This post originally appeared in the Kenosha News as part of the column ‘Sunday Mornings with Basil Willis’ – May 6, 2012

Two years ago when I started writing this column, I had just finished chemo, radiation and surgery, the holy trinity of cancer care. I wrote about it at the time, but since then I’ve only mentioned it once in passing. I am sick of stupid cancer. Sick of talking about it, sick of seeing too many people I know fight it or die from it, sick of paying for it and sick of living with it. But here we are.

I am a numbers guy; a googler and a voracious researcher and processor of information. There is no such thing as too much data. I know more about esophageal cancer and squamous cells than most general practitioners. I know the statistics and they are grim. Seventy percent of people are dead within a year of diagnosis. Less than one in ten people diagnosed with esophageal cancer makes it five years.

Every six months I walk into a doctor’s office and roll a six-sided die. If it comes up one through four, I am given very bad news disguised as “we need to do more testing.” A five or a six comes up and I get a pat on the back and an appointment card for six months out welcoming me to roll again. So far I’ve rolled five times and it’s been all boxcars. It has been 30 months since I was diagnosed and I am playing with house money.

It is the new normal, a place between sick and cured called “remission,” and it is the reward for winning the first round with The Big C. It has forced me to live life in six month increments. They tell me if I can keep this up for three more years, I’ll only have to roll once per year, and then all I have to do is avoid snake eyes. But I can’t look that far ahead.

When you’re going through the treatments you can’t afford to think about the future. In many ways I still can’t and will never be able to. That is not necessarily a bad thing.

Living every day like it’s your last is a great sound bite, but it is not sustainable or real. If I really knew today was my last day, I’d go skydiving, rent a Ferrari, run naked through Harbor Park and do a shot of that 100 year old scotch behind the bar at the HobNob. I would probably do the shot first. Then I’d gather my loved ones and light candles that smell really good and eat lobster and tell stories and cry and laugh.

Unless you are positive it is your last day, you can’t really live like that. What we can do, is know that it is almost over, and could be over, at any moment.  It is not a dreadful feeling, rather a peaceful one that allows for reflection and appreciation. There is a delicate balance of planning to make tomorrow as good as possible without sacrificing today.

Financially, my wife and I plan as though we’re going to see old age. We contribute to our 401k, we make improvements to our house and save as much as we can. We plan for the long term, but live for now.

Things are not the same as before cancer and they never will be. What happens is a deep appreciation for the little things, the moment. Whenever there is uncertainty about a decision, we err on the side of enjoying ourselves. One small example is the relatively expensive whole bean coffee we buy, because life is too short to drink cheap coffee.

When I see people stressing out at home or at work I smile inside. And sometimes I smile outside. When someone is truly upset about something completely irrelevant I tell them quietly, “Don’t worry. It’s almost over.” They will respond by telling me it is most certainly not almost over. And I will say, “I’m talking about your life.”

If I could bottle up that feeling of calm and serenity and hand it out to anyone I see fretting about something meaningless, our troubles here would be over very quickly. Despite all the damage, that is the gift cancer has given me, the gift of perspective. Being able to take a deep breath and not sweat the small stuff anymore is not a place I would have ever been had I not gazed into the abyss.

I used to dread birthdays but I collect them now. I used to hate going to the grocery store but I know I’m going to see someone or something that makes me laugh, or cringe. It all adds to the experience, and it beats the alternative.

Having had cancer does not define me. How I respond to it does. Cancer clings to me and follows me like a duckling. It permeates every aspect of my life. It might kill me, but it is not who I am. I had it, it did not have me.

When things get tough, I just remind myself that I’m playing with house money and I’m all in; paying anything to roll the dice, just one more time.