Screams Like an Adolescent Girl

My wife once proclaimed that I am the woman in our relationship.

This declaration was made one evening when, while playfully wrestling with my sons, the two-year-old was launched from my arms onto a bed mattress. As he arched through the air and peals of laughter poured from his mouth I saw a belt, coiled like a snake, beneath the comforter at the precise place he was about to land. I stretched my arms to catch him but was too late to avoid the clap of his head hitting the buckle. Glassy eyes stared up at me and I forced a smile hoping a happy face would convince him all was okay. Gently I lifted him onto my lap to examine the impact and found a small drop of blood.  It was at this point, in the words of my wife, “screams like an adolescent girl” streamed from my mouth. My yells startled the four-year-old and he began to mimic my distressful yells. Teri sprinted into the room, quieted the screeching chorus, took control of the triage and issued an abundance of motherly kisses.  The tough little guy didn’t even cry. My wife, however, was less than impressed with my performance. Once the belt was put away and a bandage applied she rolled her eyes and said, “I swear, Bruce, sometimes I think you’re the woman in our marriage.”

How many fingers am I holding up?

How many fingers am I holding up?

The exaggerated reaction couldn’t be helped. Squeamishness is an inherited trait. My dad, who fainted in the delivery room when my mom was giving birth to me, passed it onto me and from what I can tell about my sons, there is a good chance they carry the queasiness gene too. I’m not hemophobic, the site of blood doesn’t result in a wave of nausea causing my knees to give way and throw my body to the floor. What causes my brow to squint and teeth to grind is the action or injury which results in the flow of blood. Be it an accidental impalement or the prick of a needle, the effect is the same.

I thought the weak stomach trait had passed my generation until several years ago when I donated blood. It wasn’t the first time my veins had been drained of a few ounces, but it was the only occasion I made the decision to watch as the phlebotomist pierced my skin with the needle. My memory after the initial stab is a little fuzzy, but I do remember waking up on a table, a wet towel on my head and being encouraged to help myself to as much orange juice as I needed.

This strong aversion to bodily injury creates a bit of a conundrum when tracking the efficacy of nutritional therapies I am employing to fight cancer. Establishing a means by which the progress of the protocols can be measured allows us to make adjustments as needed.  The most common method is to undergo a scan prescribed by a doctor. A trip through the CT scan tube, however, is accompanied by massive amounts of radiation and a discussion with an oncologist. Fortunately there are many alternatives which include the pain-free urinalysis and vampire-like blood tests. I incorporate several of them in order to gain a better picture of the healing occurring in my body.

All of these tests are imperfect indicators, providing an educated clue at what is happening beneath the skin. While professionals trained in the analysis of the results guide the interpretation of test results, outside of cutting a person open and taking a peek inside, there are no completely accurate methods to tell with one-hundred-percent certainty whether or not cancer is present or how aggressively it is spreading.

I recently willingly subjected myself to another blood syphoning for a test which measures a protein found in the blood called thymidine kinase (TK). The body creates TK when cells go through the process of division and then eliminates it from the body. High levels of TK are associated with rapid cell division and correlate, in the instance of someone diagnosed with cancer to the aggressiveness of cancer. This test doesn’t reveal whether or not cancer is present (a separate test has indicated cancer cells are still present), rather the rate at which it might be spreading. This is really the most important thing to know. The presence of a tumor is unsettling, but a person can live for decades with a growth that doesn’t grow. Tumors become deadly when they grow and impair the function of vital organs. Results of the TK test are expressed in a number which correspond to a range that gives insight as to the fierceness and growth rate of cancer. A number lower than twenty is in the range of low risk while a number between seventy-seven and one-hundred-twenty is considered high risk.  It is common for aggressive and fast spreading cancers such as mine, stage four metastatic melanoma, to fall into the range of 130 and above.

TK Reference Levels_001

The phlebotomist tapped my vein then shipped the crimson specimen in a box packed with ice to Utah where the sample was recorded and tested then flown to Sweden for additional testing.

I waited.

Fear and doubt taunted me daily. Has enough time passed to effect change? To heal the body? To stop the spread of cancer? To make any impact at all? Melanoma is belligerent and it’s not uncommon for healing to occur gradually over many years. What a thrill, I thought, it would have been to receive a number and not be in the high risk category.

I waited for three long weeks for the results until the resolve of my wife’s patience was broken and she contacted the lab for the results.

I was at the office when I received her phone call.

“Are you sitting down?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t normally work at my desk while standing, so yes, I’m sitting down.”

“I talked to the lab and they gave me your number.”

A wave of stress swept over me, my hands were instantly sweaty and my stomach tensed. “What is it?”


I screamed like an adolescent girl.


To find out more about the TK test and determine if it can help you assess your cancer risk factors visit their website:

Unexpected Side-Effects

The adrenaline pumping chaos that ensues each morning as our family endeavors to depart the house punctually leaves little leeway for idle conversation. After my wife hits the snooze button too many times (I am the snooze button), we stumble over each other and hurriedly shower, prep food, juice vegetables, feed growling stomachs, diaper the naked two year old, pack lunches, stuff backpacks, clothe both adults and children then leave, Lord willing, on time.  One morning, however, as I stood in front of the bathroom sink and I swished water between my cheeks to rid myself of the toothpaste residue I noticed my wife had paused in the midst of the bedlam and was checking me out. She leaned casually against the countertop, toothbrush paused mid-stroke and stared at my arms.

“Huh,” she said.


She leaned over and touched my bicep.

“What is it?”

“I think your muscles are getting bigger.”

“Whatever,” I said.

Are they really bigger? I thought.

“No. I’m serious. Your muscles are definitely bigger.”

I stood in front of the mirror and flexed.

I think she’s right. Look at those guns. Definitely bigger. How about the triceps? Yep, looking good.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe a little.”

“No maybe. You’re muscles are definitely bigger.”

“If you say so.”

“Come on, you can’t see it?”

Oh yeah, Bruce, you’re looking buff.

“I suppose they’re maybe a little bit bigger.”

“That makes me sick,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“You haven’t been to the gym in a year and your muscles get bigger without even trying. I wish I could make my muscles grow on command.”

“Hold on a second,” I said and waited a few seconds, “I think they just grew some more.”

This physiological change was noticeable because during the first few months after my diagnosis I lost seventy pounds and much of that weight loss was muscle mass.  As a man who had spent nearly two decades lifting and pressing heavy pieces of iron around the weight room, that erosion was difficult to witness. A metamorphosis took place, seemingly overnight, and my bulky frame withered. Clothes hung like rags across my slender shoulders and the reflection in the mirror appeared to be somebody else.

The joke in our house was about my magical muscles which grew without any concentrated effort on my part. We marveled at the results of my diet and Teri wondered when her muscles would start to get bigger.

“I’m one of God’s favorites,” I joked.

One evening about a week later I returned home from the office and found Teri sitting in front of the computer, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Are you okay? What’s going on?” I asked.

“I’ve been reading a book by Dr. William Kelly.”

“Oh right. One Answer to Cancer. I’ve read part of it.”

“Did you know he has helped over 33,000 people fight cancer using nutritional therapies?”

“Wow, that’s a lot.”

“Let me read you what he wrote,


In almost every case of cancer, particularly those cases of long standing, the protein from the muscles has been used to maintain life. In other words protein metabolism has been so poor that the body had to take protein from the muscles and, to a very great degree, the muscles have been consumed.

After the cancer is destroyed, the muscles begin to rebuild.

My mouth dropped open, eyes widened and I threw my arms to the air in a victory pose.  Teri jumped out of her chair and wrapped her arms around me. Soon tears of joy were falling, dropping from my cheeks onto the top of her head.

Could this explain, at least in part, the physical changes that had transformed my body? Had my body been so starved of nutrients it “ate” my muscles? Does the growth of my muscles signify the healing process is working?

We agreed this was not an official diagnosis merely observations about physiological changes I am undergoing paired with a statement from a book. These words can’t tell us if the tumor that showed on the scans are still there, smaller or gone. They do, however, give us great reason to be optimistic.

In the battle with cancer, however, moments of rejoicing are often too short lived and are quickly overcome by fear and anxiety. Tears of joy succumb to the pressure of the mind to worry about what outrageous “what if” my imagination conjures.  As I near the one year mark from the date of diagnosis I grow increasingly apprehensive about what is lurking behind every sensation that trickles across my skin. Over the course of the past several weeks I’ve experienced constant detox symptoms, which has led to a parade of thoughts marching through my brain.

     “What if the doctors were right and I really did only have twelve months to live? That only gives me a few weeks left.”

     “What if the cancer is silently, and without symptoms, growing?”

     “What if the scratch on my head isn’t just a scratch?”

     “What if the growl in my stomach at noon isn’t just hunger pains?”

     “What if the Dallas Cowboys actually made the playoffs this year?”

Physically I am doing well but the toll of the emotional weight of carrying this fear became obvious to at least two people. Last Thursday, in the span of 24 hours, both my wife and a co-worker pulled me aside to ask me if was doing alright. “You just haven’t been yourself,” they said.

“No, I’m not okay,” I confessed, then fell to pieces.

Fear, it turns out, is perhaps the most vicious side-effect of cancer.

This week marks the one-year anniversary of my thirteen day stay in the hospital and the start of my journey with cancer.  Each day I find myself thinking about what I was doing on that day last year. One year ago Tuesday, the 15th, I learned I was anemic, drove myself to the ER, received a blood transfusion and was checked into the hospital. The next three days I spent enduring tests designed to figure out the source of internal bleeding.  One-year ago this Saturday, the 19th, I was told I had a softball size tumor intersecting my intestines (which caused the anemia) then promptly wheeled into surgery. A few days later test results confirmed what I suspected. Melanoma. The life expectancy of someone with stage IV melanoma, according to the doctors, is eight to twelve months from the date of diagnosis.

Despite all evidence to the contrary that my body is healing (I have the biceps to prove it), my mind is so quickly overcome by fear. I am writing all of this down so that one year from now I can reflect on how silly it was to be afraid. For those who have read my previous updates, you know that I am eternally filled with hope and confidence.

The following passage from Psalm 116 has brought comfort and peace during these past weeks.  Thank you for your continued prayers.

     I love the Lord, for he heard my voice;

     He heard my cry for mercy.

     Because he turned his ear to me,

     I will call on him as long as I live.

     The cords of death entangled me,

     The anguish of the grave came over me;

     I was overcome by distress and sorrow.

     Then I called on the name of the Lord;

     “Lord save me!”

     The Lord is gracious and righteous;

     Our God is full of compassion.

     The Lord protects the unwary;

     When I was brought low, he saved me.

     Return to your rest my soul,

     For the Lord has been good to you.


Operation Hummus

“Sir, is this your bag?”


“I’m going to have to search it.”

The Transportation Security Administration agent stood over my carry-on, an insulated food storage apparatus, and unzipped its compartments.  His thorough inspection uncovered ice packs, apples and paper towels, none of which posed any danger. While suspect, his scrutiny of the broccoli, cauliflower, cucumber and red pepper revealed no security breaches. In the final pocket, however, he uncovered a serious threat to airline security: an unopened container of hummus.

He spun the devious substance slowly in his gloved fingers and analyzed with a foreboding glare. A look of grave concern crossed his face as he read the list of ingredients.

“I’m not certain I can let you through with this,” he said.

“It’s hummus,” I said, hoping the simple description of the contents would quickly resolve the confusion. His expression didn’t change so I added, “It’s not a liquid.”

“But in the form of a paste it is classified with gels like toothpaste.”

“I’m not going to use it to brush my teeth, I’m going to eat it with the vegetables in that bag.”

“We can’t allow gels through security,” he said, unfazed by my impeccable logic. “Peanut butter is similar and we can’t let it through either. If it were frozen it wouldn’t be a problem,” he rapped the lid with his knuckles, “but since it’s not, we’re going to have to confiscate it.”

“He has specific dietary restrictions and we’re not able to buy food from just anywhere. That’s why we had to pack up all our food and bring it with us,” my wife said. She was fired up and ready to fight for our right to bear hummus.

He looked me up and down as if to determine the veracity of the statement. “Let me see what my supervisor says.”

The supervisor was beckoned and with him arrived two other TSA agents, interested to witness the capture of a dreaded hummus smuggler. The container was passed to the supervisor who imitated the inspection of the first agent then declared this highly suspicious mixture of organic garbanzo beans, olive oil and garlic unable to pass the security checkpoint into the sanctuary of the airport.

“He has a medical condition that requires he eat a special diet that we’re not able to buy inside the airport or on the plane.” My wife was on a roll now.

The supervisor looked at me and asked, “Do you have a doctor’s note for this hummus?”

“A doctor’s note? For hummus?”

* * * * *

Besides being irresistibly cute, my wife has an abundance of strengths that complete my weaknesses. The retort to the TSA agent is an example of how her mind whirls at amazing speeds during a confrontation and promulgates rapid and rational responses when a personal injustice is being perpetuated. In the midst of stressful situations it’s her, not me, you want to help dig you out of it quickly. I only bring a couple of assets to the marriage and fast thinking when confronted by an authority figure isn’t one of them.

Her tenacity is also powering our fight for life. Even before I left the hospital she spent hours researching the best ways to confront my situation. The investigation revealed cancer is a symptom, a warning light indicating my immune system was no longer working correctly. The healthiest way to repair what is broken, not merely destroy tumors but fix the underlying problem, is to overdose on nutrition.

Human physiology is majestically designed and, given the right fuel, can fight off an array of illnesses. Research has shown the best source of nutrition needed for the body to repair itself comes from plants. Chlorophyll, found in green vegetables, possesses a cellular structure nearly identical to that of blood. Filling my diet with kale, spinach, broccoli and Brussels sprouts (to name a few) provides nutrients and enzymes that can be readily used.

Plants are also highly alkaline, meaning they raise my pH levels. My body is in constant battle for neutrality. Testing pH is like a seventh-grade science experiment (yes, my dad, the retired seventh-grade science teacher, is proud).  Each day I use litmus paper to measure how diet impacts my alkalinity. The results serve as a kind of thermometer for how my body responds to what I put in my stomach.  Red coloring on the litmus paper designates acidity and a dark green tint indicates I’m neutral. If I don’t eat food that will preserve balance my body becomes acidic and pulls the nutrients it needs from reserves found in bones, organs, muscles and tissues to make up the difference. A vegetable rich diet provides the right ingredients to maintain a neutral level which in turn empowers my immune system to fight off the cancer.

Healing the body of cancer is a long process but eleven months after my diagnosis I feel great and energy abounds. Nutrition is saving my life. While I am thankful to be doing so well, each day brings moments when a peculiar sensation, news story or conversation reminds me of the stakes and the uncertainty of the future. It is the continued encouragement poured out from family and friends through emails, phone calls, cards in the mail and prayers that serve to buttress me and my family as we continue to rebuild my health.

* * * * *

“A doctor’s note? For hummus?” she asked.

“Yes.” He was taking his job seriously.

“No, he doesn’t, but his treatments require organic food which isn’t available in the airport.”

“What’s your condition?” he asked me.

“I have cancer.”

The supervisor’s eyes bulged at the mention of cancer. There was a legitimate and serious reason for my hummus and he suddenly wanted to escape. He realized he wasn’t merely dealing with a problematic traveler who wants security to look the other way while they slip their contraband by their checkpoint. One final time he shook the container of hummus then handed it back to the original TSA agent.

“Test it,” he said. “If it’s negative let it through.”

The lid and freshness seal were pried off. A strip of paper over the gelatinous paste and drops of a chemical applied to the paper before it was inserted into testing machine which would determine the fate of our vegetable dip.  After a few tense seconds the machine beeped and gave the results: negative. The hummus was safe.

Having safely escorted the hummus through the security line the next stop was the pat down where, I hoped, they wouldn’t find the zucchini hidden beneath my shirt.

When the Vows Kick In

Beads of sweat perched on my forehead threatened to trickle down my cheeks as I waited for her entrance. Music swelled to crescendo as the doors opened. Every person in the room rose in anticipation. She walked gracefully down the aisle escorted by her father. Nerves swirling in my stomach fled at the sight of her and I was overcome with joy. She was gorgeous in her wedding dress and I looked moderately handsome despite a funny looking haircut and a tuxedo coat with tails. The ceremony was traditional and, in the grand scheme of weddings, memorable probably only to ourselves and our mothers. A personal touch was added when I interrupted the brief service, a complete surprise to Teri, and performed a song I had written. The song, which hasn’t been sung since, was terribly cheesy but sincere. There are moments when sincerity carries more weight than quality.

Our wedding was laced with traditional symbolism and fancy terminology.  A church sanctuary filled with family and friends watched as we vowed to love and cherish, have and hold despite whatever the future holds, regardless of whether or not that future includes poverty or wealth, sickness or health. These are fine words and we shared them with sincerity, but I doubt either of us truly grasped the meaning.  At the invincible age twenty-one vowing to love each other through times of sickness equated to making a bowl of soup and tucking the other into bed when we had the sniffles.

On the surface vows are merely words written on a piece of paper then spoken and carried on the breath until they dissipate into the air. The factual record of our exchange of vows is embedded on the black ribbon of a VHS tape, tucked into a box to be watched at some point in the future when our children become curious about our wedding day.

Just below the surface it is discovered that vows are poetry. An interplay of lyrics shared between two unique individuals whose lives converged and are convinced that the uncertain future is meaningless unless it is shared with the other.

Dig deeper still and it is revealed that vows rise from the rumblings of the soul as the audible expression of hope.

Our vows have never been tested like they have been this past year, our thirteenth, when I was diagnosed with stage-four melanoma. I spent two weeks in the hospital and even before I was released Teri was leading the fight to keep me alive. She snuck fresh vegetable juice into my room so I wouldn’t have to compound my suffering with cafeteria food. Upon my arrival home she launched into caring for me with complete abandon.  Untold hours were spent researching nutritional therapies, she filled my diet with nutritious vegetables that are healing my body, she shed buckets of tears praying and lost hours of sleep by my side. Nursing a recovering cancer patient is not part of her God-given skill set but she has relentlessly persevered. For the past nine months she has spent an enormous amount of time hunkered over the kitchen counter preparing salads, juicing vegetables and embracing a vegan diet.

All of the cancer therapies we employ share this aim: to overdose the body on nutrition. One of the most efficient ways to accomplish this is to drink lots of freshly made vegetable juice. Vegetables reduced to liquid contain far a greater concentration of nutrients than a person is able physically able to eat in a single sitting. The juice skips the digestion process and nutrients enter the bloodstream as quickly as alcohol and begin the work of replenishing nutritional deficiencies in the body. Having taken in the right fuel, the immune system begins to function correctly which is then able heal the body of disease. One of the foundational cancer healing juice recipes involves carrots.  I don’t claim to understand all of the science, but there the carrot juice attacks the cancer cells, breaking down the outer cell wall so that the immune system can then go in an destroy what is left.

Carrots don’t juice themselves. Teri wakes early each morning to start the process of juicing more than five pounds of carrots (and other vegetables) each morning. In nine months of daily grinding between fifty to sixty ounces of juices I’ve not heard a single complaint. Not one.

When the vows kick in, you don’t even blink. You just do.

Today is our fourteenth anniversary and my wife is still gorgeous and I still have a goofy haircut. Our vows kick in each morning and I am only able to write these words because she saves my life every single day. Were we standing on a stage in a sanctuary in front of family and friends today I wonder what our vows would sound like. Perhaps something like this:

Teri, Repeat after me:

                             I, Teri, take you Bruce,

                             To be my lawfully wedded husband.

                              I will do everything in my power to keep you alive,

                              When everything else is in this world is trying to kill you.

                               I will grind more carrot juice than water in the Mississppi

                                I will pack your lunches full of healing food,

                                Because even under the shadow of cancer,

                                Life spent with you is still better than any other alternative.


                Bruce, repeat after me:

                                I, Bruce, take you Teri

                                To be my lawfully wedded wife

                                Knowing full well

                                You have been, and will forever be

                                Way out of my league.

                                I love you and your carrot juice.


I think I can still fit into my tuxedo!

I think I can still fit into my tuxedo!


Maddox loves to help make the juice

Maddox loves to help make the juice


The Object of the Game

Thrilled to be surrounded by balls

Thrilled to be surrounded by balls

I was five or six years old when my father built a basketball goal, effectively converting our driveway into my personal arena of hoop dreams. He coached me on the rules and techniques of the game: dribbling, shooting, rebounding and use of the backboard. We played games of horse and one-on-one where the winner was the first person to score ten points. From that moment I considered myself an athlete. Like many young children I would eventually test my abilities at several sports but none of them suited me like basketball. Football, they used me as the tackling dummy. Baseball, to this day I will strike out in slow-pitch-softball. Track and Field, they once awarded me a ribbon for good sportsmanship. Swimming, I was assigned a personal lifeguard. Basketball, however, was a perfect fit and I devoted countless hours to the game even into my adult years, participating in basketball leagues and “working on my game” into my 30’s.

I’m a few years away from building a basketball court over the driveway for my sons but it’s never too early to acclimate them to sport-themed paraphernalia. When my youngest turned two a few weeks ago Teri suggested a “ball” themed party. Teri, her parents and Hudson decorated the walls of the house in “ball” stickers and inflated about 50 plastic basketballs, baseballs and soccer balls for party gifts. Maddox has a blast with all of the children running through the house terrorizing each other with the inflatable balls and kicking them into the neighbor’s yard (sorry about that Cesar). After we sang “Happy Birthday” and the candles were blown out I held my son on my lap while he ate his special chocolate vegan truffles and became a little emotional. Overcome with the joy of the moment. Partly because my youngest had officially entered the toddler years, but primarily because in the months leading up to his birthday as I dealt with the realities of my cancer there were moments when I questioned whether or not I would be alive for this moment. From the oncologist’s perspective the prognosis was so grim that I found myself praying, “Lord, please let me make it to see my son turn two.” His birthday had become my goal. It had become the means by which I started keeping score.

My last visit to the oncologist’s office was the most difficult and emotionally debilitating day of my life. I left his office and cried for hours as fear and doubt took the upper hand. Even now, four months later, I find I am still recovering from emotional wound delivered during that appointment. Despite the foreboding medical opinion, however, the visit to the doctor revealed something profound. When he looked at the image of my body on his computer screen and issued his ominous proclamation I discovered there were two cancers I was fighting. One is the melanoma and the other, a much more serious cancer, is fear.
Fear is a cancer whose roots are planted deep into my mind and spirit. Its presence robs my life of joy. Fear and joy are forever at odds and cannot co-exist. Where fear reigns in my mind, joy is nowhere to be found.

Healing the mind of fear, I am learning, is a spiritual and emotional process that requires a different means of keeping score. Initially I tried keeping score by hoping for favorable results when I slid into a PET Scan machine and had the results interpreted by a doctor who provided a prediction about my future. I quickly tired of being told “eight to twelve months” followed by a consoling pat on the shoulder. Fear is not purged with a scan. Technology will never advance past primal fear. Medical machinery will never trump human instinct. Fear cannot be removed on the operating table. The surgeon’s scalpel cuts deeper than flesh and bone. It slices through the mental, emotional and spiritual tendons that make up a whole person and these must be repaired in order to affect recovery.
A different way to keep score had to be found. A method that doesn’t rely on a prognosis but takes into account the state of my mind. I had to find a way to measure joy. This is how I do it. Each day I ask myself a simple question, “Am I able to greet the morning with joy, thanking God for the day and possessing the ability to spend time with family and friends?” If I can answer that question, “Yes!” then I am winning. When I score what is truly important I find it is possible to win regardless of what happens with the melanoma.

Will I ever drag myself back to oncologist’s office for another scan? I can’t say for certain. In many ways I feel like my five-year-old self again, learning the rules of a game for the first time. I’ve traded the basketball, backboard and driveway for faith, nutrition and the discipline of a daily routine. And the object of the game isn’t to score the most points or have the most scans done, but to live each day with the most joy.


• Teri and I are so thankful your constant encouragement and participation in our journey. You are a source of joy for us and we love hearing from you.
• Our experiences and research over the past eight months have taught us so much about health, nutrition, eating, and treasuring life. We are eager to share our experiences and learn from your experiences as well. To that end Teri and I are going to host people in our home semi-regularly to impart some of what we have learned and further participate with you in this journey. If you are interested in joining us, please let us know and we will add you to the invitation list.
• I am going to be posting these emails and, from time to time, other curious essays on the website Please feel free to stop by for a visit and subscribe to have the posts sent to your inbox.

Paws off the vegan chocolate birthday truffles!

Paws off the vegan chocolate birthday truffles!

Conversations with 4-Year-Olds

One recent morning as I drove the boys to their school and day care the following conversation took place.

Hudson started commute singing “Jesus Loves Me” at the top of his lungs. After the song ends he says…

Hudson: Daddy, when can I go with you to your work?

Daddy: You want to go to work with me?

H: Yeah, I’ve never been to your work.

D: We can arrange for you to go with me to work someday.

H: I’ll have to think about what snack to take.

D: Yes, that’s important.

H: Maybe we can take red pepper

D: I like red pepper, too.

H: Yeah, I like it too.  A lot.  I don’t know how God is changing me to like red pepper.

D: God changes us a lot of ways.  He changes our hearts and sometimes he changes our taste buds.

H: He’s changing me to like red pepper, but I don’t know how he’s doing it.

D: That’s a mystery.

H: That IS a mystery.

Maddox starts singing Jesus loves me.  The words are almost entirely syllabic grunts, but the melody is there.

H: Hey daddy, Maddox is singing.

D: He sure is.

Hudson joins in singing and they are howling, at the top of their lungs, a duet of “Jesus Love Me” until we turn into the school parking lot.

H: On no. We’re late today.

D: Yeah, we’re a few minutes late.

H: It’s probably because I was racing my cars instead of getting ready.

D: That’s one of the reasons.

As Hudson is getting out of the car…

H: Maddox is going to cry when I leave.  He’s really going to miss me.

D: He will miss you, but then he’ll be happy to see you again this afternoon.

H: Yeah, he will.

D: Have a good day at school, buddy.

H: Bye daddy.  Tell Maddox it’s okay and I’ll see him later.

The Race is Not to the Swift

Hudson and me at the race

Hudson and me at the race


“3. 2. 1. Go!”

Hudson, my 4-year-old, sprinted across the starting line, weaving among the moving forest of legs. The throng thinned and he sped by walkers and stroller pushers. He yelled over his shoulder, “Look at all the people I’m passing.”

My announcement earlier in the week that the family was going to participate in the Sudan Goat Race 5K and Family Mile was still hanging in the air when Hudson said, “I’m going to beat you.” For three days all I heard from him was variations of the same piece of trash talk, “I’m going to beat you so bad,” “I’m going to leave you in the dust,” and “It’s okay daddy, I still love you even though you’re slow.”  The kid loves to race.  Sadly, he is burdened with my DNA, so the chances of him winning an actual race are slim.

Determined not to let me lead, Hudson jumped back-and-forth in front of my feet during the opening steep-downhill portion of the race. I dodged side-to-side to avoid trampling him under my size thirteen shoes.  We had run just half-way down the hill when he tripped and fell face-first onto the pavement.

I quickly lifted him out of the way of the oncoming mob



Kisses on scraped knees.

“Do you want to keep running or ride in the stroller?” I asked.

Wiping away tears he mumbled, “Ride.”

Teri strapped him into the stroller and walked the family down the hill and onto flat road. Hudson’s friends were running all around the stroller and as we turned to loop back to the finish line he yelled with excitement, “I want to race, daddy.”

“You’re feeling better now?”

“Yeah, and I’m going to leave you in the dust.” He jumped to the ground and his little legs churned as fast as possible among the crowd of racing children and patient parents.

The road back to the finish line transformed the steep downhill section into a sharp uphill run. While it is easier for a 4-year-old to maintain balance going uphill, the incline also exhausts his little legs. His breathing became belabored and just halfway up he stopped directly in my path, “Daddy, can you carry me?”

That was a fantastic question. 

Seven months prior to the race I was reduced to a crippled mass of flesh and bones after a thirteen day stay in the hospital where a surgeon removed a softball sized tumor and four feet of small intestine. By the time I was discharged the “Cancer Team,” comprised of family and friends across the nation, had been working around the clock to jump start our knowledge of the healing processes.  When the car pulled into the driveway, delivering me home for the first time since checking myself into the emergency room, the nutritional cancer therapies began immediately: a vegan diet, constant juicing, nutritional shakes, the Budwig protocol. Additionally I devoting extended periods of time to meditation and prayer and went on walks as far as my body could endure, which during the first couple of weeks getting to the mailbox was monumental.

The thing about nutritional cancer therapies is that they are rooted in eating organic food, are therefore non-toxic and won’t cause my hair to fall out, induce uncontrollable nausea and vomiting, steal my ability to taste or deaden my nerves.  As my body works to rid itself of the disease, the detoxification side effects I experience manifest in the form of minor rashes, “traveling pains”  (momentary pains that appear in one part of my body before subsiding and moving on to the next), occasional dizziness and intermittent fatigue. One of our primary goals is to repair my liver (whose role in the body is to detoxify) so it can function at peak efficiency and eliminate toxins. Every four to five weeks the cells that make up the liver are renewed. Restoration of a damaged liver to health can take twelve to fifteen generations of new cells, about eighteen months.  Dr. Max Gerson, creator of one of the leading nutritional cancer therapies once said,

“The cells in the body are constantly being replaced with new ones. Within the span of 18 months a bad defective liver, if given the correct fuel, can grow a new liver by virtue of replacing the defective cells with fresh cells. The key is giving the body the right nutrients, ingredients for the recipe. Someone who has spent a lifetime throwing the wrong ingredients into the body with the result of defective organs, plagued with cancer, cannot, in the manner of a mere few weeks or months, replace all of their cells with healthy ones. It is possible for that person’s bodily functions to begin to operate correctly immediately after the introduction of correct nutrients. The old liver still functions as a liver, not as a rusty metal can.”

There is a long way to go before the “rust” is cleaned out of my body. Most of the time, however, I feel very good. This past weekend, in fact, I managed to sneak in an hour at the gym and my muscles were sore after lifting thirty-pound weights (I used to workout with 100-pound weights), and I was exhausted after twenty minutes alone on the racquetball court.  From time-to-time I can even challenge my son to a race.


He asked me a second time, “Daddy, can you carry me?”

I stood in the road quietly deliberating whether or not my body could make the trek up the hill carrying a squirmy forty-pound load.

“Daddy.” He was getting whinny now.

“You bet buddy.”  I swept him off the ground and set him on my shoulders. Together we marched to the top of the steep hill towards the finish line.  At the summit I set him on the ground and the race resumed. For the remaining 200 feet he zigged and zagged to stay in front so I couldn’t win. The race MC announced, “Here comes Hudson Briggs just edging out his father.”  I lifted him high in the air and said, “You won buddy!”

Hudson looked around, a bewildered look on his face, and asked, “Where’s my trophy.”


We are so thankful to God for the love and generosity you have shown us.  Each week we are buoyed by an encouraging note in the mail, a delivery of groceries, an unexpected financial gift, or an offer to watch the kids for an evening. The battle with cancer is a full-time job and a full-time paycheck and most weeks it takes more than Teri and I can give. We have tried as best as possible amidst the chaos to thank everyone personally, but some of the gifts have been anonymous and sometimes we simply lose track.  I wanted to say thank you to everyone who shared in our struggles.  You are saving my life.

Lastly, every day we deal with challenges related to cancer and the subject is never far from our minds.  Here are a few of the topics of constant conversation at the Briggs house. Please keep us in your prayers.

  • We continue to research and consult with experts and there are many scientifically backed opinions as to determine how to address my cancer. We need wisdom and discernment to know what to adopt and what not to adopt.
  • Daily Teri and I wrestle with finding balance between the protocols, work, the kids, time together, and getting the rest needed for healing.
  • Last week we had a consultation with an expert who analyzed drops of my blood under a microscope. The results showed areas of my health that need improvement, naturally, but the results also revealed that I have “strong blood,” “there is good constitution,” and, “I’m not far from where I need to be.”  We are very encouraged to have some scientific data that indicates healing is happening.
  • Hudson and Maddox, now 4 and 2, are resilient kids and are adapting to our regime without complaint. They are particularly fans of the spinach, kale, banana, peach and blueberry smoothies.


The boys and me at an Easter Egg Hunt

The boys and me at an Easter Egg Hunt