Growing up, my sister and I had the typical brother-sister relationship. We didn’t always get along—arguments, teasing, and plenty of slammed doors—but behind all that was something quietly enduring. Over time, what felt ordinary became extraordinary. And today, I find myself deeply grateful for the relationship we’ve built.
She was there for me during my toughest chapter—when cancer changed everything in 2020. After surgery, I couldn’t eat solid or warm meals, and recovery happened at my mom’s house in Georgia. It was the height of COVID, and everything felt fragile. But my sister came through. She showed up nearly every day, mask on, arms full—not just with supplies that were hard to find, but with thoughtfulness, care, and a quiet kind of strength. She didn’t ask what I needed. She just knew.
Our mom was also by my side through it all. Steady, patient, and selfless. She sacrificed sleep, time, and comfort to make sure I had a safe place to heal. The two of them—my mom and my sister—became this circle of care around me. I’ll never forget how much they carried during that time.
Now, I get to watch my sister in a different role—one she’s fully leaned into: the super-aunt. She spoils my two daughters in ways that make them so happy. Whether it’s the latest Lululemon crossbody bag, a Stanley Cup in just the right shade, or whatever’s trending with tweens, she always seems to know what’s cool before I do. She brings the fun, the surprises, and a kind of glow that only an aunt can give.
She’s also raised two amazing kids of her own—my nephew James and niece Maggie—and watching her love them fiercely, with a heart that’s both playful and protective, is its own kind of gift.
This birthday, I just want to say thank you.
Thank you for being the sister who didn’t just show up when it was easy—but especially when it was hard. Thank you for loving my girls like they’re your own. Thank you for the memories we share, the ones we’re still making, and the quiet ways you’ve helped hold us all together.
I may not say it enough, but I’m proud to be your older brother. I’m grateful for who you are—not just today, but every day.
We picked up our girls from Columbus on Friday. They’ve been with my mom having summer fun for two weeks. On Saturday, we took a detour home through Eufaula. Saturday’s drive home wasn’t just a route—it was a memory unfolding mile by mile. After lunch with Jennifer’s family in Eufaula, we chose Highway 431 instead of the usual path to Ringgold. That stretch from Seale to Anniston, winding through rural Alabama towns like Seale, Crawford, Opelika, Lafayette, Roanoke, Munford, and Centre, felt like traveling through time. In Centre, near Lake Weiss, we turned back towards north Georgia.
We even detoured near Anniston to show my daughters Camp Mac—a place that once held my summers as a camper and later as a counselor. Though the camp was prepping for its final 10-Day Term of the summer, and we didn’t stop officially, the roads and signage whispered old stories. My nephew James, now a counselor himself, carries that legacy forward.
But what stirred my heart most on that drive was passing through Russell County—especially near Seale and Crawford, where my grandparents’ farm stood just off Highway 169. Growing up, that stretch of land was my second home. And my grandfather, a farmer and county commissioner for 24 years, was my compass.
He taught me how to drive—starting on dirt roads at age nine. And even after I earned my license, he still corrected my driving with steady commentary from the front passenger seat. Not so much a backseat driver, but always present, always teaching.
On Sundays, we attended Seale United Methodist Church together. A congregation of 20 or 25 on a good day. Most Sundays, I was the only youth—or one of two or three. Yet it felt whole. Sacred in its simplicity.
He farmed cotton and soybeans when I was young—no animals by then, but plenty of work. I remember riding atop the cotton picker, delivering harvests to the cotton gin, and playing in the wagons filled to the brim—always reminded to stay alert so we wouldn’t smother under the weight. Later, when the crops ended, he planted pine trees for future harvest, thinking ahead, always rooted.
There were no electronics in our world back then, but it didn’t matter. We had fun: honest, muddy, imaginative fun. And once a year, he hosted county barbecues at the farm—whole pigs roasted and a family secret recipe for Brunswick stew served to the county workers. During election years, we might have a barbecue as a campaign event, humble and hearty. I can remember even helping him campaign outside the Crawford Volunteer Fire Station and Rainbow Foods (Grocery Store).
I became his driver, too. To the courthouse in Phenix City, to Montgomery, even up Highway 431 to Huntsville for a state county commissioners’ meeting. It was on that same route—now traveled with my wife and daughters—that memories stirred, quiet and bittersweet.
He was born March 9, 1928. I arrived fifty years and six days later. He passed in May 2004, just two months after Jennifer and I got married. He never got to meet our girls, which still aches. They won’t ride cotton wagons. They won’t sit beside him at the tiny church pew in Seale. They won’t hear his voice from the passenger seat reminding them when to brake.
But they carry him anyway. In my stories, in stories shared by my mom. In the routes I choose. In the grit and grace he taught me.
In Memory:
This story is dedicated to my grandfather, Claude Parkman, Russell County Commissioner from 1972 to 1996, farmer, mentor, and passenger-seat coach. He taught me how to drive, how to campaign, and how to listen to the land.
Though he never met his great-granddaughters, I carry him with me every time we pass through Seale, turn onto Highway 169, or find ourselves drifting down the same stretch of 431 we once rode together. His story lives on in the roads we travel, the work we do, and the family we build.
An article from April 1993 in the “Alabama Extra” section of the Columbus, GA newspaper.
Seale United Methodist Church. I took this picture in December, 2014.
On March 27, 2025, Jennifer and I celebrated our 21st wedding anniversary. It’s a milestone that, on paper, looks neat and round. But in the rearview mirror, it’s a winding road full of real-life moments—some joyful, some impossible, all meaningful.
Jennifer is not one for loud celebrations. Her strength lives in consistency, in quiet acts of love, and in showing up. And for more than two decades, she has done just that—not only for me, but for our daughters, our family, and countless others through her work.
We first met back in June 2002, thanks to a shared friendship between her aunt and my mom. Jennifer had just graduated from the University of Alabama at Birmingham, and I had just finished at Georgia Southern. Her family was visiting her aunt in Columbus, Georgia—who, by coincidence, had been the librarian at my high school. She always thought Jennifer and I should meet.
That meeting happened over Mexican food and Uno cards. From there, a long-distance friendship grew into a relationship. Our first official date was on her birthday—November 4, 2002—a concert in Birmingham with Third Day, Michael W. Smith, and Max Lucado. A year later, on a beach in Panama City near sunset, I asked her to marry me.
Since then, life has brought us so many changes. In November 2012, we welcomed our first daughter, and in August 2016, our second. In 2020, life took a hard turn when I was diagnosed with cancer right in the heart of the COVID-19 pandemic. Hospital restrictions kept Jennifer from staying close, but she and my mom found a hotel near Emory. When I was discharged on August 6, she returned with the girls and took on single parenting for three months while I recovered and completed radiation. That time was hard—but she remained unwavering.
She has driven me home from many appointments, sat through procedures, and stood beside me through anesthesia and uncertainty. Today, July 9, 2025, she was once again there—my driver and companion—as I had my feeding tube replaced at Emory Midtown. They didn’t end up giving twilight anesthesia, but they might have, and she was ready either way. That’s Jennifer: prepared, present, unshaken.
And she’s done all this while pursuing her own growth. In 2023, she completed her Master’s degree through Simmons University in Boston. She’ll be eligible for her licensure exam in May 2026. She’s worked for the same company for 21 years, starting at Lookout Mountain Community Services (now Bridge Health). Her roles have spanned from Case Management to Director of Housing, and now she’s a Substance Abuse and Mental Health Counselor. For the past two years, while I’ve been back in school earning my own Master’s degree, she has helped carry our household financially.
She’s also my concert companion—and a devoted fan of Keith Urban. We’ve seen him live over 12 times (he’s her celebrity boyfriend, or so she says). And through every show, every hospital visit, every parenting challenge, and all of life’s twists—she’s been steady. She’s been grace.
Behind every story I’ve written, every lesson I’ve prepared, every step I’ve taken—Jennifer has been there. Not in the spotlight, but holding the rope when the waters rose.
This post is for her. For 21 years of grit and gentleness. For the love that holds a family together—sometimes quietly, always fully.
In 2020, I was diagnosed with head and neck cancer. What followed was a season marked by pain, distance, and uncertainty—not just for me, but for my wife and our two young daughters. I’ve written about parts of that journey before, but this reflection is different. It’s about what cancer took from me—and what, in its own strange way, it gave back. It’s about fatherhood reshaped by illness, about presence reclaimed through healing, and about the quiet power of showing up. This is a story told through the lens of a calendar—one that once marked surgeries and separation, and now holds birthdays, field trips, and the ordinary days I once feared I’d miss.
The Calendar
It’s a Tuesday morning in May. The kitchen hums with the gentle chaos of routine—Caroline hums to herself as she ties her shoes, and Julie is at the fridge, double-checking her lunch that she takes to school every day. She asks me, “You don’t have anything this week, right?” she asks, not looking up.
I tell her no, just a regular week. She nods, but I can see the tension in her shoulders ease just slightly.
Almost five years later, she still checks. Still worries. Still remembers.
The calendar used to be a battlefield. In 2020, it was filled with dates I couldn’t control—diagnosis, surgery, ICU, radiation. Days I missed birthdays. Days I couldn’t speak. Days I wasn’t there. Now, it’s filled with spelling tests, school holidays, and homework. I follow the same calendar as my daughters do. That wasn’t always the case.
There was a time when I couldn’t be their father in the way I wanted to be. Cancer took that from me. But slowly—through pain, through distance, through healing—it gave something back. Not the same life, but a different one. A quieter one. One where I help with homework and go on field trips. One where I’m not just surviving but really showing up.
School let out on May 23rd. Now, July stretches ahead of us—no appointments, no alarms, no separation. Just time. Time to be together. Time I once wasn’t sure I’d have.
But this week, the house is quiet. The girls are in Columbus, visiting my mom—the same house where I once lay recovering, too weak to speak, too far from the life I knew. Back then, they were the ones far away. Now, they’re there by choice, laughing in the same rooms that once held my silence.
We’ll see them again next weekend. And when we do, I’ll mark it on the calendar—not because I might forget, but because I want to remember. Every visit, every return, every ordinary day we get to share.
The Diagnosis
May 2020 was already strange. The world had shut down, schools were closed, and routines had unraveled. But inside our house, something even more disorienting was happening. I was in pain—deep, unrelenting pain that wrapped around my jaw and neck like a vice. I was tired all the time, sleeping more than I was awake. The girls—Julie, seven, and Caroline, three—tiptoed around me, unsure why Daddy was always lying down, why he winced when he tried to talk.
I tried to keep things normal. I still made jokes when I could. I still tucked them in. But the truth was, I was slipping away from the life I knew, and I didn’t know how to stop it.
By July 7th, I couldn’t work anymore. The pain had taken over. I circled the date on the calendar—my last day at work—and stared at it like it belonged to someone else. A week later, I had my first appointment at Emory. Two weeks after that, I was in the ICU.
I’ve told parts of this story before. But each time I return to it, I see something new—not just in what happened, but in who I was becoming.
The calendar filled up fast. July 27th: admitted to the hospital. July 29th: surgery. July 31st: feeding tube. August 6th: discharged. Each date was a milestone, but none of them felt like progress. They felt like surrender.
Because of COVID, I was alone. My wife and mom stayed in a hotel nearby, but they couldn’t come into the hospital. My daughters were hundreds of miles away, staying with their grandparents. I missed Caroline’s fourth birthday. I missed bedtime stories and backyard games. I missed being their dad.
I remember the blood transfusion. I remember the silence of the ICU. I remember the way the days blurred together, how the calendar on the wall in my hospital room never seemed to move. I was stuck in time, while my daughters kept growing without me.
The Separation
August 6th, 2020. I was discharged from the hospital and sent to my mom’s house in Columbus to recover. My wife and daughters returned to North Georgia. We were all where we needed to be—but not where we wanted to be.
That stretch of time—August to November—was the longest I’d ever been away from my girls. They came down some weekends, but the visits were brief, and the goodbyes were always harder than the hellos. Caroline had just turned four. Julie would turn eight in November. I missed the in-between—the ordinary days that make up a childhood.
I stayed in the guest room at my mom’s house, surrounded by quiet and care. She and my sister made sure I had everything I needed—meals, medicine, encouragement. They watched over me when I couldn’t watch over myself. I’ll never forget that. Their strength held me up when mine was gone.
Still, the days moved slowly. I’d mark the weekends the girls were coming, then count down to them one by one. The calendar became a lifeline—a way to hold onto hope, to remind myself that I was still a father, even from a distance.
COVID made everything harder. No one could visit me in the hospital. No one could sit beside me during radiation. Even when I was out, I couldn’t hold my daughters the way I wanted to. I was fragile. I was healing. I was still learning how to eat again.
And yet, they waited for me. They asked about me. Julie, especially, carried the weight. She was old enough to understand that something was wrong, but too young to make sense of it. Even now, almost five years later, she still asks if I have any appointments. Still watches the calendar for signs of worry.
That fall, while I was in Columbus, the world kept moving. Leaves changed. School started—though not in the usual way. My daughters grew. And I healed, slowly, in the quiet. I missed so much. But I also began to understand what it meant to return—not just to health, but to them.
What Cancer Took
Cancer took more than my health. It took my voice—literally, for a time—and with it, the ease of conversation, the ability to read bedtime stories, to sing in the car, to say “I love you” without effort. It took my appetite, my strength, my ability to eat without a feeding tube. It took my sense of normalcy, my sense of control.
It interrupted my work. I had been at the same job since 2006, and I had to step away in July 2020, unsure if I’d ever return. I was out for five months, and during that time, I didn’t know if I’d be able to go back at all. But I did—slowly, in December. I stayed until February 2023. Still, that stretch of absence felt like a lifetime. The rhythm of work, the identity it gave me, the stability it offered—cancer shook all of it.
But perhaps the hardest thing it took was presence.
I wasn’t there when Caroline turned four. I wasn’t there for the start of school, or for the little moments that make up a day—helping with homework, brushing hair, hearing about a dream right before bed. I wasn’t there to reassure Julie when she was scared. I wasn’t there to hold my wife’s hand when she needed someone to lean on.
It took time. Time I’ll never get back. Time I spent in hospital beds and waiting rooms, in silence and in pain.
It took certainty. Even now, years later, there’s a shadow that follows every checkup, every scan. Julie still asks if I have appointments. She still watches the calendar like it might betray her.
It took simplicity. Things that used to be automatic—eating, speaking, swallowing—became complicated. I had to learn how to live in a body that no longer worked the way it used to.
And it took a version of fatherhood I had imagined for myself—the one where I was always strong, always present, always able to protect.
But in the space left behind, something else began to grow.
What It Gave Back
Cancer stripped away so much—but in its wake, it left space for something else to take root.
It gave me clarity. When everything was uncertain—when I couldn’t eat, couldn’t speak, couldn’t be with my daughters—I realized what mattered most. Not titles. Not routines. But time. Connection. The chance to simply be with the people I love.
It gave me softness. I’ve always been a laid-back father, slow to anger, quick to laugh. But after cancer, I became even more tender. More patient. More aware of how fragile and sacred each moment is. I don’t rush through bedtime anymore. I don’t take silence for granted. I don’t assume there will always be a next time.
It gave me a new path. In 2023, I left the job I’d held for nearly 17 years. I didn’t walk away from work—I walked toward something. I became a paraprofessional at Julie’s elementary school. I was there when she was in third grade, and Caroline was just next door in second. I followed their calendar. I walked the same halls. I saw them at lunch. I was present in a way I never had been before.
It gave me purpose. I started working with students. I saw myself in them—their questions, their fears, their resilience. I went back to school to earn my Master’s in Secondary Education. I began to imagine a future not just for myself, but for the students I might one day teach. A future where my story—my scars—might help someone else feel seen.
It gave me time. Not just more of it, but a new relationship to it. I no longer measure time in deadlines or appointments. I measure it in field trips, in lunchbox notes, in the way Julie still checks the calendar and Caroline still hums in the mornings.
It didn’t give me back the life I had. But it gave me a life I cherish—one built not on certainty, but on presence.
Fatherhood Reimagined
Before cancer, I thought being a good father meant being strong, steady, unshakable. I thought it meant shielding my daughters from pain, from fear, from the messiness of life. But cancer changed that. It showed me that strength isn’t about being unbreakable—it’s about being honest, being present, being willing to show up even when you’re scared.
Julie was old enough to feel the shift. She saw the hospital bags, the weight loss, the silence. She felt the distance. And even now, she carries some of that with her. She watches the calendar. She asks about appointments. She worries more than a child should have to. But she also hugs tighter. She listens more closely. She sings constantly—her voice filling the house with a kind of hope I didn’t know I needed. She knows what it means to care deeply.
Caroline was younger, but she felt it too. She remembers the feeding tube. She remembers the weekends in Columbus. She remembers missing me. And now, she doesn’t take time for granted. She doesn’t sing like her sister, but she laughs—especially when she’s being tickled. Her laughter is full-bodied, contagious, the kind that makes you forget everything else. That joy, that lightness, is its own kind of healing.
I’ve learned that fatherhood isn’t about always having the answers. It’s about being willing to sit with the questions. It’s about letting your children see you as human—hurting, healing, hoping. It’s about showing them that love doesn’t disappear when things fall apart. It holds on. It adapts. It grows.
For a while, I worked at their schools. I was there when Julie was in third and fourth grade, and Caroline was just next door in second. I followed their calendar. I walked the same halls. I saw them at lunch. I was part of their world in a way I never had been before.
That season ended in May 2024. This past school year, I was a substitute teacher at the middle school—Julie’s future school. This fall, she’ll start sixth grade there, and Caroline will begin fourth. I’ll be student teaching, though I don’t yet know where. I may not be at their school anymore. But what I’ve learned—what cancer taught me—is that presence isn’t always about proximity. It’s about intention. It’s about showing up, wherever you are.
Closing Reflection
The calendar still hangs in our kitchen. It’s no longer filled with appointments and procedures. Now it holds birthdays, school breaks, and the occasional field trip. But every time I look at it, I remember the years when time felt like an enemy. Now, it feels like a gift.
The road home wasn’t straight. It was marked by detours, delays, and days I thought I wouldn’t make it. But I did. And I’m still walking it—one day, one page, one moment at a time.
The calendar in our kitchen still reserves space for everyday events—school breaks, birthdays, pediatrician appointments. But when I look at it, I see more than just dates. I see the story it tells. The empty spaces where I once disappeared. The circles marking the girls’ visits to Columbus. The slow return of color, rhythm, and life.
I used to fear the calendar. Now, I’m grateful for it. Not because it promises certainty, but because it reminds me of what I’ve lived through—and what I’ve come back to.
I don’t know where I’ll be placed for student teaching this fall. I don’t know if I’ll be in the same building as Julie, or anywhere near Caroline. But I do know this: I’ll show up. I’ll keep showing up. Because that’s what fatherhood has become for me—not perfection, not protection, but presence.
Cancer took a lot. But it gave me something, too. It gave me a deeper understanding of love. Of time. Of what it means to be a father who listens, who laughs, who lingers a little longer at bedtime.
Julie still checks the calendar. Caroline still bursts into laughter when I tickle her. And I still mark the days—not to count what’s coming, but to honor what’s here.
I pulled into the parking space sometime early this morning—drenched, exhausted, and honestly, a little delirious. My ears were still humming from the music, my clothes still damp from the Georgia storm, and the interstate still echoed in my bones. But as I sat there for a beat before cutting the engine, I felt something else too: peace. The kind that only comes after a long, winding journey that somehow lands exactly where it needed to.
The day had started in typical Matt fashion—rushed, overcommitted, a little chaotic, and filled with more love than logistics should allow. I picked up my best friend, then we swung down to Dalton to meet Cade’s friend. Cade isn’t my nephew by blood, but I’ve been Uncle Matt to him since the day he was born. I was there at the hospital, holding him in his first hours on this earth—the son of my best friends, Danny (my brother from another mother) and his bride Cassie, a bond sealed long before either of us had kids in mind. Cade, in true Danny fashion, was on a mission trip and was waiting south of Atlanta. So we took off to go get him.
Danny never made it to see Cade turn 17. Cancer—CML—took him too soon. He and I had always said we’d see Dave Matthews Band together someday. It was a shared soundtrack—the music that got us through long nights, big questions, and road trips that didn’t need a destination. We never got that concert. But last night, I went with Cade—his son—along with Cade’s stepdad—a good man who stepped into big shoes with kindness—and Cade’s buddy. It wasn’t the original plan, but somehow it felt even more right.
Getting there wasn’t easy. Atlanta traffic was Atlanta traffic—on steroids. What should’ve been a few hours turned into a tangled maze of brake lights and exit ramps. After the show, we retraced those same miles in reverse: south to drop off Cade, north again to get everyone else home. Somewhere in there, the heavens opened up.
The rain came sideways—the kind that feels biblical—with lightning cracking the sky like punctuation. As if nature itself had something to say.
And yet… in the middle of all that chaos, we stood under the Georgia sky—soaked, smiling, swaying to a setlist that felt like it had been chosen just for us.
Granted, Cade and I did get into a friendly fuss—he insists Dave Matthews Band isn’t a jam band. I reminded him—with evidence—that some of their live versions could legally qualify as time zones. We agreed to disagree, mostly. Even if some of our favorite songs didn’t make the setlist, it was hard to argue with the ones that did.
I looked over at Cade, tall now and almost grown, and I swear I saw Danny there too. Not in a ghostly way. More like the way Cade sang certain lyrics. The way he laughed at something I said. The way he just was.
Meanwhile, the three people directly in front of us spent most of the show harvesting crops on their phones. Farmville. In 2025. At a Dave Matthews Band concert. I don’t know what they were growing, but I hope it was worth missing “Dive In” or “Captain.” Judging by their sudden attention, the only songs they came for were “Ants Marching” and “Crash Into Me.”
I thought about how much Danny would’ve loved this night. Not just the band, but seeing his son out in the world—living, laughing, feeling joy. I thought about how music carries memory—how certain chords and lyrics can hold grief and gratitude in the same breath.
And maybe that’s what last night really was: a way of keeping a promise I never got to say out loud. A way of saying, “You’re not forgotten. We still carry you—with every song, every laugh, every long drive through thunder and rain.”
It wasn’t easy getting there. It wasn’t convenient. But love rarely is.
Sometimes it looks like five hours of traffic and a tank full of gas. Sometimes it sounds like a guitar riff breaking through the storm. And sometimes—if you’re lucky—it feels like standing in a crowd with a seventeen-year-old boy whose dad should’ve been there… but somehow was.
This space was born from a mix of things: years of lived experience, deep conversations, quiet battles, and a need to write things down when the noise got too loud.
You won’t find clickbait headlines or firestorms here. Just honest reflections—on life, teaching, healing, faith, civility, and the way the world sometimes cracks open a little deeper than we expected. I’m a father, a future educator, a cancer survivor, and someone trying to keep his heart open in a time when it’d be easy to shut down.
Maybe you’ll see something of yourself in these words. Maybe not. But if you’re looking for thoughtful conversation, held with care and without shouting—you’re in the right place.
This piece was originally posted on Facebook on Monday, June 16, 2025. I added it to my new blog at a later date.
For the past five years, I have considered June 16th as D-Day. No, not the D-Day remembered for June 6th, when the Normandy landings occurred during World War II—but my own diagnosis day. I choose to share my story for several reasons.
I don’t share this to draw attention to myself. I share it to raise awareness about the importance of seeking medical attention. Please—take any medical concern seriously. Maybe it turns out to be nothing, and all you’ve lost is an hour at the doctor’s office. But what if it’s something serious, and they catch it early? Don’t leave anything—big or small—unchecked when it comes to your health.
I also want to commend the incredible team at Emory Hospital. I strongly recommend them to anyone seeking care or a second opinion. The doctors, nurses, and staff do yeoman’s work—and I’m living proof of their excellence.
And finally, I share this to encourage you to seek mental health support if you need it. Don’t be ashamed. Don’t hesitate to reach out for a counselor, therapist, or medication. Why live in misery—or under a cloud of anxiety—when help is available? If the first person or medication isn’t a good fit, try another. Just don’t give up. At the very least, connect with a friend. Please call me if you need someone to talk to or even vent to. I am always available: 706-639-3001. Now, here is my story.
My Cancer Journey — June 16, 2020
2020 was a challenging year for many. The global pandemic had a profound impact across the world. But for me, it was also the year that transformed my life—in a very different way.
In late March, I began having what I assumed was an abscessed tooth. Like many, I disliked going to the dentist and figured I’d be fine. Plus, dental offices were closed due to COVID. I had a telehealth visit and was prescribed an antibiotic. But weeks passed, and my condition didn’t improve. I should’ve gone to the ER. But I thought I was tough—I had a high pain tolerance—so I didn’t.
After what felt like forever, things began to reopen in May. I finally got in to see a dentist. After reviewing X-rays, the dentist noticed something concerning and referred me to an oral surgeon that same day. Several visits later, my condition continued to worsen. I was eventually referred to an ENT specialist.
On June 11, 2020, I met with Dr. Hunt. He ordered a CT scan, followed by a PET scan. Then, on Tuesday, June 16, after a biopsy, I received the official diagnosis: head and neck cancer.
Because of the tumor’s size and its location at the base of my mouth, Dr. Hunt recommended either Emory in Atlanta or Vanderbilt in Nashville. I chose Emory—it was closer. My first appointment at Emory Midtown was Tuesday, July 14th—a date I won’t forget because it’s my younger sister’s birthday.
Due to COVID, I was unable to have anyone accompany me. My wife and mom waited at a nearby hotel while I spent the day undergoing scans and consulting with surgeons and oncologists. Late that afternoon, my surgeon told me the news I’ll never forget: it was a very advanced, aggressive form of cancer. The tumor was roughly 5 cm. Without surgery, I had about eight months to live.
I faced that moment alone, aside from a FaceTime call with my wife and mom. The surgeon explained that the upcoming surgery would be life-changing.
The next day, I returned home. On the way back, I got a call—my surgery was scheduled for Wednesday, July 29. Dr. Kaka, my surgeon, even postponed his family vacation to perform it.
On July 27, I returned to Emory for pre-op labs. My potassium and magnesium were dangerously low. They admitted me early through the ER. On the morning of July 29, the surgery was nearly canceled due to staffing shortages. But Dr. Kaka advocated for me. After a delay, the surgery moved forward.
It lasted nearly eight hours. They removed the tumor, but I lost my lower lip and all lower teeth. Bone from my left leg was used to rebuild my jaw. A skin graft was taken from my thigh. Later, I learned they got clear margins, and only 5–6 out of over 50 lymph nodes showed cancer.
I spent two days in the ICU before being transferred to a regular room. The hardest part? Being without my family. We FaceTimed, but I couldn’t speak. On July 31, I had a PEG tube placed—which I still use today. From November 2019 to July 2020, I lost about 50 pounds. I was discharged on Thursday, August 6—my grandmother’s birthday.
In follow-up visits, everything pointed to a successful surgery. I didn’t need chemo, but I did undergo 32 rounds of radiation from September to October 2020 at the Amos Cancer Center in my hometown. I stayed with my mom during treatment—she was incredible. My sister and her husband also supported me; they were amazing. Back home, my wife kept everything running and cared for our two daughters—Julie, who was 7 then (now 12), and Caroline, who was 3 (now 8).
Today, I’m considered NED—No Evidence of Disease. During one follow-up, I learned that my case was presented at a national medical conference. Some doctors told my surgeon they might not have attempted the operation due to its complexity. I’m forever grateful that he did. And now, just four months from now—if nothing returns—I’ll be considered cancer-free. Not bad for someone given a 50/50 chance to live five years, even with successful surgery.
The journey hasn’t been easy. 2024 was my hardest year yet, battling anxiety, depression, and PTSD. I still can’t eat by mouth—even after swallow therapy. Though I don’t aspirate, I still can’t manage it. In December 2024, a scan suggested recurrence in the upper paratracheal lymph nodes. A January biopsy proved it was not cancer—but the fear stuck with me.
I still don’t know what caused my cancer. I’ve never smoked, used tobacco, or drank much alcohol. It wasn’t HPV-related either. That mystery—and the chance of recurrence—still lingers. But in 2025, I made a decision: I wasn’t going to let fear steal my peace. With therapy, medication, and support, I’ve reached a better place. I no longer need weekly sessions. And I’m about to finish my Master’s degree this fall after completing student teaching. My goal? To teach middle or high school social studies or history.
Cancer has shaped my life. In 2014, I lost my best friend—more like family—to chronic myeloid leukemia (CML). I’ve often asked why God chose me to survive when others didn’t. Cancer has taken so much, but it’s also given back. I’ve made new friends, deepened old connections, and grown in gratitude for the people around me.
This was originally posted on Facebook and later added to my blog.
I’m not someone who yells to make a point. I don’t see the value in shaming people into agreement. But I do believe in being honest about what I see—especially when it feels like the noise around us is drowning out the truth.
I live in Northwest Georgia. A lot of folks around here support Donald Trump. I know and love many of them. And still, I feel deeply troubled by what the Trump era has done to our country—the constant us-versus-them tone, the erosion of empathy, the vilifying of anyone who dares to disagree.
That kind of rhetoric doesn’t just stay in Washington or on cable news; it appears in school board meetings, county politics, and how we communicate with each other in the grocery store, in the comments section of a Facebook post, and certainly on social media—where people frequently express things they’d never say face-to-face. I’ve seen longtime friends clash online like adversaries. There’s something about being behind a screen that seems to strip away empathy, and that matters. When the volume of our politics increases, the volume of our humanity often decreases.
I’ve had a front-row seat to what really matters in life. In 2020, I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. I was told I might have just eight months to live without surgery. Everything changed. I lost my lower lip and jaw. I still can’t eat by mouth. But I’m here. And I’ve learned that when you’re facing something that raw and real, politics don’t matter the way they once did. What matters is who shows up. Who brings peace into the room instead of more fire.
That experience gave me a clarity I didn’t expect. I don’t have time for hate, and I’m not interested in pretending that silence equals peace either. You can speak up without tearing others down. You can stand for something without shouting over everyone else in the room.
Civility isn’t weakness. It’s being steady when the world wants you to scream. It’s listening for the sake of understanding, not just to reload your argument. It’s choosing to believe that dignity still belongs in public conversation—even if fewer people seem to practice it.
This is the world I want my daughters to grow up in. It’s the kind of classroom I hope to lead soon, as I finish my degree and begin student teaching. I want my students to know: you don’t have to agree with everyone. However, you must respect that their story is just as sacred as yours.
That’s why I’m writing. Not because I think I’ve got it all figured out. But because I still believe that calm voices can carry. And maybe, just maybe, help others feel brave enough to speak truth with kindness too.
The Quiet Middle 