William E. Cleary Sr. | Cleary’s Notebook News
PHILADELPHIA, PA (CNBNews)(January 20, 2023)—The morning of Wednesday, January 18, 2023, arrived with a mixture of emotions I can barely put into words. After 33 treatments spanning nearly two months, I was finally heading to the Roberts Proton Therapy Center at 3600 Civic Blvd., Philadelphia, for my last prostate cancer treatment. With me were my wife, Connie; my daughter, Connie Lynn Woods; and my granddaughter, Brianna Woods. My entire family wanted to be there—but the hospital limits the number of support people you can bring with you to just three. Still, knowing they were all thinking of me, sending texts of encouragement throughout the morning, made me feel surrounded by love.
As we drove up I-676 that morning, the Philadelphia skyline emerging through the winter haze, I found myself reflecting on how this journey had begun. It seemed like yesterday, yet it felt like a lifetime ago.
The Beginning: When Everything Changed
It was May 2022 when my world first tilted on its axis. I had gone for my routine annual prostate and kidney physical, the kind of appointment you schedule and then half-forget about until the day arrives.Every year my annual screening of my kidney was done because of a tumor on my adrenal gland that was discovered a few years ago. I knew enough about PSA tests to understand this wasn’t good news. The PSA test—prostate-specific antigen—is a blood test used primarily to screen for prostate cancer. The test ‘measures the amount of prostate-specific antigen in your blood. PSA is a protein produced by both cancerous and noncancerous tissue in the prostate, a small gland that sits below the bladder in males. Normal levels are generally considered to be below 4.0 ng/mL, though this can vary with age.
“What does this mean?” I asked, though part of me already knew the answer.
“It could mean several things—an infection, inflammation, or possibly cancer. We need to do more testing. I’m referring you to a urologist.”
The Waiting Game
The weeks between June and July were among the longest of my life. Every morning, I’d wake up and for a brief, blissful moment, I’d forget. Then reality would come crashing back. I tried to keep busy with the newspaper, with my daily walks with Peyton, with family dinners and normal life. But the fear was always there, lurking in the background like an unwelcome guest.
The MRI was scheduled for August 15th. When it was over, the technician said the radiologist would review the images and send a report to my doctor.
Dr. Berkowitz within a few days. More waiting. More sleepless nights. More pretending everything was fine when people asked how I was doing.
The call came on July 20th. Dr. Berkowitz’s voice was grave. “Bill, the MRI shows a suspicious area in your prostate. We need to do a biopsy to determine if it’s cancerous. I’m scheduling you for the end of August.”
August. More than a month away. How was I supposed to wait more than a month?
“Can’t we do it sooner?” I asked, hearing the desperation in my own voice.
“I’m sorry, Bill. We’re booked solid. But I promise you, we’re going to take good care of you.”
The Biopsy: A Day I’ll Never Forget
August 29, 2022. The date is burned into my memory. My grandson David was driving the van to the hospital that morning. Connie was sitting in one of the captain’s chairs in the back of the van. I was riding shotgun. Neither of us said much during the 30-minute drive. The procedure itself was uncomfortable and invasive. The doctor explained that he would be taking twelve tissue samples from different areas of my prostate using a spring-loaded needle guided by ultrasound. I’d been given a local anesthetic, but I could still feel the pressure, the strange sensation of something foreign invading my body.
When it was over, I was taken to a recovery area where Connie was waiting. The nurse gave me instructions about what to expect—some blood in my urine and semen for a few days, possible discomfort, signs of infection to watch for. Then we went home. I was thankful my grandson was available to drive us home.
The waiting for biopsy results was the worst yet. Finally, on September 7th, the doctor called.”Bill, I have your biopsy results,” the doctor said. “There was a pause, and in that pause, I knew. “I’m sorry to tell you that the biopsy confirmed cancer. You have prostate cancer.”
“It’s aggressive, but it appears to be localized to your prostate. That’s good news—it means it hasn’t spread. Your Gleason score is 8, which puts you in the high-risk category, and you have a Grade 4 tumor. But Bill, this is treatable. We have excellent options for you.”
I had decided weeks before that if the test showed it was cancer I would have the treatments at the facilities.upenn.edu › maps › locations
Roberts Proton Therapy Center | University of Pennsylvania …
At its opening, the Roberts Proton Therapy Center, part of the Abramson Cancer Center at Perelman, was a first-of-its-kind proton therapy center for the treatment of cancer.
at the University of Pennsylvania. uld be lengthy, and there were no guarantees about the side effects.
Dr. Chen, on the other hand, presented proton therapy as a less invasive option. Proton therapy, he explained, is a type of radiation therapy that uses high-energy protons—positively charged atoms—to damage the DNA in cancer cells. Unlike traditional radiation, which uses X-rays that pass through the body and can damage healthy tissue on both sides of the tumor, protons can be controlled to stop at the tumor site, delivering their energy precisely where it’s needed and minimizing damage to surrounding healthy tissue.
“Think of it like this,” Dr. Chen said, using his hands to illustrate. “Traditional radiation is like a bullet that goes through your target and keeps going. Protons are like a smart bomb that explodes exactly where you want it to and nowhere else.”
The treatment would involve coming to Philadelphia five days a week for about seven weeks—33 treatments in total. Each session would last only about fifteen to twenty minutes, and the actual radiation delivery would take less than two minutes. It was non-invasive, painless, and I could drive myself to and from treatments.
therapy. As the largest center in the world for both proton and traditional radiation, they treat more than 100 patients with proton therapy daily. The facility consists of 75,000 square feet of cutting-edge medical technology.
We checked in at the main desk, and I was taken back to a changing room where I put on a hospital gown. Then I was led to a room that looked like something out of a science fiction movie. In the center was a large table surrounded by enormous machines—the proton therapy equipment.
A team of radiation therapists greeted me warmly. There was Maria, a woman in her thirties with a bright smile and a reassuring manner; James, a tall man with glasses who explained every step of the process; and Susan, who would be my primary therapist throughout treatment.
“We’re going to create a custom immobilization device for you,” Susan explained. “It’s essentially a mold that will help you maintain the exact same position for every treatment. Precision is crucial with proton therapy—we’re talking about millimeters.”
They had me lie on the table and positioned me carefully. Then they created a mesh mask that would fit over my pelvis and legs, holding them in place. They also made small tattoo marks on my skin—permanent dots that would help them align the radiation beams precisely.
The simulation took about two hours. They did CT scans, took measurements, and programmed the treatment plan into the computer. Dr. Chen came in to review everything and make adjustments.
“You’re all set,” he said when it was done. “We’ll see you on December 6th to start treatment. Remember, each session will be quick—you’ll be in and out in about twenty minutes.”
Treatment Begins: The Daily Ritual
December 6, 2022. My first day of proton therapy. Connie and I left our house in Gloucester City at 7:30 AM to beat the morning traffic into Philadelphia. The drive took about forty-five minutes, crossing the Walt Whitman Bridge, the Delaware River stretching out below us, the Philadelphia skyline growing larger as we approached.
We developed a routine quickly. We’d listen to the radio on the drive in—usually the news or talk radio, sometimes music. Connie would drive because I was often tired from the hormone therapy. We’d arrive at the center around 8:15 AM, and I’d check in at the desk.
The waiting room became a second home. It was a large, comfortable space with big windows, plenty of seating, magazines, a television, and a coffee station. And in one corner, hanging from a wooden stand, was the ceremonial bell that patients rang when they completed their treatment.
I’d watch other patients ring that bell during those first few weeks. Some rang it tentatively, almost shyly. Others rang it with gusto, their families cheering and clapping. Each time, everyone in the waiting room would applaud. It was a moment of celebration, of hope, of victory over cancer.
“That’ll be you soon,” Connie would whisper, squeezing my hand.
The actual treatment was surprisingly quick and painless. I’d be called back to the treatment room, where Maria, James, or Susan would help me onto the table and position me using the custom mold they’d created. They’d align everything using the tattoo marks and laser guides, making tiny adjustments until everything was perfect.
Then they’d leave the room, and I’d hear their voices over the intercom: “Okay, Bill, we’re ready to start. This will take about ninety seconds. Just relax and breathe normally.”
The machine would hum and whir, moving around me, but I felt nothing. No pain, no sensation at all. It was hard to believe that invisible protons were bombarding my tumor, destroying cancer cells at the molecular level.
After ninety seconds, it was over. The therapists would come back in, help me off the table, and I’d get dressed and head back to the waiting room where Connie was waiting.
“All done?” she’d ask.
“All done.”
Then we’d drive home, usually stopping at a diner for breakfast—our little ritual. Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, coffee. Normal things. Comforting things.
The Side Effects: When Reality Hits
The first week of treatment was easy. I felt fine, almost normal. I started to think maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
I was wrong.
By the second week, the side effects began. It started with fatigue—a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep could cure. I’d come home from treatment and collapse on the couch, unable to keep my eyes open. Peyton would curl up beside me, her warm body a comfort, and I’d sleep for hours.
Then came the gastrointestinal problems. Dr. Chen had warned me that radiation to the prostate could affect the nearby rectum and bladder. What he hadn’t conveyed was how debilitating it would be. The diarrhea was sudden and urgent, giving me only seconds of warning. I couldn’t leave the house without knowing exactly where every bathroom was located. There were days when I couldn’t leave the house at all.
I lost weight—fifteen pounds over the course of treatment. Food lost its appeal. Everything tasted like cardboard, and eating often triggered more GI problems. Connie tried to tempt me with my favorite foods—her homemade pasta sauce, roast chicken, chocolate cake—but I could barely manage a few bites.
The urinary symptoms were equally challenging. I had to urinate frequently—sometimes every thirty minutes—and it burned. There were nights when I’d get up eight or ten times, stumbling to the bathroom in the dark, Connie stirring beside me each time.
“I’m sorry,” I’d whisper.
“Don’t be sorry,” she’d say. “Just come back to bed.”
Around week four, I developed a rash on my trunk—red, itchy patches that made me want to claw at my skin. Then came mouth and throat ulcers that made swallowing painful. I’d wake up with chills, shaking so hard my teeth would chatter, and Connie would pile blankets on me and hold me until the shaking stopped.
There were days when I wanted to quit. Days when I’d sit in the car in the parking lot of the proton center and think, “I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.”
But then I’d think about Connie, about my children and grandchildren, about all the stories I still wanted to tell, all the life I still wanted to live. And I’d get out of the car and walk into that building and lie down on that table one more time.
The People I Met: Fellow Travelers on This Journey
One of the unexpected gifts of this experience was the people I met in that waiting room. We were all there for the same reason—fighting for our lives—and that created an instant bond.
There was Dmitri, a 73-year-old Russian immigrant who had become a naturalized citizen decades ago. He had a thick accent and a philosophical outlook on life that I found both fascinating and comforting. We’d sit together in the waiting room, and he’d tell me stories about his life.
“In Russia, I was teacher,” he said one morning, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. “Mathematics. I loved teaching, loved seeing young minds understand complex problems. But in 1989, I came to America with my wife and $200 in my pocket. Had to start over.”
He’d built a successful business in Wilmington, Delaware—a small manufacturing company that made parts for automobiles. Then the city claimed eminent domain to build a new development, and he was forced to close.
“They gave me money, yes, but it was not about money,” he said, his eyes sad. “It was my life’s work, you understand? My legacy.”
Then his wife fell ill with Alzheimer’s disease, and he’d spent his retirement years caring for her. Recently, his brother, who was paralyzed from a stroke, had moved in with them.
“So now I have cancer, my wife doesn’t know who I am half the time, and my brother cannot move from his bed,” Dmitri said. “But you know what? I am still here. I am still fighting. What else can you do?”
His resilience humbled me. Here was a man who had every reason to give up, yet he showed up every day with a smile, ready to face whatever came next.
Then there was Marcus, a 25-year-old construction worker who broke my heart every time I saw him. He’d been diagnosed with a brain tumor at another hospital, and when they operated, the surgeons had damaged the right side of his body. His right eye barely opened, and his right arm hung uselessly at his side.
“They missed the cancer,” he told me one day, his words slightly slurred. “Can you believe that? They cut open my head, messed me up, and missed the cancer.”
Now he was at Penn getting chemotherapy, hoping to shrink the tumor enough for another surgery. He was the sole provider for his 9-year-old daughter and his mother, who came with him to every appointment.
“I used to do karate,” he said, demonstrating a slow, awkward kick with his left leg. “I was good, too. Won some tournaments. Now look at me.”
But despite everything, Marcus maintained his faith. His mother would read Bible verses to him in the waiting room, and they’d pray together before his treatments.
“God has a plan,” his mother would say, her hand on his shoulder. “We don’t always understand it, but He has a plan.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that there was meaning in all this suffering, that it would lead somewhere good. But watching Marcus struggle to button his coat with one hand, seeing the frustration and fear in his eyes, I had my doubts.
There was Robert, a man in his fifties who had been treated for cancer at another Philadelphia hospital in 2017. They’d told him he was cured, that he could go back to his normal life. But he’d never felt right—always tired, always feeling like something was wrong.
“I kept telling my doctor, ‘Something’s not right,'” Robert said. “But he kept saying I was fine, that it was just anxiety or depression. For five years, I spent most of my days in bed because I felt so terrible.”
Finally, he’d come to Penn for a second opinion, and they’d discovered that his cancer had never been cured. It had spread to his bones and lungs.
“Five years,” he said, his voice bitter. “Five years they told me I was fine while cancer was eating me alive.”
Now he was undergoing aggressive treatment, hoping it wasn’t too late. His wife had left him—couldn’t handle the stress of his illness—and he was living with his elderly parents.
“I don’t know if I’m going to make it,” he admitted to me one day. “But at least now I know what I’m fighting.”
And then there was Jennifer, a 50-year-old woman with breast cancer. We met in the waiting room for CT scans one afternoon. The room was empty except for the two of us, and we both looked up from our phones at the same moment.
“Hello,” I said, offering a smile.
“Hi,” she replied, her voice soft.
We started talking, the way strangers do when they’re both facing something difficult. She told me about her diagnosis, about her three young children, about being their sole provider since her husband had died in a car accident two years earlier.
“My mother moved in to help with the kids,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “But she’s 75, and I worry I’m asking too much of her. And I keep thinking, what happens to my kids if I die? Who will take care of them?”
I didn’t have any answers for her. What could I say? That everything would be okay? I didn’t know if that was true. So I just listened, and when she started to cry, I handed her a tissue from the box on the side table.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I don’t usually fall apart like this.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “This is hard. It’s okay to cry.”
We sat in silence for a moment, two strangers bound together by fear and hope and the simple fact of being human.
These people—Dmitri, Marcus, Robert, Jennifer, and so many others—became my companions on this journey. We’d nod to each other in the waiting room, exchange updates on our treatments, offer words of encouragement. Some days, seeing their courage gave me the strength to keep going.
The Medical Team: Angels in Scrubs
I cannot say enough about the staff at the Roberts Proton Therapy Center. From the moment I walked through those doors, I was treated with kindness, compassion, and respect.
Maria, James, and Susan—my radiation therapists—became like family. They greeted me by name every morning, asked about Connie and Peyton, remembered details from our previous conversations. They made small talk while positioning me on the table, distracting me from any anxiety I might be feeling.
“How’s that newspaper of yours doing?” James would ask.
“Still causing trouble,” I’d reply, and he’d laugh.
When the side effects got bad, they were the ones who listened to my complaints, offered suggestions, and reassured me that what I was experiencing was normal.
“I know it’s rough,” Susan said one day when I admitted I was struggling. “But you’re doing great, Bill. You’re more than halfway through. You can do this.”
Dr. Chen checked in with me weekly, reviewing my symptoms, adjusting medications, answering my questions. He never rushed me, never made me feel like I was taking up too much of his time.
“How are you really doing?” he’d ask, looking me in the eye.
And I’d tell him the truth—about the fatigue, the GI problems, the dark thoughts that crept in at night.
“That’s all normal,” he’d say. “I know it doesn’t feel normal, but it is. Your body is fighting a war right now, and wars are exhausting. But we’re winning, Bill. The treatment is working.”
The nurses who drew my blood, the receptionists who checked me in, the valet parking attendants who greeted me with a smile every morning—they all contributed to making an unbearable situation more bearable.
There was one valet attendant, a young man named Carlos, who always had a joke ready.
“Hey, Mr. Cleary!” he’d call out as I pulled up. “You know what the difference is between a poorly dressed man on a bicycle and a well-dressed man on a tricycle?”
“What?” I’d ask, playing along.
“Attire!” He’d laugh at his own joke, and despite everything, I’d laugh too.
These small moments of humanity, of connection, of laughter—they mattered more than I can express.
Family: The Foundation That Held Me Up
Throughout this entire ordeal, my family was my anchor. Connie, of course, was there every step of the way. She drove me to appointments, sat with me during treatments, held my hand when I was scared, and never once complained about the burden I’d become.
There were nights when the side effects were so bad that I couldn’t sleep, and she’d stay awake with me, rubbing my back, bringing me water, just being there.
“You don’t have to stay up,” I’d say.
“Where else would I be?” she’d reply.
My daughter, Connie Lynn, called every day to check on me. She’d bring over meals, knowing I wasn’t eating well, and sit with me while I tried to force down a few bites.
“Dad, you have to eat,” she’d say. “You’re getting too thin.”
“I know, honey. I’m trying.”
My granddaughter, Brianna, sent me funny memes and videos to cheer me up. She’d text me every morning: “Good luck today, Grandpa! You’ve got this!”
My son, Bill Jr., though he couldn’t be there for every treatment, called regularly and visited on weekends. He’d take Peyton for walks when I was too tired, help with yard work, fix things around the house that I didn’t have the energy to deal with.
“Don’t worry about any of this, Dad,” he’d say. “Just focus on getting better.”
Even my extended family rallied around me. My sister called weekly. Friends from the newspaper sent cards and emails. People I’d written about over the years reached out to offer their support and prayers.
I realized, during those difficult months, how blessed I was. Not everyone has this kind of support system. Some of the people I met in that waiting room were facing cancer alone, and my heart broke for them.
The Dark Nights: Wrestling with Mortality
There were nights—many nights—when I couldn’t sleep, when the fear would creep in and wrap itself around me like a suffocating blanket. I’d lie in bed, listening to Connie’s soft breathing beside me, and think about death.
I’m 78 years old. I’ve lived a good life, a full life. I’ve been married to the love of my life for over fifty years. I’ve raised children and watched them raise children of their own. I’ve built a newspaper, told important stories, made a difference in my community. If I died tomorrow, I could say I’d lived well.
But I didn’t want to die. Not yet. There were still stories to tell, still grandchildren to watch grow up, still sunrises to see and dinners to share and walks to take with Peyton.
The thought of leaving Connie alone terrified me. Who would she have breakfast with? Who would she talk to about her day? Who would hold her hand while watching television?
Was this my second chance running out? Or would I get lucky again?
The Bell: A Moment I’ll Never Forget
And so we come back to January 18, 2023. My last treatment. My family gathered in the waiting room—Connie, Connie Lynn, and Brianna. They’d brought a small cake and a card signed by everyone in the family.
I went back for my final treatment, and Maria, James, and Susan were all there.
“This is it, Bill,” Maria said, her eyes shining. “Your last one. How does it feel?”
“Surreal,” I admitted. “I can’t quite believe it’s over.”
They positioned me on the table one last time, and I stared up at the ceiling, at the machines that had become so familiar over the past seven weeks. Ninety seconds later, it was done.
“Congratulations, Bill,” Susan said, helping me off the table. “You did it.”
I got dressed slowly, savoring the moment. This was the last time I’d put on that hospital gown, the last time I’d lie on that table. I was done.
When I walked back into the waiting room, my family stood up, smiling. Other patients and their families looked over, knowing what was about to happen.
I walked to the corner where the bell hung—a large brass bell suspended from a wooden stand. There was a plaque beside it with a poem:
Ring this bell
three times well
Its toll to clearly say,
My treatment’s done
This course is run
And I am on my way!
I grabbed the rope, ready for my moment of triumph. I pulled.
Nothing happened.
I pulled again, harder this time. Still nothing.
All eyes were on me. I could feel my face turning red. What was wrong with this bell?
From across the room, Kathy, the receptionist, was yelling and gesturing. “Swing it forward, not sideways! Forward!”
Oh. I’d been pulling the rope sideways, not swinging the clapper forward into the bell. I adjusted my grip and swung the rope forward.
CLANG!
The sound was loud and clear and beautiful. I rang it again and again, and the waiting room erupted in applause and laughter. Connie was crying and laughing at the same time. Brianna was recording it on her phone. Other patients were clapping and cheering.
“Only you, Dad,” Connie Lynn said, shaking her head with a smile. “Only you could mess up ringing a bell.”
“Hey, I got it eventually,” I protested, but I was laughing too.
Maria came out and gave me a hug. “We’re going to miss you, Bill.”
“I’m going to miss you too,” I said, and I meant it.
We took pictures—me with my family, me with the medical team, me standing next to that bell. Then we cut the cake and shared it with the other patients in the waiting room, because that’s what you do when you have something to celebrate.
As we walked out of the Roberts Proton Therapy Center for the last time, I paused at the door and looked back. So much had happened in that building over the past seven weeks. I’d faced my mortality, met incredible people, experienced the best and worst of what it means to be human.
“Ready?” Connie asked, taking my hand.
“Ready,” I said.
Life After Treatment: The New Normal
It’s been several months now since my last treatment, and I’m still adjusting to what Dr. Chen calls “the new normal.” The side effects didn’t magically disappear the day treatment ended. In fact, some of them got worse before they got better.
The fatigue lingered for weeks. The GI problems continued, though they’ve gradually improved. The chills, headaches, and nausea come and go. Dr. Chen warned me that it could take months for my body to fully recover from the radiation, and he was right.
But slowly, gradually, I’m starting to feel more like myself. I can eat without immediate consequences. I can sleep through most of the night. I have energy to work on the newspaper, to take Peyton for walks, to have dinner with my family.
My PSA levels are being monitored every three months. The first test, in April, showed a significant drop. Dr. Chen was pleased.
“This is exactly what we want to see,” he said. “The treatment appears to have been successful.”
Appears to have been. Not “was definitely successful.” Not “you’re cured.” Just “appears to have been successful.”
I’ve learned to live with that uncertainty. Cancer teaches you that there are no guarantees, no promises of tomorrow. All you have is today, this moment, right now.
Reflections: What Cancer Taught Me
As I write this, sitting in my office with Peyton asleep at my feet and Connie humming in the kitchen, I find myself reflecting on what this experience has taught me.
I’ve learned that I’m stronger than I thought I was. There were days when I was certain I couldn’t go on, couldn’t face one more treatment, one more side effect, one more sleepless night. But I did. We all have reserves of strength we don’t know about until we’re forced to tap into them.
I’ve learned the true meaning of love. Watching Connie care for me day after day, never complaining, always there—that’s love. Not the romantic, passionate love of youth, but the deep, abiding love that comes from decades of partnership, of choosing each other every single day.
I’ve learned that community matters. The support I received from family, friends, and even strangers sustained me through the darkest times. We’re not meant to face life’s challenges alone.
I’ve learned that medical professionals are heroes. The doctors, nurses, and therapists who treated me could have chosen easier careers, less stressful jobs. But they chose to spend their days helping people fight for their lives, and they do it with compassion and grace.
I’ve learned that life is precious and fragile and should never be taken for granted. Every morning I wake up is a gift. Every meal with my family, every walk with my dog, every sunset—these are miracles I once overlooked.
And I’ve learned that I’m not done yet. Whatever purpose God has for me on this earth, I haven’t fulfilled it yet. There are still stories to tell, still wrongs to right, still life to live.
Looking Forward: What Comes Next
As you age in life, you can’t help but think every so often about death and how you are going to die. Based on my two experiences with cancer up until now, I don’t believe that disease will be my downfall. Nope, I picture myself tripping over a stone as I walk down the railroad tracks with my dog Peyton, hitting my head, and lying unconscious as a train rolls over my body. Perhaps that is a little extreme, but it has to be something that will earn me a big headline in all the newspapers and television stations. I could go skydiving, and the parachute doesn’t open. Or, I could live to be 100 years old and die in my rocking chair, surrounded by great-great-grandchildren I haven’t even met yet.
Looking back over my life, I should have been gone long ago. I’ve had close calls, dangerous situations, health scares that could have ended differently. This leads me to believe that I still haven’t fulfilled the reason why God put me on this earth 78 years ago.
For now, I am going to savor this moment and continue to live my life to the fullest. I’m going to keep publishing Cleary’s Notebook News, keep holding the powerful accountable, and keep telling the stories that need to be told. I’m going to spend time with my family, take long walks with Peyton, have breakfast with Connie every morning, and never take a single day for granted.
I’m going to remember Dmitri and Marcus and Robert and Jennifer and all the other warriors I met in that waiting room. I’m going to honor their courage by living fully, by not wasting the time I’ve been given.
And when my time does come—whether it’s tomorrow or twenty years from now—I want to be able to say that I lived well, that I loved deeply, that I made a difference.
Qué será, será. Whatever will be, will be.
But for today, I’m here. I’m alive. I’m cancer-free, or at least in remission. And that’s enough.
That’s more than enough.
That’s everything.
Note: Besides prostate cancer, proton therapy is used for lung cancer, GI tumors, breast cancer, brain tumors, and sarcomas. The same type of proton treatment will be opening soon at the Penn-Virtua Hospital in Marlton, NJ.
For more information about proton therapy, visit the Roberts Proton Therapy Center website or speak with your oncologist about whether this treatment option might be right for you.