Getting cancer four years changed my life forever, in ways good and bad. I’m a much more patient and forgiving person (except with myself) than I was four years ago. Unfortunately, I have some serious side effects – from the treatment, not the cancer – that will be with me for life. But they’re manageable and, considering what I’ve been through, I think I’m doing reasonably well.
I also learned two years ago – because of the fatigue from cancer treatment and recovery – that I’ve had Asperger’s Syndrome (Autism) my entire life. I probably never would have been diagnosed otherwise. That revelation has answered so many questions that I’ve had about my life for a long time. (Yeah, I’m looking at you, emotionally manipulative and verbally abusive former bosses. 🤷🏻♂️)
As of my last check ups at MD Anderson and UT Health East Texas, I’m “NED” or “No Evidence of Disease.” Hopefully, on June 29, 2023 – the fifth anniversary of completing treatment – they’ll declare me “cured.”
When they do, I plan to get a tattoo – with the Greek word Tetelestai and a “head and neck cancer ribbon” incorporated in it – on my forearm. The word means “It is finished,” which – as you probably know – is the last thing Jesus said on the cross.
That tattoo will signify so much more, for me, than just my cancer being finished. It, hopefully obviously, helps people know that I’m a Christ follower and I give him the credit for not only saving my life (multiple times) but more importantly, my soul.
It also signifies that the “old Jeff” is dead. I’ve always been Autistic and I always will be. I’ll always have difficulties understanding the way you “normal” humans think and your non-verbal communication.
But the anger I used to feel when people would misinterpret my words or twist things I’d said into things I NEVER meant has been replaced, sometimes with compassion, sometimes with resignation … and, sometimes, with the uncontrollable desire to just laugh and say, “You got THAT from THIS?”
I hope you’re available to celebrate with me when I get that tattoo. I fully intend to post a video of the process so that you can enjoy the “tough guy” – who survived, in my oncologist’s words, “the most brutal thing modern medicine does to a patient” – writhing in pain and crying like a little baby while my family and the tattoo artist just LAUGH and LAUGH at me.
I really do appreciate you for being there and for praying me through the toughest experience of my life. FRED is dead … and you helped kill him.
Thank you!