Today was the fifth anniversary of my diagnosis of prostate cancer. On January 8th, 2024, I will be passing the fifth anniversary of my stage-4b metastatic prostate cancer diagnosis.

Five years ago, I received a call from my urologist on Monday, August 13th, 2018. He informed me that the biopsies had returned, revealing Gleason-7 (4/3), moderately aggressive cancer. He then added that my type of cancer was four times more likely to kill me than Gleason-6 cancer. As I’ve written before, I awoke that first night at 4:00 AM to the thought, “I have cancer,” words that hit me with such shock—and loneliness.

When I first met my oncologist, Dr. Heather Cheng, at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, I asked her about stage-4b metastatic prostate cancer prognosis. She said she could tell me a figure—but she was almost always wrong. Some people live longer; others live shorter. Then she told me about five years.

Upon returning home, I went to Google search looking for credible scientific articles on Gleason-7 (4/3) cancer. As has been the case most of the other times—when I was determined to research some new aspects of my diagnoses—I discovered information I wish I didn’t know. Only about twenty-five percent of men make it to the five-year benchmark. So, today was a day of celebration—one of the few times in the last five years when I have been on the good side of statistics.

Last week on Thursday, August 3rd, Nancy drove me to Fred Hutch Cancer Center in Seattle for my three-month appointment. The nurse placed an I.V. in my right arm and drew blood for labs. When I met with my oncology nurse practitioner, Michael Lai, he informed me that my PSA was again undetectable and that all my labs were normal. Nancy and I are grateful for another three-month slice of life! Another statistic climbed the stairs from the basement of my brain, one of those unwanted facts I wished I hadn’t learned when researching hormone deprivation therapy: the average efficacy of the treatment was about thirteen months. The therapy has been successful for me, going on five years, with my PSA undetectable for thirty-nine months! I am grateful to the one who holds my life in His hands!

The day before, on August 2nd, Nancy had driven me to Silverdale for an appointment with my cardiologist, Dr. John Banzer. After hearing about my recent bouts of angina and my July 12th trip to the emergency room in Seattle while ironically attending an appointment at the University of Washington Pain Clinic, he again increased my heart meds. I asked him why I am retaining so much water on my legs and ankles. “Do I have congestive heart failure?” “No,” he responded. He then explained that the pulmonary embolisms—too numerous to count—which I had in August of 2021, had damaged my lungs. My heart must work harder to get my blood oxygenated because of the damage to my air sacks, not being able to clear all of the water from my system. The condition is called pulmonary hypertension—high blood pressure in the lungs’ arteries. Furthermore, he intimated that the Covid-19 related bacterial and viral pneumonia had likely further damaged my lungs. I am now taking a water pill, Lasix, every day.

As I think back over the past five years since that initial cancer diagnosis—which came with such shock—living through one setback after another, I am thankful for God’s powerful grace and His gracious power. I have been well beyond the end of my rope throughout these setbacks—but never at the end of God’s rope! I asked Him, “Why?” His answer borne to me on the wind of the Spirit, “Grant, I love you! Just trust me!” Yet, in being beyond the end of my rope so many times, I have also at times been beyond the reach of my faith and trust. Yet, I have never been beyond the faith and trust of Jesus. I have lived on borrowed trust, borrowed faith.

Having emptied Himself of the privileges of His deity, Jesus lived a very human life, worn out after a long morning’s journey sitting at the well in Samaria or sleeping through a severe storm on the Sea of Galilee. What kind of faith and trust in His Heavenly Father did Jesus have when He sweat drops like blood in Gethsemane or when the Roman soldiers nailed His hands and feet to a blood-stained cross? What kind of faith did Jesus have when He cried out with a loud voice, “It is finished,” bowing His head, and then giving up His Spirit—trusting that in the mystery of the Trinity, God the Father would raise Him from the dead in three days?

I have learned frailty and weakness in these five years; I have also learned in this free fall of a terminal cancer diagnosis, long since letting go of the rope, that Jesus always has a hold on me! I place my trust in His faith, which took Him to the cross. He is my best friend! He is my everything! Echoing Mamma’s words recorded on a cassette tape just three weeks before she died, “And I have nothing but to praise Him for.” I concur! He is my everything!