Watching four of my grandchildren at the beach. These are the moments that matter.
(9-5-26) Today I Turn 75
I have reached an age when I am supposed to have figured out some important life lessons.
Much of what I have learned is what others before me already discovered. At my age, time becomes more valuable than money, assuming you have enough to live on. Being with family and friends matters more than time spent working. Experiences become more valuable than possessions.
My friends remind me that I already have outlived family members and many of my colleagues. That is true, but it does little to comfort you when you have been diagnosed with Stage Four lung cancer. All of us are on the same path, but those of us with a cancer diagnosis are perhaps more aware than others that the journey is nearing an end.
The clinical studies of Alecensa, the drug that is keeping my cancer in remission, found that a significant percentage of patients live five years or more before the cancer eventually outsmarts the treatment. It has been two years and nine months since my diagnosis. I will reach the five-year mark in 822 days.
822 days.
Less than ten years ago, patients with my diagnosis were lucky to survive six months. New treatments radically changed those timelines and new drugs are continuing to be developed. Hope is not denial. It is what allows me to sleep through restless nights.
My age and my diagnosis have taught me to see truths that were always there but never seemed particularly relevant. Ordinary things become more beautiful when you realize you will not have them forever. The lyrics of Tim McGraw’s Live Like You Were Dying ring truer. After my diagnosis, I went Skydiving.
Now: a Zoom call with my college buddies or two of my best friends from my Washington Post days. Texting each day with my brother, George. A morning sunrise at a Nags Head beach with family and friends. Listening at night to the silence while my wife, Patti, sleeps peacefully beside me.
These are no longer ordinary moments.
They have become the moments.
Your Outlook Changes
Everyday annoyances seem less significant. I don’t have time to waste arguing over trivia or trying to win disputes that don’t matter. There is peace in accepting that some problems I will never be able to resolve and some relationships I will never be able to repair. I am trying to accept the wisdom of the Serenity Prayer.
I think about people who have hurt me. And I have forgiven them— or at least I am trying – even people who might be shocked to discover that I think they needed to be forgiven.
Forgiving others is easier than forgiving yourself.
Things I said that didn’t need to be said. Pain and hurt feelings that I caused, intentionally or by accident. I remind myself that the past is the past. I cannot undo what I have done. All I can do is learn from those incidents and decide what to do with the time that remains.
Cancer makes it difficult to not linger on the negative. My greatest sadness is not because I will eventually die. It is leaving Patti behind.
I am, and always have been, deeply in love with my wife. She was a widow when we met. I had just ended a troubled marriage. Our experiences gave us a deep appreciation for the second-chance love we found in each other.
We rarely miss lunch or dinner together. Our friends joke that we come as a team.
Patti and Pete.
Pete and Patti.
I know she is strong. She will go on. But she already lost her first husband to cancer, and I feel tremendous guilt about putting her through what comes with my diagnosis.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
I never smoked. There is no history of cancer in my family. But it is the uncertainty and unexpected events that come with life and how we handle them that define who we are. That sounds like a Hallmark card. I think it might be. But it’s also true. I can’t deny my illness. I can refuse to let it define me.
There is one advantage to having cancer at 75.
I now have the ultimate excuse: the cancer card.
“Thanks for the invitation, but I can’t attend. I have cancer.”
No one questions it. There is no need for further explanation.
My Legacy
I hope my work as a journalist, author and mental health advocate has had a positive impact. Like everyone else, I would like to be remembered for my work. But books go out of print. Stories disappear into archives. Names become less familiar.
As a writer, I have met hundreds of influential people—heroes and scoundrels. All believed their lives mattered. Attend a Washington funeral and, after the obligatory tributes, before the valet can even fetch your car, the conversation has shifted to who will fill the void.
Who is important now? Andy Warhol was right.
My legacy will not be a memoir or a Wikipedia page.
It will be found in the memories of those whom I have loved and those who have loved me.
What Comes Next
Deeply religious friends find comfort in their belief in heaven and an afterlife. I will be delighted if death turns out not to be an ending but the beginning of another journey.
But if death is simply death, I won’t know it.
I am not afraid of death. I am more afraid of the indignities that can come with growing old—indignities I witnessed while helping my own parents near the ends of their lives.
And so, I am 75.
What is my birthday wish? I wish to spend whatever time I have left not fretting about how much time I might have left. I will focus on the moments. I will go hiking as long as I am able. I will linger over lunch with friends. I will play in my monthly poker game. I will call long-time friends who live far away. I will drive my 1967 Austin Healey. I will laugh with my adult children and rejoice in their successes. I will play with my grandchildren and watch them grow.
And I will spend my time lying beside the woman whom I have loved for 30 years, listening to her breathe.
I will tell her every day that I love her.
I am blessed she married me.
What have I learned?
Maybe it is this: a rewarding life isn’t necessarily measured by how long you live. It is measured by how fully you pay attention to the life you have and the people whom you love.
Tomorrow is not promised.
Today is a gift.
I am turning 75.
And I am happy and grateful for it.
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