Verified by 
I first felt the pain on March 20, 2010 - almost one year ago. I was 40 years old and believed that I was in excellent health. I was thin but athletic. I ate a healthy diet, biked to work, and played basketball three times a week.
I was at my partner Grace's parents' house. Grace, my sons Seth and Miles, and I were leaving the next day for a week-long vacation with my parents in Akumal, Mexico, a small town south of Cancun that my family has visited almost annually since I was 14 years old.
I felt an ache in my lower abdomen, but I figured that I had just eaten too much of Grace's mom's delicious Taiwanese cooking.
Fast forward a few weeks to April 9, 2010. I am in my doctor's office back home in Bellingham, Washington, a small city between Seattle and Vancouver. The abdominal pain has persisted and gotten worse. I tell the doctor that I am concerned because a good friend of mine, who is my age, was recently diagnosed with colon cancer. But the doctor hears "stomach ache" and "trip to Mexico" and figures that I picked up a stomach bug in Mexico, even though I tell him that the pain started the day before the trip.
Fast forward six weeks to May 21, 2010. I am at my gastroenterologist's office in Bellingham. The pain has spread to my lower back and become excruciating. After weeks of doctors' theories, tests, and drugs that just made me feel worse, I have finally had a colonoscopy. The gastroenterologist asks me and Grace to sit down, and then he sits as well. He looks serious. If I weren't in so much pain and were able to concentrate, I would know that bad news is coming. He uses some unfamiliar terms, and then he says the word. The word that stops time and shifts your life onto a different track. Cancer. You have cancer.
Fast forward to June 10, 2010. A different doctor's office, in Seattle. I am in less pain, due to powerful painkillers and radiation treatment for my lower back. More tests have been done. The doctor says my colon cancer is "Stage 4," which I don't understand but learn is the worst kind. He says "incurable." He says "average survival time is two years." Even though I teach statistics and know that this is an average with variability, it sounds like "you have two years to live." He says "palliative," which I later learn means that the goal of my medical care is not to cure the disease but to prolong my life as long as possible while trying to maintain an acceptable quality of life. The cancer has already spread too far into my bones to be removed surgically. The doctor talks about chemotherapy.
Fast forward to today, February 6, 2011. I am in Hawaii on a week-long vacation with Grace and without the kids. Many months of grueling chemotherapy have held off the cancer, although it seems to be making a comeback now. I have some serious decisions to make in the near future. I have been keeping a blog for my family and friends. A friend and colleague suggested that some of my thoughts about trying to live well despite terminal illness might be interesting to a wider audience, and introduced me to the blog editor at Psychology Today.
So who am I? Like anyone, I am a lot of things. I am the son of loving parents and the father of two beautiful boys, ages 8 and 3. I am a developmental psychologist and associate professor at Western Washington University. I am a guy with cancer.
Why should you read this blog? I will try to write honestly about what it is like to live with the knowledge that death is nearby and to balance quantity and quality of life. If you are interested in end-of-life issues, I hope it will be worth your while. We will all face these issues eventually, either with regard to ourselves or loved ones.
