Strength Beneath the Surface
Living Valiantly with an Invisible Battle
What does it mean to be valiant and invincible when your body is filled with cancer, yet your outward appearance looks impeccable? To the world, I look well…vibrant, composed, capable. There’s no sign that I carry a silent killer within. If not for the miracles of science and medicine, I would never know what lies beneath my skin, plotting in silence.
I am filled with gratitude for the care I’ve received and for the knowledge that allows me to make informed choices, choices that will enable me to face, with resolve, a word so many dread: C-A-N-C-E-R.
It reminds me of the chronic pain I live with from the automobile accident I experienced eight years ago; pain doesn’t always show itself. Pain that hides beneath my well-pressed clothes and polite smile. My spine and neck—fraught with anguish—keep me up at night and make the hours of the day a quiet battle. Still, I press forward. I put on a happy face. I suffer in silence because, if I’m honest, who would care? The world prefers the illusion, and I am the stalwart captain of my destiny.
Thankfully, over-the-counter relief and Minnesota’s cannabis program help me sleep. They help me put in a day’s work without collapsing in pain. By the time I’m home, the illusion begins to crack, but even then, I persist. I’ve come to understand that disability is not always visible. Like wealth and poverty, it can be easily hidden. Unless it is made verbal, pain and disease often remain invisible to others. But I see it. I feel it. And yet, I persevere.
I am thankful—for my gifts, for my inner strength, and for the community around me. I know I have people I can lean on. Because of that, I can focus my energy not on fear, but on what comes next.
What Comes Next
On August 20, I will return to Mayo Clinic for more testing. My medical team has advised me to rest for several days afterward; I will be tired, they say, and I trust their guidance.
Then, on September 3, I will undergo a robotic-assisted radical prostatectomy, a surgery to remove the prostate gland and seminal vesicles. This procedure is typically recommended for patients in good health with a life expectancy of at least 10 years. There are different methods—open, laparoscopic, and robotic—and I am fortunate to have access to the Da Vinci robotic system, which provides the benefits of reduced blood loss, fewer complications, and quicker recovery.
The surgery will also involve removing nearby lymph nodes to check for cancer spread. As with any operation, there are risks: bleeding, infection, and potential damage to adjacent organs or tissues. But these risks are measured against the hope of a longer, healthier future.
Common side effects include urinary incontinence and erectile dysfunction—conditions that often improve over time. My surgeon, Dr. Matthew Tollefson, will use nerve-sparing techniques where possible to minimize long-term impact, provided the cancer hasn’t spread into those areas.
The prostate itself, about the size of a walnut, sits at the neck of the bladder and wraps around the urethra. It is part muscle, part gland, and plays an important role in sexual and urinary function. During climax, it contributes to the semen that carries sperm. Over time, it commonly enlarges, and many men—regardless of cancer—experience some kind of prostate issue.
According to the American Cancer Society, prostate cancer is the most common cancer in men over 50, and it is the third leading cause of cancer-related death. I count myself fortunate that my cancer was found early.
The Surgical Journey
My surgery will use the most advanced tools: a 3D endoscope, miniaturized robotic instruments, and a high-definition console that allows the surgeon to operate with precision beyond the capacity of human hands. Several keyhole incisions will be made in my abdomen. The prostate will be removed through one of those incisions.
Compared to open surgery, this robotic method minimizes trauma. I will stay in the hospital for one night. If all goes well, I’ll return home the following day to begin my recovery. For the first week (or more), I’ll have a catheter…that alone will take some adjustment. They tell me to expect 8 weeks before resuming a semblance of normal life—and 12 to 18 months before full recovery is likely.
Quiet Bravery
This process has made one truth abundantly clear: we never know what others are carrying. Pain, illness, fear, grief—they do not always have visible markers. I walk through my days with a smile, and many would say I look the picture of good health. And yet, beneath the skin, darkness in the form of cancer stirs.
There is something valiant about living through that without spectacle. Something invincible about rising each morning to live your life anyway. I don’t share my story for sympathy, but for connection, for understanding, for visibility, for anyone else walking this path in silence.
You are not alone. And neither am I.
What lies beneath the skin cannot always be seen, but it is no less real. Cancer, pain, fatigue, grief…they do not announce themselves. They often dwell in silence, behind strong eyes and steady hands. I have learned that strength is not the absence of suffering, but the choice to carry on in the midst of it.
To live with cancer—and with chronic pain—is to become fluent in ambiguity: feeling grateful and afraid, strong and vulnerable, all at once. I don’t always share what I’m going through. Not because I am ashamed, but because I have grown used to holding things close, protecting my energy for the road ahead.
But I also know that healing does not happen in isolation. I am buoyed by the care of my medical team, the compassion of those around me, and the internal resolve that whispers: you are still here, keep going.
This journey is far from over. But I do not walk it alone. With each step, I honor the life I have been given—not in spite of the pain, but with it. And that, I believe, is what it means to be valiant. Not to appear unbreakable, but to continue forward, heart open, even while healing in silence.