Sometimes I’m calm through the meltdown, handling the situation with a deep level of acceptance and love. Sometimes I yell, matching her decibel for decibel. Yelling is the worst. It escalates the situation, guaranteeing that it will take longer to resolve. It also leaves me feeling hollow and regretful, like I have a gaping wound in my soul.

I think to myself, how did I become The Dad That Yells? I think about the father that I want to be. I think about the father that I have and how he was with me when I was a kid.

A memory from my childhood jumps out from the distant past. While out riding bikes in the neighborhood with my friends, we were talking about times we got in trouble. After proudly contributing my story of misbehavior, I add, “my dad was so mad! He really yelled at me!” I’ll never forget that my friends laughed in disbelief. “Your dad doesn’t yell,” they chided. “If you want to hear a yelling, come to my house!” Then they all tried to one-up each other with stories of their dads screaming at them.

My parents were—and still are—gentle, thoughtful and deeply loving; their disappointment in me was often the punishment enough.

So how did I become The Dad That Yells? I wonder this after I’ve managed to somewhat pull myself together and demonstrate that a 40-something is, in fact, fully physiologically able self-regulate emotions—even after having recently proved the opposite.

Why did I lose my temper and yell? What is wrong with me? That sort of self-reflection which leads to self-recrimination, spirals me downward. 

The strange thing about my child’s meltdown is that after she’s fully emoted with every single atom in her body, she’s done. The valve is off, and she’s ready to play. Many times, my daughter has come out of her room, face puffy and red from non-stop crying, beams a huge smile, and says in a voice raspy from twenty minutes of screaming, “Daddy, guess what? I thought of something fun we can do together!”

I stand there dumbfounded. Partially because I’ve been spiraling downward about being The Dad That Yells, berating myself for just absolutely fucking up this fatherhood thing. And partially also because, for the last twenty minutes I’ve been the brunt of a non-stop barrage of verbal and emotional assaults from this child.

I think about the latter part as though someone handed me a steaming bag of dogshit. I’m just standing there, holding this giant, stinking bag of shit, custom-crafted just for me by my little girl, and now she is all smiles and wants to play?!

Gobsmacked, I believe is the term I’m looking for.

I think about my parents again. I think about my dad. What did my dad do with all the bags of shit I handed him? When I think about the things I did as a kid—or worse, as a teenager—it’s a wonder they still pick up the phone when I call, let alone still love me and want to see me.

The accumulation of the awful, foolish things I did, whether purposefully, spitefully, or simply to try and get away with it, the weight of it could be unbearable. But there’s no resentment from my parents. They’re not carrying around any of that shit.

That’s the thing about a bag of shit: you don’t have to carry it around. You can set it down. But in the heat of the moment, it’s really, really hard to set that shit down.

My daughter is smiling hopefully at me through her puffy eyes. My mind is reeling with introspection. I’m standing there, gobsmacked, yes, but also with the realization that I’m holding two bags of shit. One that she lovingly crafted for me, the other that I made for myself out of self-recrimination.

How do I put these down? How do I move forward?

The answer is simple: forgiveness.

Fatherhood is forgiveness.

I have to forgive her—wholly, completely, and instantaneously. It’s the only way to put that bag down. Just as important, I have to forgive myself. I can’t be the father that I want to be if I’m going to carry around a bag of my own stinking shit.

I think about my dad again. He has forgiven me for all of my transgressions. I don’t have to ask him—I know it deep in the core of my being.

Fatherhood is forgiveness.

Fatherhood is forgiving your children because you love them so deeply you could do nothing else but forgive them. Fatherhood is forgiving yourself because without that you could never be fully present, loving them with your whole self.

“Daddy?” she breaks me out of my reverie.

I climb the stairs and together we talk about forgiveness.

It’s spring 2024. We’re sitting on her bed finishing up the bedtime routine and she asks me, “what are you afraid of?” Earlier in the day I had dealt with a spider in the house so she may have been expecting an answer of spiders or sharks or ghosts. But I catch both of us off guard as my answer seems to come from out of nowhere, “I’m afraid of being a bad father to you and your brother.”

The meltdowns had subsided after she started full-day kindergarten, less than two months after her fifth birthday. She’s had her moments, I’ve had mine, too. In those moments and afterward, I repeat my mantra, “fatherhood is forgiveness.”

Just as quickly as I gave my answer, she responds. “You don’t have to be afraid of that,” she says as she gives me a hug to assure me, “you’re the best dad in the whole world.”

Despite the sudden lump in my throat, I thank her and tell her she’s the best daughter in the world. As I leave the room, I repeat my mantra, “fatherhood is forgiveness.” I’m sure I’ll need it again soon.

I needed a replacement because of a birth defect—one I didn’t know about until I was 43 years old. With that diagnosis I was told that “someday” I would have to get the valve replaced. After a scare in July 2021, “someday” turned out to be September 8, 2021. 

I’ve been through life-saving surgery before. I survived cancer in 1997, which included two operations. Despite the major surgery being minimally invasive, it was still scary. In 1997 I was 22. No one was relying on me for anything. I had my whole life ahead of me and not a care in the world… except to beat cancer. 

In 2021, things were different. At 46 years old with an amazing wife, two wonderful kids, and a career that fulfilled me, I had everything to lose. Fear crept into my thoughts too frequently: would my children grow up knowing their father or just stories about him? Would I be just another blip in the cosmos?

Thankfully, the time between prognosis and surgery was short. During that time, I had one major decision to make: artificial or biological valve? Each came with their own risks and benefits. After doing our own due diligence, my wife and I chose the artificial valve. I mean, who doesn’t want to be part cyborg?!

The surgery went well. The recovery sucked. But this story isn’t about that. This story is about the valve.

The amazing thing about the artificial valve is that it clicks when it closes. It opens to let the blood out. Then… click …it closes. When it’s quiet around me, I can hear it. It’s a deep, sensory type of hearing, almost a feeling. 

It’s the most wonderful thing.

click.

It’s a constant reminder to focus on what’s truly important in life.

click.

When the world is still, I can breathe and connect with this.

click.

Whether my mind is racing, raging, distracted, lost in thought…

click.

This is the part of the story where I offer you life-changing advice, isn’t it? Only, I’m not quite sure how to do that.

I can tell you that I often reflect on the fragility of life as I listen to my click. In that fragility, I connect to the vastness of humankind. All the humans that have ever lived and (at least for the near future) ever will live, all contained on this little rock spinning through spacetime, orbiting an unremarkable G-type star in a less fashionable part of the Milky Way Galaxy. In that moment, I feel deeply insignificant.

When I was younger, recovered from cancer and living in NYC, I think I also felt that fragility and insignificance. I reacted differently then. I was reckless and care-free, a consequences-be-damned risk-taker. Maybe I was leaning into life’s insignificance. Maybe I was trying to bury it, hide from it or run from it. Maybe I was just a 20-something in New York. Probably all of the above.

As a father, husband (and 40-something living in the suburbs in Colorado) my perspective is different.

Insignificant to the cosmos? Yes.

Insignificant entirely? No.

Our significance is the impact we make on others, with every click.

Whether with my wife, my children, parents, sisters, extended family or close friends, when I connect with those that I love, I can be significant to them. Even better, that it’s on a consistent basis.

When I contribute something positive to someone’s day, in that moment—in that click—I can be significant for that person. And that person is significant for me. 

In these moments, in these clicks, we are significant to each other. And that gives me meaning and purpose. That reminds me to focus on what’s truly important: the difference I can make in people’s lives, whether fleeting or consistent.

In its simplest, purest form, we can give gratitude to one another. That gratitude creates significance.

click.

It’s not a click that gives my life meaning.

click.

It’s what I do between each one.

click.

You don’t need a click to find meaning in your life.

click.

But a reminder helps. My reminder…

clicks.

What does yours do?

Today, 4/17/2020 my Grandma (my dad’s mother) would have turned 100. I grew up half a mile from her and my grandfather in the house that they bought in 1948, and owned until she passed away. She was a big part of my life growing up. During high school I spent nearly every Sunday afternoon over there talking with her and Granddad. We had chipped ham sandwiches (it’s a Pittsburgh thing) and “Grandma’s Iced Tea.”

Her iced tea was famous—it is the sweetest sweet tea you’ve ever had. I’ll make you some when you come to Colorado. She had to make gallons of it for every family gathering because we all loved it so much. 

She was an amazing woman that showed love, kindness and understanding to all of her children and grandchildren. Some highlights about Ann Bea Maloy include: 

• Earned her bachelor’s degree from Pitt when few women went to college
• Her best friend was Jewish (this was unheard of, on both sides, for her generation) 
• A savvy investor who understood the time value of money
• A lead foot driver who used her white hair as a tactic to merge at the very front of the traffic
• Doted on her grandchildren through her whole life 
• Loved big gaudy jewelry
• Always said, “we Irish need to stick together”
• An independent woman, growing old was hard for her because everyone always wanted to do things for her!
• And she was truly the matriarch of the Maloy family 

To celebrate her life, we got together today for a family Zoom call and did an iced tea toast. My uncle put picture of her at 20 years old in the frame of his computer. 

Happy birthday Grandma. Thank you for all you did for us, for all you gave to us, and for always being there for us. I love you.

During the Dagobah scenes in “The Empire Strikes Back,” Master Yoda shares a lot of wisdom with Luke Skywalker. We all know the most famous, “Do or do not. There is no try.” It’s so deeply ingrained in our culture—especially startup culture—that it brings on ennui for me. It’s such a well-worn path that it hardly bears repeating.

There’s another interaction between Luke and Yoda that I prefer for its depth and multiple layers of meaning.

Scene: Luke stops deep in the jungle, and sensing darkness emanating from a nearby cave, he turns to Yoda.  

Luke: What’s in there?

Yoda: Only what you take with you.

Take a moment to reflect on that:

What’s in there?
Only what you take with you.

In literature and in Star Wars, the cave is a metaphor for a journey inward.

What’s In There?

Luke didn’t know what was in there, but he went in regardless. He brought in his fear and anger, and that is what he faced.

We go into every day not knowing what lays ahead. Sure, we have our calendars organized, and know where our lunch meeting is, and who to expect at the client meeting. And we know what we can reasonably expect when we go home. But we don’t really know what’s in there, be it on the road, in a meeting, or at home.

We don’t know, because “knowing”  implies certainty. We know precisely when the sun will rise for any particular point on the earth on any particular day. But we don’t know if our lunch meeting is going to happen, if the client meeting will go smoothly, nor if we will close that deal.

What’s in there? We don’t really know. But we go regardless.

Only What You Take With You

Luke was arguably not ready to face his dark side, but that cave—that challenge—was on the path of his training. What he found was what he took with him: his anger and his fear.

As we move through life, facing challenges, enjoying moments, getting excited, or being calm, how we are in that moment depends on what we take with us. Did you get blindsided by a difficult conversation? You faced it with only what you took with you. Did you prepare for the meeting? You faced it with only what you took with you. Each day we have new caves to enter with unknown challenges to face, and we do so with only what we take with us.

That is the unspoken layer of this dialog that I love so much: if the only thing in each cave—each challenge—is what we bring with us, then we should strive to bring the best with us at all times. This requires both self-awareness and training.

What You Have

In Star Wars, the ability to tap into the Force is innate; you either have it or you don’t. Luke brought his emotions and his abilities into the cave, just as we bring our emotions and abilities into each encounter. What do you bring to each challenge?

• What’s in [today]?
  • Are you prepared for the day, coming in refreshed with a good mindset, or are you tired, frazzled and scattered?
  • Only what you take with you.
• What’s in [your role at work]?
  • Are you adding value, moving things ahead, and keeping your mind & skills sharp?
  • Only what you take with you.
• What’s in [your relationships]?
  • Are you bringing empathy and compassion into your relationship, or conflict and unresolved emotions?
  • Only what you take with you.

This ties into my Rule #6, “YOU are responsible for creating the world you want to live in.” Do you bring a lousy attitude, distrust, and anger into your world? Wondering why there’s only bad attitudes, distrust and anger facing you every day? It’s what you bring with you. What do you want the world to be? Bring that with you.

What You Can Train

Sometimes what we bring with us isn’t enough. Luke was in the Dagobah swamps to receive Jedi training from the only living master. We are fortunate we have many masters to learn from in our world. We need to train ourselves, or “sharpen the saw” as Stephen Covey says in his classic, “The Seven Habits of Highly Successful People.”

For example, in a professional environment when there are difficult conversations I need to lead, I spend hours preparing, rehearsing, and getting comfortable with what I need to say and how I want to say it. When I go into that encounter, what I bring with me is a prepared and ready mind. I’ve trained to lead difficult conversations.

To take more with you into each challenge, you must train.

At SpringTime I have much to learn; a lot of training ahead of me. We’re fortunate to have a team with diverse and complimentary skill sets, and we can all learn from each other. In addition, I read blog posts, listen to podcasts, read books (on Audible), and reflect on the lessons.

As a new father, I have many, many years of training ahead of me. There are many challenges to face, some I’ll be prepared for, and most I probably won’t! I read, learn, and reflect to continue my training. With each challenge, what I take with me enables me to be the best possible father to my son and soon-to-be-born daughter.

If we didn’t learn, grow, and evolve as individuals, we would live in a world of screaming infants—whether you want to take that literally or metaphorically is up to you.

Your Weapons, You Will Not Need Them

Like Luke, I put on my weapon belt. But Master Yoda’s point is that it’s not about the tools on our belt, it’s about our mind and our preparedness. Regardless if I live by my Google calendar, keep all my to do’s in Trello, and take great notes in Evernote, none of it matters compared to what’s in my head.

I know that with each challenge, what I face it with is only what I take with me.

One of my rules is, “Ride the wave to shore.” I can remember when I first put this in writing, I was sending an email to someone on AOL—probably around 1999. I don’t remember the specific situation, but the context was about seeing something through and enjoying the journey along the way. I’ve ascribed to this philosophy for a long time.

Riding to Shore

On Thursday, my team and I were laid off, as well as nearly the entire organization that supported IBM’s Global Entrepreneur program. I got the news on Thursday morning, and then had calls to inform my team throughout the day. It may sound awful, but frankly, we knew it was coming; it was only a matter of when. One person even responded by saying, “oh that’s happening today? I thought it would be Monday.”

I believe in riding a wave to shore. Sometimes it’s the wave I meant to catch, sometimes it’s a different one. Sometimes it’s everything I thought it would be (and more), and sometimes it’s a let down. Sometimes, I get thrown from the wave before I can take it all the way in. But no matter what, it’s the wave I’m on, and taking it all the way to shore is the best way to get the most out of the experience.

In 2012, I was a part of a startup that was in the SoftLayer Catalyst program, receiving credits for servers, plus mentorship and connections from Josh Krammes and his team. Later, I joined the  SoftLayer Catalyst team as a Community Manager in 2014, covering the Rockies region, and soon began covering everything from Portland to Pittsburgh. In 2015 I took over managing the US & Canada team. I hired a number of people, lost some good ones to attrition, and built out a well-rounded group. In 2016 we fully integrated into IBM and became the Global Entrepreneur program. And in 2017, the whole team was laid off.

I can truly say, I rode my wave right down to the shoreline. Now it’s time to paddle out and catch the next one.

Paddling Out

If you’ve never surfed, then you don’t know the least sexy, rarely shown, and most frustrating part of the sport: paddling out. Waves crash over you, you duck-dive under them, then frantically paddle with your arms and pathetically kick your feet, duck-dive another wave, paddle harder, and paddle and dive, and paddle and dive, and then look back, and it feels like you’ve barely moved at all. The hardest part is the very end where the waves start to break, the undertow is the strongest, and if feels like you’ll never get past it. You’re choking down seawater, barely holding on to your board, and then with one last dive… you’re through! Past the breaks, you can take a breath and float peacefully on the rolling waves of the sea.

Despite my longing to be a surfer, I have actually tried it a few times: in Bali, Indonesia and Ditch Plains, NY. In my brief experiences, I can tell you this: paddling out is hard work. There’s a reason you don’t see overweight surfers.

I rode this wave to shore, and now I get to decide if I want to paddle out in IBM’s waters again, or in someone else’s.

There is an opportunity to paddle out inside of IBM again, and it’s one that would enable me to continue to fulfill my personal mission: to transform the world through innovation and entrepreneurship. To make a move internally is not impossible, but it is work. It’s the unsexy sort of work that requires determination and a some convincing. Waves of doubt crash over you, as you paddle out through familiar, but different waters. Waves of fear crash over you as you put yourself on the line, opening yourself up to rejection.

Through it all, you have to keep your eyes on the prize (another one of my rules) and do the hard work that’s required to catch the next wave.

It’s Thursday night. My son is fast asleep. My wife and I are full from a delicious dinner. I feel totally relaxed, satisfied with a good day of work behind me, and ready for a strong close to the week tomorrow. I feel this way because Thursdays are my Get $#!t Done Days. And I did just that.

I have a recurring appointment in my calendar that blocks out every Thursday from 8:00 AM to 6:00 PM. I will take one in-person appointment, usually lunch—though today it was coffee—and that’s it. Otherwise, I don’t take any meetings, phone calls, or other appointments. I don’t schedule anything except time to stand at my desk and get. shit. done.

It takes more than just blocking off the time, though. Believe me, it is all too easy to simply accept calendar invites, or schedule meetings over top of the blocked time. I’ll admit to breaking my rule on occasion. Soon one call leads to two, two to three, and before I know it, my morning is gone in a blur of phone & video calls. By then it’s just another day, and I’m scrambling to stay ahead of the ever-mounting tide of work.

Respecting the blocked-off time is just as, if not more, important than blocking it.

With a full day of uninterrupted work ahead of me, it’s the perfect opportunity to tackle the things that require more than 20 minutes of attention. For example, today I spent one and a half hours working on a document for a big project. I was able to get into a flow state with my writing and analysis. If I was trying to hack at this throughout any other day, in between meetings, and in 20 to 40 minute chunks, it would have taken three times as long. Instead, I knew I had my GSD Day, so I kept a scratch pad of notes throughout the week and dove in deep today.

It felt great to knock out something important but not urgent.

Time-blocking is not revolutionary. You’ve probably heard it mentioned in one productivity course or another. I first learned it when I was starting out in sales at Robert Half Technology in 2004, and continue to practice it today. When things get crazy in the startup community, and my team is feeling overwhelmed, we talk about time blocking to ensure the work is getting done, and we’re staying sane.

I have other time blocks, too. Monday’s are my phone call days. I try to pack every single call into Monday; I’ve had many Monday’s with double-digit calls scheduled. Wednesday afternoons I block off to work from home so my wife can go to a yoga class she loves. I sit on the floor with our five-month-old son with my laptop open ready to hand him teething toys. But Thursday are the most important for my work and my sanity.

If you are in a job that pulls you in a lot of directions, schedule a GSD Day. Start time blocking to help yourself get ahead of the tide, and feel better about the quality of your work.

Today my grandmother turns 95. She’s in amazing shape for someone who’s nearly a century old. She drives herself around, does her own grocery shopping, and still goes to the beauty parlor every other week to get her hair set.

Growing up less than a mile from her and my granddad, we spent a lot of time with them over the years. Of all of the support, comfort, and wisdom they imparted to me over that time, one piece of advice from my grandmother has stood the test of time. No matter where I was in the world, or what I was doing, it has been relevant and helpful. That advice is:

You never know ‘til you ask.

Simple and powerful, it has guided me throughout my life. Here are some ways you can put this to work for you.

Ask for the Introduction
Whether you’re fundraising, hiring, selling, or just looking for feedback, you need to expand your network to reach the right people. The best way to do this is through strategic introductions. In theCatalyst program, making connections is part of our offering to companies. Introductions are such a regular part of my work in the startup community. In my experience, people want to help other people, so as long as you’re not taking advantage of it, ask for introductions. You’re likely to get a nice warm introduction, which can lead to a meeting.

Ask for the Meeting
Now that you have that introduction, ask for a meeting with a purpose in mind. Even if you don’t have an introduction, many people in the startup world are approachable with a cold email.

Guy Kawasaki, former chief evangelist for Apple, and author of 13 books including The Art of the Start 2.0, wrote a fantastic post, “The Effective Emailer,” on how to craft that all-important message with your ask.

Another great take on the email ask is from venture capitalist Brad Feld, “If You Want a Response, Ask Specific Questions.” This post offers advice on how not to approach someone. The title of the post says it all, if you want a response, ask a specific question.

Ask for the Sale
Many startup founders don’t have sales experience and so often miss this incredibly simple, yet incredibly important part of sales: asking for the sale. Even in mass-market B2C businesses, you’ll be surprised how easy and effective it is to ask people to sign up. Your first sales will be high-touch and likely require a big time investment from your team. But all of that work will go to waste if you don’t say, “Will you sign up to be our customer?” And if the answer is a no, then ask, “What are the next steps for working with you?”

Empower Yourself
It’s empowering to ask for something that you want. This is the heart of my grandmother’s advice. She is and has always been an empowered woman. I believe a big part of that came from not being afraid to ask for what she wanted. As long as you’re polite and respectful in your approach, step up and ask.

The opposite of this is to meekly watch the world go by. If you do not ask, it will sweep you away on other people’s directions. This is the path to failure as an entrepreneur.

The way to empower yourself in this world starts with asking for what you want. Whether it’s something as simple as asking for a special order at a restaurant or as big as asking for an investment, make that ask. After all, you’ll never know unless you ask.

On June 22 Juliana Joy Glader and I got married in front of our family and loved ones. To say it was amazing, incredible, awesome, and absolutely magnificent just doesn’t cut it. In fact, there aren’t enough adjectives in the world to describe the power of the emotions  I felt that day.

We had a wonderful minister from the Unitarian church who, when we expressed our interest in writing our own vows, had a better idea. He suggested that we use a variation of the more traditional vows, but that we write a personal commitment to one another. This was a fantastic idea. Not only are we giving ourselves to each other, but we are professing an additional level of commitment.

I remember reading mine, trying my best to get through them without completely losing it, then handing the mic to Juli to read hers. Likewise, I tried to remember every moment and not fall to pieces with pure joy. Juli referenced making these commitments in front of our friends and family, and in that moment, we looked out to the audience. Gathered before us were as much family as could make it, and as many friends as the budget would allow.

It hit me then, the incredible sense of responsibility of professing that commitment in front of all family and friends. Not only did we make that commitment to one another, but we did so in front of 130 people who know us, love us, and support us. We were not just making a commitment to ourselves, but to our loved ones.

Every time I look at Juli I see the woman I love. Every time I think about the vows, I think not just about how I vowed to her, but also how I did so in front of those most important to us. To speak something is to bring it into reality. By speaking it publicly, we are committed not just to each other, but to everyone in that room. That public declaration was, and is, s a very powerful thing.

Rich Maloy Alchemy of Bliss from StartUp Guru on Vimeo.

Have you ever ignored something that needed to be done, but that stood a chance–however infinitesimal–of showing results that would be really, really bad. And so, because of your fear, you avoided it? Yeah. I’ve been doing that.

Finally, I committed to follow through with some medical tests I’d been putting off. I scheduled them for today, and, in anticipation of them, I was scared.

Logically, I have few reasons to be scared: I’m in excellent health, and I don’t have any unusual symptoms. However, I did go through all of these tests once before. The results then were not good.

In 1997 I was in my last semester as senior in college, and occasionally  experienced tremendous chest pain. It was so bad at times that I taught myself pain management meditation techniques to deal with it. I was convinced it was just stress. Finally, three days after commencement (I was still up at school getting the last nine credits I needed to earn my diploma)  I took myself to the hospital. I went through a few tests and was told to come back the next day.

Like the good, responsible, upstanding young man I was, I went back. I spent the entire day in the hospital, and at the end of the day, exhausted from non-stop tests, prodding, and lack of food, someone finally broke the news to me:  cancer.

Cancer

I had cancer. I was 22 years old, in great shape, and fearless. I was convinced I could do anything. The way I looked at it, I’d go back to Pittsburgh on the weekends for chemo–only a 3.5 hour drive–then back up to St. Bonaventure to finish my classes, get my diploma, and get on with my life. Fearless maybe, but definitely stupid, or at least ignorant to what lay ahead. Little did I know what I was in for with surgeries, transfusions, and chemo.

I’ll never forget the advice my oncologist gave me. It went something like this: “we’re going to kick the crap out of you with drugs, you just have to take it. That’s it. Just get through it.”

Certainly he was more sensitive than that, but in my mind, that’s what his advice amounted to that day. I did take it. I never, ever, not for a single day, hour, minute, or second did I ever take my eyes off the prize. I was going to beat cancer, and use the time to network to get my dream job on Wall Street in New York.

Spoiler Alert: I did.

Being with my fear

Through it all, the one thing I did not allow myself to feel was fear. Sure, there were moments of self-pity, extreme illness, and anger. But I never allowed in fear. It was contrary to my mission: eyes on the prize, at any cost. (Some days I wish–I beg–for that determination again. But I digress.)

Fast forward nearly 16 years when a new primary care physician suggests a some basic blood work, just to see where things are for me, and my tumor markers come back really high. We talk about it, it’s probably “normal” for me, but why take chances, so he lines up a battery of tests. I know these tests all too well: more blood work, examinations, ultrasound, and CT scan (with contrast). It’s what I went through before.

And here I am the night before thinking what if, what if, WHAT IF. And I’m scaring the crap out of myself. I’m 37 years old. I’m single. No kids. No legacy. And with a list of “things to do before I die” that’s even longer now than it was when I started it at 20.

What have I done with my life? Is this why I’m scared? Am I scared to die, or am I scared to die not having accomplished the greatness I set out to achieve?

Unlike the 22-year-old me, I allowed myself to sit with the fear. Unlike Muad’Dib, I did not let it pass through me, but I didn’t let it obliterate me either. I sat with it. I felt it. I owned it.

Sitting in the CT scanner brought back a flood of memories, too. I’ll be honest, that was the most scared I’d been in years. I allowed myself to feel afraid in that moment–not fear of the machine like some lousy Luddite, but of what would happen if these tests came back like the same ones of 16 years ago. In that moment, as the unnatural warmth of the contrast dye coursed through my veins, it was my fear manifest. I felt it boil in me. I owned it. I mastered it. And then I became it.

And for the first time in a long time. I felt alive. Very, very alive.

Pending

The tests are pending. The blood work came back as expected: tumor markers are high, but according to my doctors circa 1997, that’s to be expected. I’ll get the results of the scan next week, and if logic has anything to do with, they’ll come back just fine.

While my test results are pending, so is the rest of my life. The results will have a definite outcome. And now, so will my life.