he talks on the phone: monotone and direct. Maybe he had a rough morning of dealing with tonsils, adenoids, sinus problems, and the like. The street was treeless, and it was midday; sweat trickled down my back as I moved closer to a building for the shade.

            “I am sad to say the biopsy came back positive for squamous cell carcinoma,” was the sentence that still brings tears to my eyes. There was a flush of warmth through my body and movement in my legs. It was as if I could walk away from the news as I went around the block. I knew what that meant; we had talked about it. I would have surgery to remove part of my tongue as well as my lymph nodes.

            “Ok, Doc, when can we have the surgery?”

            “Well, we need to get you a CT scan to see if it’s anywhere else before we operate.”

            “When can we get that?”

            A black Cadillac Escalade XLT with black tinted windows and parked on the street close to the door of the Barnett.  I looked to see if a star got out. 

            “Usually, we can schedule them between 7 and 14 days.”

            “Fuck, sorry… that seems like a long time.”

            “It’s typically a little faster than that.”

            Everyone I passed had a blue lanyard and a career leadership conference logo. I was happy that the tears were currently at bay.

            I think I walked around the block three times and said – “ok, I have one more question” at least a dozen times.  I knew I needed to call Molly, but I wanted to have all the information. I couldn’t recall a cancer narrative that ended well or could be called positive. Everyone I knew either died or suffered mightily beforehand. There was one question I had to ask, but my throat would close each time I tried to.

            “Ok Doc, I don’t know how to ask this, am I going to…” My voice cracked, and I could not get the words out.  Thankfully, Dr. Worley understood.

            “Curt – you don’t need to get all your affairs in order if that’s what you're asking, but this is something you should take very seriously.”

            Dr. Worley explained that we would schedule a CT scan to see if the cancer spread, and his scheduler would reach out in seven to ten days. I held the tears inside when I returned to the Barnett, my colleagues still at the bar, anxious to hear the news. They both knew the importance of the call and knew from my expression that the news wasn’t good. There were hugs, encouragement, quoted scriptures, and they both said they would handle the presentation at 2:30 pm.

            “If I can pull myself together, I plan to be there,” I said, walking to the elevator, “It will take my mind off of this.”

            I have spent enough time in therapy to know that memory, or more specifically, the things we remember, must mean something. Childhood experiences processed with my therapist brought closure. In my fiftieth year, I have memories that will forever need processing.

I remember lying on the bed in my hotel room, looking up at the ceiling, unable to finish my sentences telling Molly how sorry I was that she had a husband who now had tongue cancer. I remember the annoying buzz of the lights that drove me crazy while trying to do that. I remember taking questions about how our Career Center prioritized working with different groups of students. I took these questions because it was something I could control, and I was about to crawl out of my skin to get out of the ball room. I remember walking up to a group of colleagues from around the country, apologizing, and telling them I needed to get home to sort out some things. I remember walking around the Miami airport, the only route home that night, crying, thinking about whether I would sleep or not. As time go by, I am sure I will remember more, and maybe one day I will want to return to New Orleans.

This community has been such an important part of my healing journey and will remain such. Feel free to share your comments and if you are on your own journey of self discovery, from cancer or some other teacher, feel free to comment or message me, I am happy to talk.

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I wish there was a stoplight in the exam room, like the ones in middle school cafeterias that manage noise. It would light up as the Dr. walked into the room. Green means the scans were clear, yellow means there are some things we need to discuss, and red means we got some heavy shit to talk about. The waiting is the worst, but the joy of hearing they are all clear is pure joy.

Six months is a milestone that should be celebrated; it means if the cancer does come back, you have options. I love my doctor and options!

4:50am

Sadly, my brain wakes me up to several things that I had left undone at work - two hours and some change before we are planning to leave. We are playing “drive-through” ashes for Ash Wednesday by ear. Fortunately, I had time to send emails timed to arrive at a more reasonable time.

5:25am

Scan days are special, providing opportunities to reflect on your journey. They also provide, at least for me, equal opportunities to hope and/or dread the future. With my anxiety starting to rumble a bit more than I would like, I head out to exercise. A therapist friend once told me that hard exercise mimicked the effects of Ativan in the body. This helped me adopt the practice, pre-surgery and during treatment, of running the hill outside my house. I often returned to this when I needed to calm down. This morning I lumbered up and down this hill five times - each one a little faster than the previous. Each one, I hope, is pushing me closer to a calmer brain.

7:20am

There was a small line of cars to get ashes. After being reminded that I came from dust and I will return to dust, we were on our way.

11:52am

Unsolicited advice - double-check the location of your CT scan. I went to the same place I had my scan three months ago. Not the same place this time - I was directed to the main hospital. I walked by the bench that I sat on, mouth swollen, a drain hanging out of my neck, and it just conjures up all sorts of feelings. The hospital has elevators A-F, and a first-year med student suggested that I needed F.

Now, in college, I used to volunteer at the local hospital in the central transport department, moving patients from place to place. I volunteered there for five weeks, until they asked me not to come back because I kept getting lost. I was feeling the very same way here. I walked past the same spot several times before realizing that I was getting my destination, room 372, confused with room 327 on the directional signs.

1:55pm

The blood pressure machine’s beeping wasn’t a good sign. By this time, the effects of the five hills were no match for the waiting and anticipation of results. The wonderful nurse suggested that my pressure was about the same as the last time I came for a scan.

2:10pm

The waiting is over. The scans look good, and after palpating my neck and tongue, the doctor shared that I should celebrate this milestone. I will have another scan in six months. I was reassured of the things to look for, and that the side effects I am experiencing are completely normal.

Now that my taste is completely back, I head in search of a cookie to properly celebrate!

Thanks so much for supporting my journey!

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“There are years that ask questions and years that answer”

- Zora Neale Hurston

I couldn’t have dreamed up a better frame for this year. Without thinking twice, this was an answering year!

For the past several years, I have been full of questions. These often revolved around my journey to grow to a better person.

• What would happen if I routinely practiced the things I know make me better?

• What if I put as much focus on myself as doing for others? (Proud Ennegram 2!!)

• What if you started writing freely and even started writing on this platform?

Some of the questions went a bit deeper and honestly were fueled by a healthy dose of anxiety!

• Am I strong enough to handle hard things?

• What if the struggle is actually the way?

Well, 2025 provided the answers through lived experiences for sure! I have said this before and it’s so true, I wish it didn’t take tongue cancer to provide the clarity on these things, AND I am grateful for the lessons it provided.

The answers 2025 provided taught me so much - and they are ones I pray stick around for a long time. Some of them are (in no particular order):

1. You really can’t go around hard things - you have to go through them!

2. Community is critical in this hard journey we call life! Family and friends lifted me through many of hard days this year and I am so grateful. This community fulfilled a huge need to be connected!

3. EVERYONE deserves good quality healthcare.

4. The tincture of time is often the best medicine you can take.

While I am not sad to say goodbye to the hardest year on record for me I am taking into 2026 these answers. They have made me a better person, and for that I am grateful

Thanks so much for following along I look forward to connecting in 2026!

I share these as I believe they are completely in bounds for what cancer survivors go through. (Yes that’s the first time I have owned that term when it thinking about my own journey!)

So… yesterday was a remarkable day. Full of healthy angst and heart rate increasing flashbacks from surgery and post operative appointments at MUSC. I started the day with things that served me well during active treatment. Prayer, hill sprints, meditation, cold plunge (yes 42 degrees will reset something - right???) and a shake for breakfast.

The scan was non eventful and the analysis was glorious. Everything looked great. I even got to watch on the big screen as they sent a scope down my nose and the base of my tongue. (More on Slim in a bit!) The doctors, Mols, and I were all impressed. I am hopeful to find the video - seeing your vocal cords move is pretty cool - message if you want to be on the distribution list if found!

I ended my time at MUSC with the world’s best speech pathologist! There is no question in my mind that she is directly responsible for my motivation to do the work needed. AND she says that even after loosing 1/3 of my tongue there’s still a lot whole lot of tissue left!!!

I had come to terms that my double chin was just an unfortunate side effect from surgery. Not the case - a small case of lymphedema! Some lessons in the lightest touch massage I have ever seen and a CHIN BRA and I just might be single chinned by the holidays!!!

This process is not over - I will have another scan in 3 more months - but for the first time I feel comfortable with being in survivorship! I am excited to embrace this season and reflect on all the things i have learned. I firmly believe I am a better human because of this. AND I highly DO NOT recommend! Two truths!!

I am so grateful for this community and outlet to share. I look forward to continuing!

SLIM update: we are living our best life. Taste is coming back quickly and we are not shying away from any foods. Spicy stuff is still a bit painful but we are built for this!

Thanks for reading. And caring!

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The shelter had named you Crocket, and we felt like that didn’t quite suit you. The boys named you Carter and added a V for Lil’ Wayne’s album with the same name. For the following eight years, you loved us fully. The most noise you made was snoring, unless that special dog from around the corner passed on one of our daily walks. You listened to literally hundreds of podcasts, sermons, and books! We didn’t miss a morning walk unless it was raining – you hated the rain!

Now, if we are honest, you had some challenges around food. You were always on the prowl for a snack, even if it was on someone’s plate. The number of sandwiches you snagged off people’s plates was impressive. Equally impressive was the list of other foods you somehow ate with no issues. Your first Thanksgiving included you snagging the turkey carcass and eating the entire thing. The trash drawer in the kitchen is pocked with your teeth and paw marks – you loved a full bag of trash. It was bread that got you really going – polishing off an 18-pack of hotdog buns and a dozen croissants as the most notable.

You never forgot a person or a place where you got a treat! FedEx, USPS, UPS, or Amazon – if a driver gave you a treat and you saw a truck coming, you ran for it. I pulled you out of a lot of delivery vehicles. It’s one of the lessons you taught me, my good friend, live life to the fullest, and if you see the possibility of a treat – GO. FOR. IT!

Last year, we spent eight days on the road together, just you and me. I thought about that trip a lot while saying goodbye. We came to love Love’s Truck Stops, and we learned to search for them. The “dog park” was full of smells for you. Never did you complain about driving from Spartanburg to Wyoming via southern Colorado. You hopped up in the car and just looked at me when I asked you 800 questions.

I don’t know how long it will take to stop looking for you. When I get up in the morning or when I come home, but each time, I will smile, thinking of our time together. Carter, you were the best dog we could ever dream of and then some. You embodied unconditional love, and dammit, I already miss you so much.

Run free, my good boy!

.

My wife and I were reminiscing about Helene the other evening and she stated, “we survived that.” Just the word peaks my interest. I remember this summer about halfway through treatment a grocery store clerk asked me if I was “surviving the summer.” I responded that her choice of words intrigued me and that I was going through radiation treatment. She asked me if she could pray, and after I said yes she grabbed my hand and begin to pray. It was special. I saw her for the first time since yesterday and told her how special it was, and that yes I survived the summer!

I think surviving hurricanes and cancer have a lot in common. Of course both are traumatic events and our bodies store them. Now anytime the winds pick up during a storm my shoulders get a little tighter as if waiting for the big crash like a year ago. It’s similar with odd aches and pains in the body and the news of those you care about getting life changing diagnosis - my body braces for what’s to come.

This past week my therapist asked me what I thought was the same and what I thought was different now that I am several months post treatment. I found it really difficult to answer the question around what was the same! I am not sad about this - just highly curious. No doubt after a storm like Helene or cancer things are not the same.

I look forward to diving into this concept of change and growth and who knows - maybe I will share some of it here. I sure have missed this platform!

PS - Slim wanted me to share that he continues to work hard to reach all sides of my mouth. He is working hard to taste everything - most things are getting there. Fortunately - I think - fried foods are the only thing that doesn’t really taste. Sadly, sweets taste amazing!!!

Thanks for reading - I welcome your thoughts on change!

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Two weeks before the end of treatment, I sat on my porch talking to the speech pathologist from MUSC via video about finishing strong. As a caveat, this is the same speech pathologist I met with on my very first appointment whose energy and expertise are equally comforting and infectious. She was encouraging, hopeful, and didn’t shy away from the challenges ahead. She was also impressed with the amount of “tissue” my tongue, now referred to as Slim, possessed. Regardless, I was excited to have the opportunity to work together again.

Per usual, I was trying to get the secrets of success to thriving through what my body was beginning to experience and the science that said the last few weeks of radiation were typically the toughest in terms of side effects. This was a question I had asked before, an overt way to try and gain a touch of control and honestly comfort in the final days of treatment.

Compassionately, the answer revolved around making sure I understood that the challenges would be short-lived, they would get better, and that it would be important for me to focus on just getting through to the finish line. I am pretty sure I just rephrased the question, “what do your most successful patients do?” Her answer has stuck with me, and I don’t recall a day I haven’t thought about it.

She said really it’s just the tincture of time! The tincture of time! I stopped the conversation to thank her for this phrase, both beautiful and haunting and totally NOT what I wanted to hear. In my mind, time equals patience and that is something that while I am better, it’s so hard for me.

The thing is… she was 1000% correct. It’s the tincture of time that has been the key for improvement. Trust me - I have tried every mouthwash, supplement, food selection, everything, but it’s time that has brought the physical healing to my throat and tongue. Slim was roughed up quite badly the week after, and it was time that was the secret to healing.

The fact is it’s not a secret at all, and the tincture of time isn’t just the right medicine for getting on the other side of radiation. What I am growing to learn are the similarities to the other things in life, the opportunities for growth, the things that just suck, the hard things - all of these are better with the tincture of time!

I am so grateful for all the amazing care, and this morning particularly for the speech pathologist who cared enough to share this term and support throughout this process!

Thanks for reading, Curt

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Courage

Is understanding exactly what was meant when Baldwin said, “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” Courage is facing whatever is in front of us, just that, facing it. I think I often confused courage with doing something and I am sure that is part of it - but facing things is courage.

Courage is in us, every single one of us has it. Often throughout this process I questioned if I had enough courage to see this through like I wanted to, or if I had the strength to get by like I wanted to. I think that’s human nature. What I found is that facing it - appointments, surgery, treatment, follow up - all of it - just simply facing it is courageous. The rest just happens.

I can’t tell you how excited I am to be close to the end of this chapter. The journey not only included approximately 90,000 steps to and from treatment, but more importantly the love and care and courage of so many willing to walk this journey with me both figuratively and literally.

My deepest gratitude.

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This morning I was fortunate to have discussions about all peoples concept of the word Journey. From the song Don’t Stop Believing - which by the way I have added to the We Can Do Hard Things playlist - to our individual journeys to be more human, more real, and live with each other. Sitting in the waiting room for 28 days has taught me that we all are on a journey. I have also experienced how the path get’s lighter and a little less arduous when folks ask how you are or join you for some steps.

Happy Friday and what’s your first thought when you hear the word Journey?

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If you are new and don’t know about the We Can Do Hard Things Playlist - I will post a link below. Feel free to add songs and check it out. I listen every morning on the drive to treatment and it’s been such a blessing!

We Can Do Hard Things Playlist

Is an intentional process that can be guided by a medical provider, a partner, a parent, a child, a mentor, a friend; honestly anyone if you are open to the process. Healing is being and feeling whole. For me, and I would guess maybe most journeys to healing involve getting worse before getting better. That’s surely the case with radiation. (Slim’s in the background yelling - PREACH!) I have been thinking a lot about the mental aspect of this journey almost as much as the physical. Mentally the journey to healing, for me, is a much steeper path. I have learned and incorporated many things into my routine that have made that climb much flatter; prayer, meditation, activity, therapy, friends, and rest are some of my go to’s.

This week two walkers asked me questions that I believe connect to this topic of healing. The first question was, What are somethings that you have learned through this process that you wish you had known 10-years ago? What a darn good question. Three things came right to mind - 1. There is no substitute for the peace of being present. Throughout my life, I have spent far too much time worried and thinking about the future. This diagnosis and journey has helped me focus on the importance of being present. 2. The mind is an amazing tool that can be your biggest supporter and worst enemy all wrapped up into one. I have shared this comment from my doctor that I use regularly as a reminder; where your mind goes your body will follow. 3. It’s ok to ask for help and be honest about how you are. It’s a fact that every one of us is carrying something heavy, will be carrying something heavy, or just put down something heavy. I know I haven’t always been honest about this and opted for an I’m Good approach most of the time. This doesn’t help with healing.

The second question I received was about my word choice and why they all seemed so positive, they were curious where the mad, angry, sad, and pissed off words were. I think this is a great question and one that I gamed the system with - I asked Claude.AI to only provide positive words. First, there is nothing wrong with these negative emotions. I have surely had all of them. I chose to reflect on positive words because for me I needed this process to be about something good or I would spiral about all the negative things. It’s biased I know - and I may make a post after this is all over about these emotions. I share because of the 3rd thing I mentioned above - I write and reflect about positive words BUT never want it to seem like there are not negatives about this process.

Honestly, I think that’s what healing is all about - respecting the negative and hard stuff and focusing on the positives of the journey. At least for me this is working. May it continue to be so!

Now - let me set the record straight. You all may remember my post back on June 3rd where I listed my top six blended dinners. I know I wasn’t very creative because I had two burritos on the list but wow - they were good. Anyhow, I need to add something to the list. Last night Curt blended up Eggplant Parm with Pasta, O.M.G. Just as I have always said - if you eat it all together, blending makes it better. Actually that’s the first time I have said that like that but I like the alliteration in the second part. So! I have to replace the Caulipower Pizza at number 4 with Eggplant Parm! Now I feel better.

Lastly, today’s word is Friendship. Everyday I get to tag along with Curt to radiation and watch him chat with friends, the techs, others in the waiting rooms. Friendship is so broad - we all are included and I love that. This community is a fine example. I know Curt didn’t expect this to create such a wonderful community but I know it’s another example of today’s word. Anyways - we are always super grateful for all the love and support - we wouldn’t be cruising into the last 4 treatments with out it.

Thanks for reading - Slim

PS - forgive the typos - remember I am a heavily radiated tongue!

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• Every day I walk into Gibbes, there are people trained to administer radiation to me in just the right place and amount, and they are nice people.

• Friends and Family have joined me on this journey, literally walking along each day to radiation and virtually through this substack!

• Slim - while beaten, battered, and heavily radiated, he still is a trooper with the crazy combos and experiments I am eating. Every meal is a workout for Slim, and he is up for the challenge!

• Pickleball - I set a goal to play pickleball at least once a week during treatment, and I have achieved that goal. I played yesterday! Also, to those who have met me to play and have played doubles with me, calling the score when my voice wasn’t the strongest - nothing but love!

• Prayer, both the ones I have lifted up and also all of the ones that have been lifted in my name - it works!

• My colleagues at Wofford have been nothing more than spectacular, both in supporting me and the amazing work we do. We aren’t missing a beat.

• My life partner is nothing less than exceptional; she has been fearless, present, loving, and the world’s best caretaker. This list could go on forever.

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is that place which you can find rest and cool comfort. I learned early on in running bike trips to Tanzania that you always stop in the shadow of trees. The rest was cooler and more sustaining. There are great parallels with walking in faith, following the footprints, and walking in the Shadow. It’s about comfort.

Right after my diagnosis a good friend asked if she could pray for me. In that prayer she talked about being covered (blanketed) in comfort. I use this visualization daily - and it brings a great comfort. I think it’s just like that cool shadow in the flatlands of Tanzania!

I must say when I think of shadow it’s not always positive. No doubt there is a shadow side an altering diagnosis and I think completely normal to spend some time in the “shadows” of sadness and dread. Remembering the comfort and shade we have helps realign toward a better path.

It’s hard to believe I have 6 more treatments - 6 more walks - 6 more opportunities to find the comfort of shadows along the path from Wofford to Gibbs Cancer Center.

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So is becoming the natural process of maturing or is it something we manifest? Can you be present and focused on what you are becoming at the same time? Can you not just define it by taking the words apart - just be and then other things will come?

Can you ever stop becoming - you know - limit the personal growth stuff - maybe take a week or six months to not grow as a human?

Have we developed a different more active definition of the word becoming than it was originally intended to? Or am I just showing my age by thinking I know what it was intended to mean?

Isn’t becoming one of the givens in life - by living we are becoming new and more empathetic and more understanding and more patient humans?

Certainly this cancer journey is helping me become a better partner, dad, brother, friend, and human?

May it be so!

So many questions about the word today!!! I actually had thought for a second I would save that word for the last day, but honored the process and my walking partner today who picked it!

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Is something that you can pay or come to. For me, my first thoughts of attention revolve around detail and value. Attention to detail can mean a lot of things. Discipline to stay the course even when you don’t know the outcome or you think the outcome is uncertain. It can also mean doing the small things, even when they seem redundant. Both of these concepts are lessons that this cancer journey is starting to teach me. I don’t particularly do well with routines although going to radiation every morning has helped me to develop a very solid morning routine that I have grown to love. It embraces time for working on both my mental and physical strengths to start the day. It also helps me leave the phone down for a bit longer in the morning. This kind of attention I have grown to love.

I also think what we pay attention to also shows us and the world what we value. I think the words “pay” and “value” are really interesting when thinking about attention. This journey has required me to work really hard on focusing my attention towards the present instead of the future. This just might be the best lesson from all of this. I know there are more and I am so excited to explore them at the conclusion of radiation. For me, I will continue to work to give my attention to the positive!

I have to add when I think about attention to detail I am so grateful for the radiation techs who each morning support and deliver the radiation to me. Their attention to detail is something that I am SOOO grateful for!

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Pain

Is totally different than suffering. Pain isn’t always bad or terrible or physical. Pain can be weakness leaving the body and pain can be your weakness. To be honest, I was most in dread about the physical pain that would come from all of this journey. I was so scared the pain from surgery would be unbearable, and I have had similar thoughts on radiation. For me pain has been a measure, unfair and unrealistic, of how strong or weak I am. I am growing to understand where this is coming from and emotional pain has been a good teacher. I believe pain is something we all carry, sometimes it’s light as a feather, and other times it’s the weight of the world times two.

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Lastly, I wanted to make sure I shared this story from my morning meditation. I imagine it’s a story or tale many of us have heard. This morning it made me reflect on this journey and this community that we have created together. I am changing this to fit my personal journey and feelings at this moment.

There was an elder who was talking with a young person about life.

“We all have a great battle going on inside of us, two wolves fighting to the death,” the elder said to the wide eyed young person.

“One of the wolves stands for fear, dread, worry, angst, sadness, and pain, while the other stands for faith, joy, peace, love, and comfort.”

The young person continued to look at the elder in the eyes and quickly said, “Which one wins?”

Patting the young person on the head and bringing them into an embrace the elder said, “the one you feed, the one you feed always wins!”

Let’s remember to be kind to each other and feed the good stuff!

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