Introduction

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’m still here. And for now, that’s everything.