Just a little over a week to surgery. Time to get some of this tumor out. I still haven’t told many people — I kind of arc around trying to find something to do. Not so much to keep the mind preoccupied, but more so because my current position is rather damn dull.

In regards to the surgery, I have no grand expectation of the outcome. Although, admittingly, I feel embarrassed. Why? Well, I think everything will come ok, that all this drama was for naught. I presume, post-surgery, some cute nurse will poke me in the shoulder and say “arise.” And just as Christ command, in awe, everyone will clap. Such fairy tales seem overrated. At surgery end, I will get up and walk. If I don’t, get me a television, a remote control, kettle chips, and a diet coke. I am ok with the outcome, regardless of the path to which God commands I endure. Sure, I wish to have tumors out. But with the diagnosis of an additional tumor, I strive to place one foot in front of the other and walk onward. 

My tale of woe is nowhere near as others. Dare to think God has dealt you a lousy hand, take a look at the Kobe Bryant or the Mauser family. Sometimes comparing life’s misery keeps one in check.

I am not a true warrior. You know, the guy who saved many. Such a viewpoint should never be mistaken for me. That’s not to say I didn’t do my part. I did. But I no longer consider my sacrifice anything special. Real heroes lay enshrined in national and local cemeteries. Those heroes fought injustice, battles, defeated Stalinism, communism, and hatred. Real heroes are victims who rose against the likes of Epstein and Weinstein. We should celebrate their sacrifice, not mine.

I can’t give this tumor more power than it has. It’s a foe that has no face, no body, nor motto. It does have an x-ray, yet appears as another blob. However, the deeper foe is age. Like David in Psalm 71:9, the very passage of time is a trial, and I utter unto God:

“Do not cast me off in the time of old age; do not forsake me when my strength fails.”

I’m assured He shall not.

In more youthful days, I ignored aging. The nature of humanity eventually outstripped youthful laughter. A year post-diagnosis, I accept certain ignoble truths: I neither bought this tumor nor the second. Amazon didn’t deliver it. Neither did a stork.  Accepting life and its frailty requires a different camera lens. I used to think being sick was a gift. In pure form, sickness taught many lessons. Yet I looked at it all wrong. I am a gift. I’m unsure why it took so many years to understand. Like a child, God held me abundantly. And I grew wiser and more mature. I wish more could have seen. 

Nine days from now, I will walk an uncharted course. There will be new roads with new choices. In preparation, I read Chapter 64 of the Dao De Jing. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” 

And how will my journey begin? When I get off the operating table and walk, foot by foot — step by step.