“It's malignant and it needs to come out.”

Those words, bluntly spoken by a gastroenterologist on the morning of Nov. 30, twisted my perspective on life. I was just coming off the worst year of my life (impending divorce — friendly, but unwanted by me). Note to self: time to redefine "worst."

I had grand plans for the future:

• Lots of time in Longview, Texas, watching Nate, 20, play first base for the LeTourneau University Yellow Jackets. He'd had a magical season the spring before, but I'd seen very few games. This year, he was out of the dorms and with a couch available in his living room, the cost of visiting dropped dramatically. And maybe I could work a little magic on his dumpy but cheap apartment.
• Couple trips to Europe to visit Amanda, 22, who was living abroad for a year as an au pair for a family just outside London. I hadn't seen her since August and was planning a February visit where we'd make a trip to Paris. Then in June, when she finished her tour of duty, we were going to spend a few weeks traveling Europe. I'd expected her to do some traveling while she was abroad; I expected her to do it was some new-found friends. I was touched that she wanted to see the world with me. Nate had been invited to play baseball for a week in Holland; maybe we could meet there.
  
• And the immediate future included a holiday trip to Cleveland to visit family and make a couple side trips (weather permitting) to DC and NY. Baby Girl was coming back to the US for three weeks.
• Sell the family home and start my new life in my own place.
  

John Lennon said: “Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.” Who knew he could so succinctly sum up my life in a line from "Beautiful Boy" http://videosift.com/video/John-Lennon-Beautiful-Boy. (The line is toward the end for anyone who cares to listen.) The song was written about his son Sean as Lennon reflected on the child's life thus far and contemplated their future. Lennon's life, of course, was tragically cut short while he was busy making other plans. What a prophecy; I hope it won't be mine.

Back to the morning of Nov. 30. I had just undergone a "routine" colonoscopy. I was signing release papers and salivating over my first solid food in 30-plus hours. The gastroenterologist asked me to step into a side room. It was dimly lit, cramped, filled with assorted computers, desks and office materials ... there may have even been a worker at one of the computers. The doctor motioned to a monitor where in wonderous full color were assorted pictures of the inside of my colon (not my best side, but it was squeaky clean!). He pointed to a photo: "It's malignant and it needs to come out." No, "Please sit down ..." No, "Sorry to have to tell you this ..." Just, "It's malignant and it needs to come out."

I sank uninvited into a chair and scrounged around for my voice, "You can tell that from a picture?" He replied, "Well, even if it's not, it needs to come out." Go home. Rest up. Go see your primary care doctor tomorrow. Dismissed!

My poor friend Denise, whom I'd bribed into taking me to my colonoscopy appointment with the promise of breakfast afterward. (For decades, my soon-to-be ex had been my go-to guy for medical/dental anesthesia-involved "chauffeur" needs. With this appointment I'd taken a step in breaking that reliance.) Refusing a wheel chair, I walked to Denise's car and got in. My mind was racing: Tell her? Wait until I'd told "family"? The moment she spoke, my decision was made: "I have colon cancer," I blurted, redefining "family" to include new-found friends. We mourned, we cursed, we had breakfast. What we didn't have were tears.

A former neighbor and dear long-distance friend Kristy had given me a self-help book for my birthday titled: "Me Five Years From Now." At the time, the upheaval I was dealing with was divorce. With the latest wrinkle in my life, I think I'll start calling it: "Be Five Years From Now."

Stay tuned!