I want to share some personal news with my readers and with my many friends who have supported my writing, and who have enthusiastically embraced my debut novel, Grown Men Cry Out at Night.
Since November 2022, I have been undergoing treatment for bladder cancer. The treatment has included three surgical procedures, chemotherapy, and an immunotherapy treatment called BCG. Unfortunately, I learned in mid-May that the treatment has not been effective, and the cancer has spread and become worse. Over the past several weeks, my emotions have run the gamut from anger, to shock, self-pity, and despair. I was shocked when I received the news and felt completely blindsided.
When I received the news, I focused on my anger and rage about my predicament, but I finally realized why I was so mad. After weeks of holding on to anger, I realized that I was most angry at myself, first for not asking my doctor the difficult questions and forcing her to answer them, and second for allowing myself to be so seduced by optimism and hope, that I fooled myself into believing there could be no other outcome but success, and that my life would go merrily along.
I had forgotten one of the most important lessons I had ever learned when I began working as an intelligence analyst many years ago – you cannot rely on hope to be successful. You have to work out all the details, craft plans for all possible contingencies, assess and understand all the risks associated with an operation, and plan for the worst case. As my boss told me those many years ago, hope cannot factor into your analysis because, “Hope is not a plan.”
Over the past few weeks, I also came to realize what is most important to me, and what I want out of my life, whether it lasts another six months, or continues on for six years or more. Simply put, I’m not ready to give up my wife Jody. We’ve worked so very hard together, and we’ve just started to enjoy our retirement. I want that to continue, hopefully for many years. There are many places we want to visit and see together. There are many parts of the world that we want to discover, together.
I also have found renewed purpose in life through my writing. I have somewhere between six to eight novels planned out in the Casper Lehman / Luba Haas series, and I want to write them all. Unfortunately, I am a painstakingly slow and plodding writer, so I will need time to write them. Therefore, I am pushing the release of Operation Nightfall: The Forest Soldiers, which is the sequel to Grown Men Cry Out at Night, to the summer of 2024. Fortunately, I now am being treated by some of the best doctors and nurses in the country, so I believe I will be able to write not only the sequel, but the full series.
I won’t bore you with the details of my treatment plan, but I can tell you that it is the medical equivalent of the “shock and awe” doctrine espoused by the U.S. Army. The treatment, which includes chemotherapy and a very invasive surgery, requiring many months of recovery, will be difficult. In the end, there is a slightly better than fifty percent chance that I will survive five years. But, because I asked the difficult questions, and forced my doctor to answer them, I can prepare myself emotionally and physically for the battle that is ahead. I know exactly what is ahead of me, I know what the worst case looks like, and there will be few, if any surprises.
When I first received the news the cancer had spread, I wanted to shut the world out. I wanted to be completely alone. Thankfully, I came to my senses because being alone would not help, and it would make it extraordinarily difficult for my wife Jody, the person whom I love more than anything. She will have to bear the bulk of the caregiving during my recovery, and we will explore the limits of “for better or worse” as we go through the healing and recovery process together. Shutting the world out would be selfish, and very cruel and unfair to her.
So, I’ve decided to share this news with my readers and friends.
Do not be sad. Please. I know exactly what is ahead. I know exactly how difficult this will be and I’m prepared for it. I do not need cheerleading, expressions of optimism, or prayers of hope. None of those things are helpful. What I do require is a tough platoon sergeant, who will kick me in the ass, and force me to move forward and carry out the plan of treatment. If any of you would like to apply for that position, please let me know.
I have a good plan, and I am confident, within the probabilities of forecasted success, that it will see me through. I am planning for the worst, so I won’t be surprised or disappointed, but if the best case happens, that will be wonderful. Hope is not a plan. Hope will always disappoint and let you down. It’s the hope that always kills you in the end. But, a good plan, now that’s something, and that is what I have, and that is what will see me through.