I was winding down a career of flying jets in the US Navy and preparing for civilian life when my world was flipped upside down. My symptoms were nearly unnoticeable: occasional blood spots on toilet paper, a slight increase in fatigue during Peloton rides, and infrequent increases in bowel movements I attributed to my fondness for tasty IPAs. With no family history, I only mentioned the blood to my flight doctor and would have waited had I not been preparing to retire. Military aviators have a history of health care avoidance out of fear of losing their flying status and associated monthly flight pay. Although I have logged over 2,000 hours, including 100+ combat missions, the system is set up to penalize aviators for being open and honest about their health status. I previously experienced two flight pay suspensions in my career due to injuries that were both stressful and a financial burden.
This time was different. Preparing for military retirement means documenting EVERYTHING for the VA disability claim. Reporting my symptoms resulted in a virtual consult with a gastroenterologist who prescribed a hemorrhoid cream, but I would have to wait five months for my colonoscopy.

Immediately following the colonoscopy, I texted the results to my close friends, a radiologist married to an oncologist. Their reaction revealed the gravity of the situation, but their advice was invaluable. I received the official diagnosis two weeks later while driving in the car alone. I already knew, but it was still a total gut punch. I felt alone and afraid to share the news with anyone else and dreaded telling my parents and my kids. But I made a promise to myself and those I love to throw everything I have into this fight and commit to aggressive healing. In fighter aviation, every engagement begins with “Fight’s On” and ends with “Terminate” or “Knock it Off.” I called Fight’s On after diagnosis, but I will never Knock it Off.

I love a quote from Stuart Scott: “You beat cancer by how you live, why you live, and in the manner in which you live.” I carried that throughout treatment, which resulted in so many more fond memories than the misery that chemo, radiation, and surgery had in store.
My aggressive healing is unending and continues today with yoga, breath work, journaling, gratitude, plant medicine, music, sports, trying new things, family time, broadening my network of amazing people, sharing my story, and so much more. Every lap around the sun brings a more profound sense of gratitude, perspective, and the opportunity to help others.