I almost didn’t make it to this one.
Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist who stared death in the face and lived to tell about it, once wrote:
“Live as if you were living a second time, and as though you had acted wrongly the first time.”
I think about that quote a lot now. Because I am living a second time. And I refuse to waste it.
A year ago, I was hopeful.
The December 2024 PET scan came back clear. No signs of cancer. For the first time in years, I let myself breathe. I started thinking about the future instead of just surviving another day. I let myself believe the worst was behind me.
Don’t get me wrong. Life wasn’t easy. I was still dealing with the wreckage the treatments left behind. Muscle spasms that seized my neck without warning. Nerve damage that made every movement of my shoulder and arm feel like fire. Neuropathy in my feet never let me forget what chemotherapy had done to my body.
But I was living. And that was enough.
Fifty-four days later, that hope was shattered.
February 2025 brought new lung nodules. By May, they had doubled in size. The cancer was spreading fast, and there was nothing I could do but watch the numbers get worse.
Then came June 3rd.
My 25th wedding anniversary. The day Sarah and I should have been celebrating a quarter century of love, of building a life together, of raising our son. Instead, I sat in a cold doctor’s office hearing the words that changed everything: metastatic squamous cell carcinoma. Stage four. The same cancer in my throat. Now in my lungs. Spreading through my body.
I looked at Sarah. She looked at me. Twenty-five years of marriage, and this was how we were spending our anniversary. Not with champagne. Not with celebration. With a death sentence.
I had already been through so much. Seventy radiation treatments that burned my throat so badly I couldn’t swallow. Twenty rounds of chemotherapy that left me weak, nauseated, and wondering if the cure was worse than the disease. A five-hour radical neck dissection that took lymph nodes, muscles, and the voice I’d had for sixty years. I had given everything I had to beat this thing.
And it still came back.
I won’t lie to you. There were moments I wanted to give up. Moments when the weight of it all felt like too much. Moments when I wondered if God had forgotten about me.
But God had other plans. And so did Sarah.
She refused to let me quit. She drove me to Tennessee to meet with specialists who saw things differently. She held my hand when I was too tired to hold my own head up. She believed in me when I had stopped believing in myself.
Within days, I started a new protocol. Carnivore diet. High-dose IV vitamin C. Repurposed medications. Keytruda immunotherapy. Everything we could throw at this disease. I became my own patient, tracking every lab result, every marker, every sign of change.
In September, we got the first sign it was working. The tumors were shrinking. I read those results three times because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
In December, the news got even better. Two lung nodules are now undetectable. Gone. Two others have shrunk by 50%. My body is fighting back. After everything, after all the pain and fear and sleepless nights, something is finally going right.
This year has been a roller coaster I never asked to ride. From the terror of that June diagnosis to the tears of relief in December. From wondering if I would see another Christmas to actually being there, sitting with my family, holding Sarah’s hand, grateful for every single breath.
I am still here.
And I owe so much of that to you.
Over 200 of you have walked this road with me. Some donated when I needed help paying for treatments my insurance refused to cover. Some sent prayers that arrived on the exact days I needed them most. Some sent messages that pulled me back from the edge when the weight felt too heavy to carry alone. You showed up for me when I couldn’t show up for myself.
You may never know how much those moments mattered. A message at midnight. A donation that covered one more infusion. A prayer whispered by someone I’ve never met. Those things kept me alive. Those things kept me fighting.
When I couldn’t carry the weight alone, you carried it with me. That’s not something I will ever forget.
The Fight Isn’t Over
I want to be honest with you. The cancer is responding, but I’m not done yet. The treatments that are saving my life are expensive, and most aren’t covered by insurance. I was approved for Social Security Disability, but there’s a five-month waiting period. My first check won’t arrive until February 2026. That’s two more months of treatments, supplements, and bills with no income coming in.
I went from managing programs at Fortune 500 companies to wondering how I’m going to pay for the things keeping me alive. That’s a hard sentence to write. But it’s the truth.
Here’s what I’m facing:
Alpha-Lipoic Acid IV Therapy: to help repair the nerve damage from chemo and radiation. My feet burn and tingle constantly. My right shoulder sags from nerves that were cut during surgery. This treatment offers real hope for healing what the cancer fight took from me.
High-Dose IV Vitamin C: These infusions support my immune system and work alongside immunotherapy to keep fighting the cancer.
Repurposed Medications: Off-label cancer-fighting drugs not covered by insurance.
If you’ve ever wondered how to help, this is how. Every donation, no matter the size, gets me one step closer to healing.
Donate here: https://gofund.me/7b77dd4c
Looking Ahead
2026 is going to be different. I’m hoping to return to work at some point this year. I’m finishing my memoir, “Still Here: How Faith, Food, and Family Beat Stage Four Cancer,” because I want my story to help others facing the same terrible odds. I want them to know that when the doctors give you 20% odds, you can still be part of that 20%. You can still fight. You can still win.
God’s not done with me yet. And I don’t think He’s done with you either.
Thank you for being part of my journey. Thank you for your prayers, your donations, your messages, and your shares. Thank you for giving me hope when I had none left to give myself.
Happy New Year.
May 2026 bring you blessings, healing, and the courage to keep fighting for what matters most.
With love and gratitude,
Wayne
P.S. If you donated through GoFundMe, I don’t have access to your address to send a personal thank you. If you’d like to hear from me directly, please visit WaynesCancerJourney.com and fill out the contact form. I’d love to say thank you properly.