On October 28 of this past year, I saw blood in my urine. I called my doctor immediately. She saw me that day. On November 4th I went for an ultrasound. On November 5th I received the report.
It confirmed a polypoid vascular mass at the base of the bladder, consistent with transitional cell carcinoma.
I have no medical background, but I knew enough to understand what that likely meant. I sat at my computer in the second-floor den while my wife, Judi, was downstairs, unaware the report had arrived.
I read it over and over. I searched the unfamiliar language. My suspicion was confirmed. It was consistent with bladder cancer.
I sat quietly for a few minutes.
I prayed. I asked God to give me and my family the strength to walk whatever lay ahead. I prayed for His will to be done — and for the strength to accept it.
Then I went downstairs and told Judi.
Her reaction was immediate and not unexpected: Why you? You’re healthy. You’re a good person. This can’t be happening.
But unfortunately, that’s not how this works.
We sometimes think cancer belongs to smokers, or to those exposed to hazardous materials, or to someone else. Yet there are many of us who never smoked, who exercised, who tried to live well. No one is exempt. No one.
I would eventually have the tumour confirmed by cystoscopy on November 18, removed on December 4, and on December 15 the pathology report made it clear: invasive, high-grade bladder cancer. The kind that doesn’t politely sit still.
On January 21, I began a three-month course of immunotherapy and chemotherapy. Before starting, I met with my oncology team — three doctors and two nurses — who carefully reviewed my options, possible side effects, and survival statistics.
The side effects did not disturb me nearly as much as the repeated mention of “survival rate.” Each time I heard the phrase, I found myself instinctively flipping it around in my head — translating it into a death rate.
Hair loss and nausea don’t sound pleasant. But mortality gets your attention.
I debated for months whether to write about this publicly. This is not the kind of news most people are eager to share at this level. I am not sharing it for sympathy. Nor am I sharing it simply to make something private public.
I’m sharing it because silence can make cancer lonelier than it needs to be.
In the few months since this began, I’ve watched others struggle under the weight of their own diagnoses. I’ve also had two cancer survivors — one walking a path very similar to mine — reach out and support me. Their experience and honesty have made a real difference. So have the prayers and steady love of family and friends. Their love and prayers sustain me, as does my faith in God.
I’ve long said that my peace comes from resting in God, not in my circumstances. Now, I have to put that into practice. For those where faith may not be central to who they are, I encourage you to let your spiritual side speak to you. We’re all spiritual. We’re all connected.
If someone reads this at 2:00 a.m., after receiving their own report, and feels even slightly less alone — then this post will have done its work.
I have long felt deeply grateful for the life I’ve been given. I don’t want to die. I will do everything in my power to extend my life as long as possible. I have so much to live for — my wife, my children, my grandchildren, my friends, and my desire to continue serving God as He chooses.
And yet, from the beginning, I’ve also asked for the grace to accept whatever may come.
This diagnosis does not erase hope. It does not cancel gratitude. It does not remove faith. But it does clarify things.
I’m not alone in this.
And if you are walking something similar, I hope you know you’re not alone either.
Images above: I chose to use one from my first treatment and one from my first day back at hockey after an eight month layoff due to rotator cuff surgery. Taken within two days of each other.
You’ve got the support of many, many friends and loved ones Steve. We’re pulling for you and hoping and praying for the best possible outcome.
Thanks Mike. It’s everyone’s love, prayers, and support that sustain me.
Ditto to Mike’s comment. The boys at hockey are all pulling for you.
Thanks Guy. Your support is much appreciated dear friend.
My prayers are with you, Steve. I drive for Cancer Assistance Program and suggest you reach out to them about drives to appointments. 905-383-9797. If not, feel free to call me to arrange drives to appointments. I’d be happy to help. 905-870-8287
Thanks Gregory. So far I’ve been able to manage driving myself, but appreciate the offer and suggestion.
Sending hugs and prayers for you Steve 🫂🙏 🙏🙏🫂
Thanks Laurie.
Je suis avec toi de tout cœur, tu es un être formidable Steve.
Merci bien gros Pauline.
Thinking about you and praying with you. You’re strong and you have so much support around you. Keep us posted.
Thanks Dorise. So very much appreciated.
My thoughts and prayers are definitely with you and Judi and family! Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to lessen your concerns during this difficult time!
Thanks Lana. Love prayers, so, thank you.
Hugs to you, Steve. It was the love and support of others that got us through our cancer journeys. Thank you for sharing yours as well. May you find peace and joy in the little things and the people who care for you. Your faith will help carry you through. ❤️
Thanks Deborah. As a cancer survivor yourself I truly appreciate the support.
Steve…sending good thoughts your way, wrapped in prayer ❤️
Thanks Lyndsay. I’ll always take thoughts wrapped in prayers.
Thanks for sharing Steve. You have been in my thoughts. Your strength and faith are inspiring and yes, people with cancer are listening. Not sure I am a fan of the jersey, being a leafs fan!
Stay strong and battle hard my friend.
Drop in for coffee anytime.
Thanks Brian. Your support is greatly appreciated.
Yes, it doesn’t have to be so lonely. And people who care for you and are believers appreciate being in the know so we can pray for you and Judi!
Thanks Gordon. Your prayers are much appreciated.