Chapter 3 - The Project of My Life

As a strongly introverted Enneagram Type Five and Myers-Briggs INTJ, my personality is wired to gather information.

This is a polite way of saying that when something happens, I want to understand it, categorize it, compare the options, identify the risks, and build a spreadsheet.

It also means I am often more comfortable observing than participating. I can remain emotionally detached while I analyze a problem, which is useful when solving complicated issues and less useful when the problem is happening inside my own body.

Throughout my career, I worked on significant projects, including helping build a medical school from scratch in Northern Ontario. Projects like that require a clear goal, a strong plan, and the right people working in their areas of expertise.

No one person builds a medical school alone.

No one person treats AML alone either.

Leukemia became the most significant project of my life.

Literally.

I had not volunteered for it. I had not submitted a proposal. There had been no consultation process, no opportunity to suggest a later start date, and no option to decline because the timing was inconvenient.

Nevertheless, the project had begun.

The Medical Team

The team at Juravinski Cancer Centre became the medical core of the project. Although I had landed there because it was the closest appropriate centre, I later told them that, given the choice, I would still have chosen them.

They were that good.

They were thorough without being cold. They explained things without pretending every answer was certain. They paid attention to small changes and knew the difference between a symptom that needed watching and one requiring immediate action.

A patient can become overwhelmed by every new number, rash, fever, ache, or question. The medical team holds the larger picture while the patient focuses on the latest detail.

I learned to ask questions while respecting expertise.

I was an important member of the team, but I was not the hematologist.

That was probably best for everyone.

The Mountain Crew

Leslie and my immediate family formed another essential part of the team. Around them were friends, church family, former colleagues, neighbours, and people from earlier chapters of life.

The broadest group became my Cheering Squad, which I regularly updated on Facebook.

They sent messages, brought meals, offered rides, shared jokes, and checked in without demanding a response. Some prayed. Some did not but offered their own form of presence.

The Mountain Crew was smaller.

I needed a group of people to whom I could rope myself—a place where trust was high enough that I could speak without performing strength.

A public update could say:

“The treatment is going well, although I am tired.”

The Mountain Crew could hear:

“I am frightened, angry, exhausted, and not sure I have the strength to do this today.”

The difference mattered.

I did not need to perform strength for them.

I could admit when I was struggling. I could ask questions that sounded repetitive. I could talk about fear without immediately softening it for the comfort of everyone else.

They did not solve the cancer.

They helped me carry the day.

First Family Visit

I had gone into the hospital on July 5^th. On July 12^th Leslie, our kids, their partners, and our grandkids came through the door of my room… all masked up and sterilized.

There was air hugs and happiness.

There was also a t-shirt for myself and my oldest son, who was going through some health challenges.

The shirt was forest green with a single word “Persevere” across the front.

That would be our motto for the next part of the journey.

The Treatment Plan

The doctors considered me to be in a favourable group for treatment. My heart and other organs were healthy, which was useful because the treatment was not exactly a spa package.

The induction regimen was called 7 + 3.

I might lose energy, hair, and a bit of dignity along the way, but the care team was moving carefully and with purpose.

So far, so good.

What I did not say out loud very much was how quickly my inner control panel had started flashing like the nuclear dashboard in a disaster movie.

I was accustomed to solving problems, gathering information, making plans, and finding the next useful thing to do. Suddenly, the most useful thing I could do was lie in a hospital bed and let other people do their jobs.

That sounds simple unless you happen to be me.

Then it feels like being asked to sit quietly while someone else drives your car through a snowstorm.

It involved three days of one chemotherapy drug and seven days of another, followed by a long period of waiting for my bone marrow and blood counts to recover.

The medical team examined my heart, thyroid, prostate, bones, lesions, and anything else that might affect the plan.

The tests were not all pleasant.

The waiting was not all pleasant.

The language was not always familiar.

But the thoroughness was reassuring.

They were not guessing.

Surrender and Participation

My normal response to uncertainty was to gather more information and develop a more detailed plan. But no amount of information could restore control.

I could learn what induction chemotherapy was intended to do. I could ask about side effects, blood counts, transfusions, and treatment schedules.

I could not command my body to respond.

I could not negotiate with leukemia.

I could not schedule recovery for a convenient date.

At some point, knowledge had to become trust.

Before treatment began, I took one last walk and watched the sun rise. Psalm 23 took on new meaning. I knew I was entering a dark and uncomfortable valley, but I also knew I was not alone. I could sense the presence of Jesus.  Leslie, my children, my grandchildren, my friends, and my prayer community surrounded me.

Fear was present, but it did not have the final word.

I felt what Scripture calls the peace that passes understanding. That peace did not require me to believe everything would unfold exactly as I wanted. It required me to believe I would not be abandoned if it did not.

Surrender was not the same as giving up.

Giving up would have meant abandoning hope or refusing the work required of me.

Surrender meant recognizing the limits of my control while still doing what belonged to me: reporting symptoms, following instructions, taking medication, drinking fluids, asking questions, and calling when something changed.

I was not responsible for making treatment succeed through force of personality.

That was a relief.