life

A Story for Aunt Nancy

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Yesterday, we gathered at Shades Mountain Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama, to honor the life of my sweet Aunt Nancy. That church wasn’t just a place she attended — it was a defining part of her identity. She joined in 1952 at just five years old, and by the time she passed, she held the longest consecutive membership in the church’s 115‑year history. Nearly seventy‑four years of worship, service, friendships, and memories. I learned she had experienced every building the church ever called home, a living thread running through its generations.

I had been to Shades Mountain before, but it had been many years. Walking through its doors again for her service felt both familiar and heavy with meaning. The sanctuary was filled with love — the kind you can feel even before you see it. The hour before the service was devoted to visitation, and hundreds of people came to offer their sympathies. It wasn’t just her church family. Her work family came too — colleagues from nearly sixty years in the insurance world, where she served as an underwriter for several Birmingham companies. Their presence spoke volumes about the impact she had on the people she worked with every day.

But the heart of this story — the part that struck me most — was her “chosen family.” This remarkable circle of friends stood by her through every season of life. Their devotion to her was beyond anything I could have imagined. I had met some of them over the years but seeing them again reminded me how rare and beautiful it is to have people who love you so fiercely, not because they share your blood, but because they share your heart. They planned every detail of the service with such care and precision that it felt like a final gift to her.

Aunt Nancy’s life at Shades Mountain was full and vibrant. For many years, she headed up the church’s singles ministry — a group that became a lifeline for countless people. One story shared yesterday made everyone smile: in one year alone, that ministry celebrated twelve weddings. Twelve couples who found love, community, and connection under her leadership. That’s the kind of legacy most people only dream of leaving.

She was also a devoted member of the choir, lending her voice to worship week after week. The choir took her on trips across the country and even overseas, experiences she treasured and talked about often. Music was one of the ways she expressed her faith, and she poured her heart into it.

And then there was her gift for celebration. Aunt Nancy was a wedding planner, and she loved being part of life’s happiest moments. She showed up for people — not just for big milestones, but for the small joys too. She never missed an opportunity to attend events for the people she loved, including my own daughters’ birthday parties. Her presence always made those moments feel a little more special.

It was also comforting to see my cousins again. It had only been five days since we gathered for Uncle Mike’s service, but even in grief, being together mattered. We said it last Friday, and we said it again yesterday — we cannot keep waiting for funerals to bring us together. Family deserves more than that.

With Aunt Nancy’s passing, an entire generation on my father’s side is now gone. My grandparents passed in 1998 and 1999. My father died in December 2021. Uncle Mike followed in November 2025. And now Aunt Nancy, on Saturday, January 10, 2026. It’s a strange, heavy realization — one that makes the world feel a little emptier and the memories a little more precious.

But yesterday wasn’t just about loss. It was about legacy. It was about a woman who lived faithfully, loved deeply, and built a community around her that stood strong until her very last day. It was about the people she touched — family, coworkers, lifelong friends — all gathering to say that her life mattered.

And it did. More than she ever knew.

Honoring Aunt Nancy and Uncle Mike: A Week of Loss, Memory, and Gratitude

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

My uncle passed away at the end of November. He was my dad’s older brother, and I even wrote a story about him back in November. His memorial service was held this past Friday in Birmingham at Vestavia Hills Baptist Church. It was a beautiful service — but it was also where I learned heartbreaking news about my Aunt Nancy.

Aunt Nancy holding Julie: August 13, 2013

Aunt Nancy was the younger sister of my uncle Mike and my dad. I had just texted with her two days before Christmas, but her health had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Hospice had begun the very day of Mike’s service. After the memorial, Jenn, the girls, and I went to visit her at home since she was too weak to attend the service. I’m grateful we made that visit. She was alert, warm, and still very much herself. We talked about how everyone was doing, and then drifted into memories from long ago.

She told me the house was built in 1952. She was 15 when the family moved in, and Uncle Mike would marry my wonderful Aunt Ouida just a few months later. He never officially lived in that house, though he and Aunt Ouida would have moved into their own home in the early 60s. That 1952 house was my grandparents’ home — the place we visited every Christmas, usually arriving a day or two after the holiday. Even when Aunt Nancy wasn’t living there, we spent just as much time with her as we did with my grandparents.

The house still has its giant Magnolia tree out front. I can remember climbing that tree as a kid. We visited in the summers too. My grandparents were born in 1914 and 1915, and in the late 1990s, Aunt Nancy moved back into the house to care for my grandmother when she became ill. On Friday, she told me she had moved back into her same childhood bedroom. She lived in that house for the rest of her life. My grandfather passed in 1998, my grandmother in 1999. I even remember being there visiting when we heard the news of Princess Diana’s death.

Aunt Nancy passed away the next day — Saturday. We had just seen her the day before, and it still feels unreal how quickly everything happened. She was one of the most caring people you could ever hope to meet. She spoiled us at Christmas and on our birthdays. She and Uncle Mike rarely missed the girls’ birthday parties, even when it meant driving two or three hours. Whether it was the Children’s Museum in Chattanooga, the Chattanooga Zoo, the loud skating center, or even Callaway Gardens, they always showed up.

I also remember a wonderful visit with both her and Uncle Mike a month or so after my father passed away. We met at my sister’s house and spent the whole afternoon catching up and sharing memories. That’s who they were — present, loving, steady.

With Aunt Nancy’s passing, she became the last member of that generation on my father’s side of the family. It’s a sad milestone, but I take comfort in imagining her reunited with my dad, with Uncle Mike, and with their younger sister Kathy, who passed away in 1959 at just nine years old.

It has been a week of loss, but also a week of remembering the deep roots of our family — the house built in 1952, the Magnolia tree, the Christmas visits, the birthdays, the stories, and the love that stretched across decades. I’m grateful for the time we had with both Aunt Nancy and Uncle Mike, and for the legacy of kindness and presence they leave behind.

Her service will be this upcoming Wednesday at Shades Mountain Baptist Church. It will be my second trip to Birmingham in a week, but I would not miss it for the world.

Caroline’s Dedication at Church: June 4, 2017

From Patten Chapel Road to Lifelong Impact: Honoring Mike Hamilton

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Uncle Mike and Julie in August, 2013.

My beloved uncle, Mike Hamilton, was truly one of a kind. He lived in Birmingham, Alabama, and was my dad’s older brother. He passed away on Sunday, November 23rd after a brief illness. In March, he celebrated his 85th birthday—a milestone that reflected not just years lived, but a life filled with kindness, generosity, and devotion to family.

Mike and his beloved wife, Ouida, meant so much to us. They had always been close to our family, but after my older sister’s passing in 1989, they became even closer, taking us under their wing in ways that left a lasting impression. While many people say a certain family member is “the best,” Mike truly was that person. I never saw him raise his voice or lose his temper. He was always willing to do anything for anybody, and he did it with grace.

Mike and Ouida were inseparable until her passing in 2015. One of my favorite memories comes from a trip to Europe in July of 1989. Ouida joined us, and she took hundreds of pictures with a new camera. Somehow a setting had been switched that made every photo panoramic, which meant developing the film was much more expensive than expected. After hearing the news of Uncle Mike’s passing on Sunday, I called my sister, and she reminded me of that story. What stood out most was how Uncle Mike didn’t bat an eye at the extra cost—he simply made sure those memories were preserved. That was the kind of man he was: generous, steady, and always putting others first.

Some of my fondest memories are of summers spent at their house on Patten Chapel Road. I was a camper and later a counselor at Camp Mac in Munford, Alabama, for many years. Since Birmingham was close by, we would stay at Mike and Ouida’s the night before camp check-in. Those evenings were filled with long conversations about whatever new thing was happening. Mike loved technology—he was one of the first people I knew to use TiVo, long before DVRs became common. I remember watching The Fugitive starring Harrison Ford at their house, and during the famous train wreck scene, the sound system was so powerful that the den floor shook beneath us.

After Ouida passed away in 2015, Mike remained active and engaged with life, but his dedication to work and service had long been a defining part of who he was. For many years he ran Hamilton Oxygen Company, and he also served as executive director of the Alabama Durable Medical Equipment Association, where he tirelessly advocated for the home medical equipment industry. His commitment was recognized just this past May in Washington, D.C., when he received the Mel Mixon Legislative Advocacy Award—a fitting honor for a lifetime of service.

Even with his busy schedule, Mike always made time for family. He came to many of Caroline’s and Julie’s birthday celebrations, alongside his wonderful sister, my Aunt Nancy. Though I regret not seeing him and Aunt Nancy as often in recent years, I hope to remedy that with her.

Mike bore a striking resemblance to former Vice President Dick Cheney, who also passed away earlier this month—a fun fact that always made us smile. But more than anything, Mike resembled the very best qualities of humanity: patience, generosity, and love.

Now, I take comfort in knowing that Mike and Ouida are rejoicing together again in heaven, reunited after ten years apart. Their legacy of love and devotion continues to live on in our family, and I will always cherish the memories of my uncle, who never failed to show up, never failed to care, and never failed to love.

Julie was nine months old and was meeting Uncle Mike for the first time.

Julie’s Legacy: A Sister Remembered, A Family Rooted

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Today would have been my older sister Julie’s 54th birthday. Tragically, we lost her the night before Thanksgiving in 1989, just one day after her 18th birthday. I was 11 years old, in 5th grade, and my younger sister was only 7. That year, Thanksgiving fell on November 23rd, and instead of celebrating, we found ourselves grieving a loss that changed our family forever.

I remember that Wednesday night vividly. I was staying at my grandparents’ house, just a few miles down Sandfort Road from our own home. Their house was the old family home, with parts more than a century old. The property had once held a little store and a cotton gin, surrounded by fields where my grandfather planted cotton and soybeans before later converting them to pine trees. Those fields were where he taught me to drive at the age of nine. That house was more than a home—it was a place where generations had lived, worked, and gathered. I spent countless weekends and summer nights there, always choosing to sleep on the sofa in the den, a space converted from a covered porch.

That Wednesday afternoon, I helped my grandmother prepare dishes we would carry to Thanksgiving dinner the next day. But late that night, she woke me from the sofa, upset, and told me we needed to go back home. When we arrived, my mother embraced me tightly and told me Julie had been in an accident. From that moment, everything became a whirlwind.

The next day, Thanksgiving, people poured into our home to offer condolences. My grandfather, a county commissioner, seemed to know half the county, and their presence was both overwhelming and comforting. I remember sitting at the piano, playing “We Three Kings” over and over, trying to distract myself from the grief that hung in the air.

Julie was beautiful inside and out. She had just begun her freshman year at Auburn University a couple of months earlier and had pledged Phi Mu. She was full of promise, and losing her at such a young age was devastating. Yet even in that loss, I knew one thing: if I ever had a daughter, I would name her Julie, to honor my sister. Years later, when our first child was born, we chose her name without hesitation. Today, my daughter Julie—and her younger sister Caroline—bring joy and light into our lives, carrying forward the love that my sister embodied.

I often wonder what Julie would have become. She had modeled during her teenage years, and her future seemed wide open. I wonder what she would think of her namesake, and of Caroline too. One of my earliest memories of her is a family trip to Disney World when I was about four years old, before my younger sister was born. Epcot was still being built then, and Julie’s smiles made the trip great. She was always smiling. Perhaps that is the biggest thing I remember about her, her smiles.

Though Julie has been gone for 36 years, her memory is woven into the fabric of my life—through the fields where my grandfather taught me, the meals prepared with my grandmother, the piano keys I pressed to cope with grief, and most of all, through the joy of my daughters. Julie is terribly missed, but her legacy lives on in the love we continue to share.

Turning Sorrow Into Solidarity

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Grief is not something we schedule. It doesn’t wait until we are ready, until our hearts are steady, until we’ve had time to recover from the last loss. It arrives unannounced, sometimes again and again, until it feels like the hits keep coming.

On Friday, a student at our school passed away. I didn’t know him personally, but he was part of our community, an athlete, a part of the flow of our days. And now, he is gone.

It feels overwhelming. Just the day before, I had written about grief for two others. Then, suddenly, another loss—closer, heavier, harder to process. I am sad for him. I am sad for his family. I am sad for the friends who now carry memories that will never be added to. I am sad that he may have felt like he had no one to turn to, no one to talk to.

When grief keeps hitting, it can feel like the ground beneath us is shifting. We wonder how much more we can take, how many more losses we can bear. But maybe the way forward is not to try to carry it alone.

The only way forward is together. We lean on each other, knowing that even the smallest gestures—a smile in the hallway, a kind word, or a simple “I’m here”—can remind someone that they are not alone. In moments like these, presence matters more than perfection. We also allow ourselves to grieve because even if we didn’t know the person closely, their absence still leaves a mark on our community. Their life mattered, and recognizing that truth honors both them and the people who loved them.

We honor the lives lost by remembering them, speaking their names, and carrying compassion in their memory. To honor someone means keeping their story alive, even in small ways, and letting their impact spread beyond the moment of grief. Throughout it all, we choose hope—not because it erases the pain, but because it gives us the strength to continue. Hope helps us believe that tomorrow can be brighter, that healing is possible, and that no one should ever feel invisible. And we remember that God gives us power, as my pastor reminded us yesterday. God can help us get through even the hardest weeks. Faith doesn’t take away the sorrow, but it gives us the courage to keep moving forward.

At the same time, seeking help is not something to be ashamed of. Mental health is not bad—it is part of being human. Seeing a counselor is a wonderful thing. Medications are also a good thing; I take medicine for anxiety myself, and I know it helps. Asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness.

Finally, we must look out for one another. If you see or hear something, say something. Sometimes the smallest act of speaking up can save a life.

Grief teaches us that every life matters, and every absence reshapes the community it touches. When the hits keep coming, the only way through is together—by holding space for sorrow, offering compassion, and reminding each other that no one should feel invisible.

We cannot undo what has happened. But we can choose to make life feel less lonely. Perhaps that is how we get through a week that hurts—by turning sorrow into solidarity, by remembering that even strangers deserve our grief, our respect, and our care, and by choosing to walk forward together, even when the path feels heavy.

If you have been blessed with a son or daughter, take time to tell them how much you love them and how proud you are of them. Each evening, ask about their day and give them the chance to truly talk, to share what’s on their mind, and to ask questions. And don’t forget the hugs—lots of them.

But this call is not only for parents. It is for all of us. Every person has someone they can encourage, someone they can check in on, someone who needs to be reminded they are seen and valued. A kind word to a friend, a text to a colleague, a smile to a stranger—these small acts can make a difference.

Love is not limited to family ties; it is a gift we can extend to anyone.

The Bell

/ Matthew Hamilton / 2 Comments

Today, I rang the bell.

Five years. Forty-three visits to Emory. Countless scans, surgeries, tubes, and prayers. And today, I stood in that familiar hallway, surrounded by the hum of machines and the quiet strength of nurses, and I rang the bell.

They told me I’m cancer free.

Not “no evidence of disease.” Not “stable.” But free.

It’s hard to describe what that means unless you’ve lived in the shadow of it. Unless you’ve sat in waiting rooms where time slows down and hope feels like a fragile thing. Unless you’ve learned to eat through a tube, to speak with effort, to live without taste but still find flavor in life.

Five years ago, I was a different person. I was scared. I was angry. I was grieving the life I thought I’d lost. Without surgery, they told me I’d have six months to live. Even with surgery, the five-year survival rate for my stage and severity was only 38%. I knew the odds. I knew the risks. But I also knew I wasn’t ready to stop fighting.

And someone else believed in me, too.

Dr. Azeem Kaka, my surgeon at Emory, took a chance on me when many others wouldn’t. He told me he presented my case at a national conference, and that several doctors there said they would have passed on surgery due to how advanced and severe it was. But Dr. Kaka didn’t pass. He leaned in. He gave me a shot at life.

Laila Kutan, my nurse practitioner, walked beside me through the hardest parts. She listened. She explained. She cared. And she never treated me like a statistic.

The doctors, nurses, techs, and staff at Emory Hospital have been extraordinary. They didn’t just treat my cancer—they treated me. With dignity. With compassion. With hope.

I had a wife who held my hand through every appointment. I had daughters who gave me reasons to keep showing up. I had friends who showed up when I couldn’t. I had faith—sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, but always there.

I had my mom, who opened her home to me during radiation, who made sure I had a place to rest and recover. I had my sister, who got me anything I needed, who anticipated the things I couldn’t ask for, who carried more than her share of the weight. I had a village—family, friends, colleagues, nurses, strangers—who lifted me when I couldn’t stand.

And I had Michael Owen, a fellow head and neck cancer survivor, who became my cancer coach. He knew the road I was walking because he’d walked it too. He was also a patient of Dr. Kaka, and he helped me navigate the fear, the unknowns, and the long days. His wife, Allison, was a steady presence—kind, encouraging, and always supportive.

I also had Jennifer. We’ve never met in person, but through Facebook, text messages, and phone calls, she became one of my fiercest advocates. She was Dr. Kaka’s first head and neck cancer patient, and she looked out for me during some of my most high-anxiety moments. Her words were a lifeline when I needed them most.

This journey has taken things from me. My ability to eat. My voice, in some ways. My sense of normal. But it’s also given me more than I ever expected.

It gave me perspective. Patience. A deeper love for my family. A calling to teach, to write, to live with intention. It gave me the courage to start over. To become a student teacher. To stand in front of classrooms and talk about government and grit and grace.

It gave me stories. Not all of them easy. But all of them mine.

And today, it gave me a bell.

I rang it for the man I was. For the man I became. For the man who still wakes up every day and chooses to keep going.

I rang it for my daughters, so they’ll know what resilience sounds like.

I rang it for my wife, who never let go.

I rang it for my mom and sister, who carried me through the hardest days.

I rang it for Michael and Allison, for Jennifer, and for every survivor who reached out and said, “You’re not alone.”

I rang it for my best friend, Danny. For every soul I’ve carried with me through this storm.

I rang it for Dr. Kaka, for Laila, and for every person at Emory who saw me as worth saving.

And I rang it for tomorrow. Because now, I get to dream again.

Why Me?

I’ve asked myself this question more times than I can count.

Why am I still here, when others—stronger, kinder, braver—are not? Why did I survive, when people I admired, people who lit up rooms, people who deserved more time… didn’t?

I don’t have an answer. Not a clean one.

I know I had good doctors. I know I had a wife who fought beside me. I know I had daughters who gave me purpose. I know I had faith, even when it flickered. I know I had a support system that never let me fall. But I also know that cancer doesn’t play fair. It doesn’t care how good you are. It doesn’t care how loved you are.

So I carry their names with me. The ones who didn’t make it. The ones who fought just as hard. The ones who deserved their own bell even more than me.

I carry Danny. I carry the stories of patients I met in waiting rooms, whose smiles were full of grace even when their bodies were failing.

I don’t believe I survived because I’m better. I believe I survived because I’m meant to carry something forward. A story. A lesson. A light.

So I write. I teach. I parent. I love. I live.

And I ring the bell for them, too.

I don’t know when my time will come. It might be tomorrow. It might be thirty years from now. Nobody knows.

But I do know one thing.

I survived this.

The Best Day I Can Imagine

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

I’ve been following Sean Dietrich for several years now. His writings, stories, and music have meant a lot to me. I can usually turn to him when I need to be cheered up. If you’re not a follower, I strongly recommend you look him up.

A year or so ago, during a particularly trying time in my life, he wrote a story so meaningful I printed it on resume paper and framed it. Link: https://seandietrich.com/youre-gonna-be-okay/

This morning, he posted another powerful piece with a question that hit me right in the soul:

How would you spend your best day ever?

Here is my response.

The Best Day I Can Imagine

I used to think the best day ever would involve food. A biscuit, maybe. Or a slice of pepperoni pizza so hot it burns the roof of your mouth. I used to dream in flavors—salt, fat, sugar. But cancer took that from me. Took my taste buds. Took my ability to eat. Now, nourishment comes through a tube. And I’ve made peace with that, mostly.

But if I could choose my best day ever, it wouldn’t be about food. It would be about freedom.

Tomorrow, I return to Emory for the 42nd time in five years and three months. I’ll sit in a waiting room that feels like a second home. I’ll hear the hum of machines, the shuffle of nurses, the quiet prayers of other patients. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll hear the words: “You’re cancer free.”

Not “no evidence of disease.” Not “stable.” But free.

I finished radiation on October 23, 2020. Five years is the milestone. I’m close. So close I can taste it—if I could taste anything.

But even if tomorrow doesn’t bring that declaration, my best day ever is still possible. It’s a day with my wife and two daughters. Just the four of us. No anxiety. No financial stress. No medical appointments. No what-ifs.

We’d be together. Laughing. Maybe watching a movie. Maybe walking in the fall air. Maybe just sitting on the porch, listening to the wind. I wouldn’t be worried about bills or scans or tubes or timelines. I’d just be Dad. Husband. Matt.

And I’d feel peace. Not the kind you fake for others. The kind that settles deep in your bones. The kind that whispers, “You made it.”

That’s my best day ever.

Dear Theodosia, and the Quiet Fight for Tomorrow

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

There’s a moment in Hamilton that always stops me. After the chaos of revolution, after the declarations and duels, two fathers sing to their newborn children. “Dear Theodosia,” they begin—not with fanfare, but with tenderness. Burr and Hamilton, rivals in politics and temperament, pause to make promises. Not to their country. To their children.

“You will come of age with our young nation. We’ll bleed and fight for you, we’ll make it right for you…”

It’s a lullaby wrapped in determination. A promise to create something better—not for fame, but for love.

I’ve thought about that song a lot, but never more than right now.

In five days, I return to Emory for new CT scans. On October 14, I’ll meet with my nurse practitioner and surgeon at Winship Midtown. If the scans are clear, it will mark five years since I finished radiation. Five years since I stood at the edge of uncertainty and chose to fight. Five years since I started whispering my own promises to my daughters—not in song, but in presence.

I’ve lived in the space between “no evidence of disease” and “cancer free.” It’s a quiet place— a place of waiting, watching, and wondering. But it’s also where love grows loud, where bedtime prayers turn into battle cries, and every school concert, silly dance in the kitchen, or whispered “I love you” becomes a declaration: I’m still here.

And yet, as I get ready to cross this threshold, I find myself mourning a different kind of uncertainty. One that doesn’t appear on scans.

Our democracy feels fragile. The ideals I’ve just finished teaching—Revolution, Constitution, compromise—seem increasingly distant from our public discourse. We are angry, distrustful, divided. This reflection isn’t a condemnation. It’s not about taking sides. It’s about promises.

Because “Dear Theodosia” isn’t partisan. It’s parental. It’s the quiet voice that says: I will fight for you. I will make it right for you.

And that’s a promise I still believe in.

I believe in the scan that might say “healed.”

I believe in the student who asks, “Why does the Constitution matter?”

I believe in the daughter who says, “Dad, I’m proud of you.”

I believe in the lullaby that dares to hope.

We may not agree on policy. We may not share the same fears. But we owe our children more than noise. We owe them the quiet fight—the one that builds, that teaches, that heals.

So I return to Emory with gratitude. I return to my classroom with resolve. I return to my daughters with open arms. And I return to the promises I’ve made—not just to survive, but to build something better.

Dear Theodosia, we’re still singing. Even in the storm. Especially in the storm.

Five Years Since Surgery: A Day That Changed Everything

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

The Day That Changed Everything

On July 29, 2020, I underwent a life-saving cancer surgery at Emory Midtown Hospital. It lasted over eight hours, rebuilt my lower jaw, and gave me a future I wasn’t sure I’d have. Yesterday marked five years since that day—a quiet milestone, but one filled with deep gratitude and reflection.

The Days Leading Up

I was admitted on Monday, July 27th, due to dangerously low magnesium and potassium levels. My last real meal—chicken pot pie from the hospital cafeteria—was that afternoon. I didn’t know it then, but it would be my final meal before a feeding tube became my lifeline.

COVID-19 was in full force. Visitor restrictions meant I was alone in the hospital, with FaceTime as my only connection to family. The isolation was heavy, but the nurses became my surrogate visitors—kind, attentive, and quietly heroic.

A Surgery Almost Canceled

The morning of my surgery felt delayed. At first, we thought it was my bloodwork. Later, I learned the real reason: a shortage of nurses. My surgery was nearly canceled.

But Dr. Azeem Kaka—my oncologist and surgeon—advocated for me. He changed his vacation plans to be there. He believed in me when others might not have. That belief saved my life.

Dr. Kaka would later present my case at a national conference. Many doctors told him they would have opted against surgery due to the advanced nature of my cancer. Without it, I had 6–8 months to live.

The Procedure

Sometime after 9:00 AM, the surgery began. I don’t remember it, but I was told it lasted over eight hours. The tumor—over 5 cm—was removed from the base of my mouth. My lower jaw was rebuilt using bone from my left leg and a skin graft from my thigh.

Dr. Kaka was only 35 years old. I still marvel at the complexity and courage it took to perform such a procedure.

Recovery and Isolation

I woke up in the ICU, swollen and disoriented. I spent two days there before receiving my feeding tube on Friday, July 31st. 

No visitors. No hugs. Just screens and voices. But the nurses—those angels in scrubs—made sure I never felt completely alone.

I remained in the hospital until August 6th, then went to my mom’s home in Columbus to recover. In September and October, I completed 32 sessions of radiation.

Five Years Later

Yesterday, I spent the day quietly at home with my daughters. I took Julie to an appointment. It was ordinary—and that made it extraordinary.

I also received a text from a friend—another survivor of head and neck cancer, also treated by Dr. Kaka. She introduced me to someone newly diagnosed, someone who reminded her of me. He was diagnosed and had surgery all within the last six weeks and is battling anxiety, as I am.

We texted. Then we talked. On the very anniversary of my surgery, I got to tell someone: You are not alone.

Why I Write This

I write to remember. I write to honor. I write to remind others—especially those facing the same diagnosis—that there is life after the valley. There is hope. There is connection.

Five years ago, I was given a second chance. Today, I use it to walk alongside others.

If you or someone you love is facing head and neck cancer, or any cancer diagnosis, know this: you are not alone. There are survivors, advocates, and friends waiting to walk with you.

A Birthday Tribute to My Sister

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

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.