I was 13 when all of this started for the first time.
Before that, life was normal. Other people got sick.
But not me.
I wanted to play basketball in high school. Maybe college.
I wanted to do everything.
In my heart of hearts, I felt fearless.
Then I got a cough that wouldn't go away.
I was supposed to go to my aunt's lake house. My mom wanted to stop at the doctor first and get me some stronger cough medicine.
No big deal. They ran bloodwork. Then a chest X-ray.
Then they saw something they didn't understand. The weekend lake trip was canceled. Mostly, I was annoyed. I still assumed this was going to be a blip in my summer plans, just like any average teenager would.
The next day I saw a specialist. But he didn't know what was happening either. Then he said they wanted to rule something out: Cancer.
That one word changed everything. Until then, I hadn't really been afraid.
But now, a potential reality sank in: Maybe this was shaping into being more than a hiccup in my summer plans.
That potential reality turned into truth – years of doctors, specialists, tests, and procedures.
I missed a lot of school. For a period of time, my mom and I lived in Omaha while I received care.
My teachers helped me keep up with school from a distance. And my doctors tried everything within their power. I kept hoping one of them would work and I'd get back to normal.
Four words summarized it all: It didn't seem fair.
I didn't understand why it was happening to me. But somehow I never became bitter.
Eventually, when I was 16, the doctors told us we had exhausted our options. I needed a liver transplant.
I wish I could tell you I responded with some profound thought about life and death. But I didn't.
I was more concerned about the scar I would wear across my chest from that moment forward. A mark. A reminder. A differentiator.
I didn't want to take my shirt off at the pool and have everyone see that I was different. I just wanted to be normal.
Then the call came. They had a liver for me. After years of waiting and wondering, there was an answer. I remember it almost feeling like Christmas morning.
The next hours became a game of hurry up and wait: I sped home to grab my bag before rushing to the airport. Then, I waited for the jet. It arrived, and I flew to St. Louis. The ambulance drove me from the tarmac to St. Louis Children's Hospital.
And again, I waited a little more for the procedure to begin.
At 16, the question was whether I was going to get the chance to live the life I imagined.
I did. I got twenty-three more years. I got a wife. Three kids. A career. Thousands of ordinary mornings including coffee, breakfast, and workouts. Dinner around the table.
It became a life normal enough that eventually I stopped thinking very much about the fact that I had almost never gotten it.
Then, twenty-three years later, I was back in a hospital bed. Except I wasn't the kid anymore. I was the husband. I was the dad.
And the question wasn't only: How much more life am I going to get?
It was: What am I going to do with the life I still have?
Then be that dad.