How Cancer Made Me Stronger

By Councilman Albus Brooks

Two years ago cancer showed up in my body. Experts diagnosed it as a rare form of cancer called chondrosarcoma. I had surgery to remove the 15-pound tumor that had been growing in my body, and a short time later my family and I celebrated the news that I was cancer free. I was proud to call myself a survivor of cancer. I returned to work, serving the people of Denver, with a renewed perspective.

Cancer, it seems, was not done teaching me its lessons. Late last month I was notified by my oncologist that a smaller tumor had reappeared. Waves of emotions crashed over me, as I had heard from many cancer survivors that the second time is usually much tougher.

My appointment was quickly set for May 1st, with a similar procedure to my first surgery — a 10-inch incision on my stomach to remove the tumor. Because I had been in this position before, I promised myself that I wouldn’t try to rush through surgery and that I would take time to pause and listen. It is one of my core beliefs that the truths we learn from adversity help us become the fullest expression of who we are called to be. And so, I have a few things to share with you.

My attitude heading into the surgery was relatively nonchalant; I didn’t have the same questions or anxiety because I had literally been through this process before and I thought I knew what to expect. As a former Division 1 football player, I felt like I was taking the field to play a team that I had beaten before. Three hours later the doctors successfully removed the tumor without any complications. I posted an encouraging video while floating on a cloud of pain medications, joyfully stating that I was, “headed back to the city.” I returned home 30 hours later because my body was responding so well.

With the help of a team of experts’ still hands and clear minds, they cut out the tumor with negative margins. I had defeated this rare cancer for the second time. I was cancer free...again.

But then something happened. What I didn’t share publicly is that I was only home for 10 hours before I had to go back to the hospital, where I spent the next 72 hours. Here’s what happened:

Because this particular surgery is so invasive, the chances of complications are incredibly high. I developed an ileus, which is basically when your intestines fall asleep and lose their ability to do their job. A tube was inserted through my nose that went all the way down to my stomach to remove the bile that was building up. I sat with that tube for more than 50 hours without the ability to eat or drink. In the discomfort and frustration, I practiced active listening. This is what I heard.

“Have empathy for those that suffer in silence, and in the shadows.”

I could not focus on my momentary discomfort, because I was supported by close friends and family and was receiving top-quality medical care. No, in that moment all I could do was lament for those that languish in isolation, and for those who deal with their ailments for a lifetime. My soul stirred for those that suffer in silence.

“See your life as inextricably bound to others, building gratitude into your daily rhythms.”

Before cancer I saw myself as having a BIG title, with BIG responsibilities. But when your body is being worked on while you can only sit in silence in a hospital bed, you can’t help but realize how incredibly small you are. When our lives are deeply bound to one another it is at this point that we receive the clearest hints of life’s true meaning.

“Don’t run from your weakness, for that is where you will find your greatest strength.”

Growing up on a path to the NFL I had to trust my strength from a very early age. Being slow or weak meant failure and shattered dreams. So this message was the hardest for me to hear. I could feel my body weaken, and my muscles atrophy. Twice, I had tackled cancer with the same ferocity that earned me the name, “Blackout” on the football field, but using a walker in a hospital hallway isn’t the same as a post-game ice bath. Yet still, I am strong. The great paradox of my experience with cancer is that it gave me temporary weakness and permanent strength. I have grown in my capacity to love and empathize. My perspective of this world has been given greater clarity and my spiritual life has reached new depths.

I have never felt stronger in my entire life.

It is my hope that in sharing these thoughts you will feel encouraged, and that you too will take time to rest. You will be surprised what you hear when you slow down, reset, and listen.

You just might hear the call on your life.

Selah.