As expected, my last article regarding cults and religions drew its share of both standing ovations and pitchforks—some readers found it clarifying, others found it personally offensive, and a few found it both at the same time. This one will likely land the same way or at least rattle something loose in how you think about belief.
You see, it was just three years ago. Before our golden 50th anniversary. My wife and I decided to explore some iconic sites in America that had eluded us over the years. Despite purchasing 13 different homes all over the country, living on both coasts, a life filled with extensive travel during my business career—journeys overseas, and countless trips where we took the family to Hawaii and Disney World—some areas of the Southwest had remained uncharted territory for us. After reminiscing about our most cherished childhood vacations, classic road trips, we decided to recreate that magic. Thus, we packed up our trusty Cadillac and embarked on a two-week adventure.
The trip was unforgettable; from the breathtaking vistas of the Grand Canyon, the mysterious allure of Roswell, the vibrant charm of the San Antonio Riverwalk, to the rhythmic soul of Elvis’s hometown of Memphis, we endeavored to experience it all. However, during our journey, my wife Debbie occasionally felt unwell. Upon returning home, her health concerns persisted, leading to several trips to the emergency room as her heart rate and blood pressure surged unpredictably. Every time, the medical staff sent us home with a handful of pills and scheduled follow-up appointments. After enduring this routine for a few weeks, we decided to reclaim some sense of normalcy by visiting our favorite local casino.
Once there, Debbie was suddenly overcome with chills and a deep sense of malaise. Alarmed, we quickly packed up and rushed back to the emergency room. Fortunately, we “finally” encountered an astute and determined ER doctor who vowed to uncover the root of Debbie’s health issues, no matter what it took. After a series of comprehensive scans and tests, he returned to Debbie’s room, his face ashen and his demeanor grave. Struggling with the weight of his message, he delivered the devastating news: my wife had multiple cancerous tumors scattered throughout her abdomen. That marked the beginning of an entirely new journey for both of us.
For the religiously delusional, her cancer wasn’t some asinine cosmic lesson or divine test. The universe didn’t hand-select her DNA to mutate as part of some celestial master plan scribbled on golden tablets. At age 70, her cells just broke because that’s what cells sometimes do in this brutal, chaotic meat grinder we call existence.
Suddenly, Debbie found herself plunged into an overwhelming world of doctors, chemotherapy, intensive treatments, and severe complex surgeries. Meanwhile, I was cast into new roles, becoming a chauffeur, nurse, caregiver, personal assistant and chef. This allowed us to navigate Debbie’s rehabilitation at home.
The fragility of our existence had become an undeniable truth, yet I found myself wrestling with its harsh reality. On one hand, there was an urgency to embrace the wisdom, lessons, and words that life offered, knowing full well that tomorrow’s uncertainty hovered like a looming storm. On the other hand, I hesitated, caught in a whirlwind of doubt and fear about what the future might hold. Who knew if we would ever have the chance at normalcy again, and yet, I couldn’t shake the occasional feeling of being paralyzed by the weight of it all?
With that said, Debbie clawed her way back from the brink of oblivion, goddammit. After months imprisoned in beds and wheelchairs—a living hell where every breath seemed like a negotiation—she’s now three GODDAMN YEARS into recovery. Even while the poison of chemotherapy still drips into her veins every other week and her cancerous tumors remain, she storms through life with middle fingers raised to mortality, refusing to give up while cherishing every moment she has to spend time with her kids, grandkids and great grandkids.
What saved Debbie wasn’t prayer or wishful thinking—it was the courage to fight, never give up and a drug called Taxol, ripped from the bark of Pacific yew trees by scientists who spent decades in fluorescent-lit labs, who sacrificed weekends and holidays hunched over microscopes while the rest of humanity was busy embroidering stupid religious platitudes onto throw pillows. It was SCIENCE that kept the love of my life breathing beside me at night, not some bearded sky-deity’s mysterious ways!
You see, cancer has a way of burning off the fog. When you watch the person you love most negotiate with death—when you’re sleeping in hospital chairs, Googling drug interactions at 3 a.m. and learning to cook without spices—you stop sleepwalking. The world snaps into a brutal, clarifying focus. You see science and technology for what they are: the only tools that actually work. And then you go home, and you make dinner, and you sit together on the porch, and that’s everything.
Old Man Pondering 
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