What Matters Now

after the hospital visit

So… your friend recently went Under The Knife.

There’s something about having your prostate removed that rearranges your priorities.

Not just your anatomy — your outlook. Your patience. Your sense of humor. Your relationship with gravity. All of it.

When the doctors told me I had cancer cells in my prostate, I didn’t hear fear first. I heard clarity. A kind of spiritual click, like God tapping the mic and saying, “You paying attention now?” And I was. I am.

I chose the robotic surgery — partly because it’s precise, partly because I liked the idea of a machine helping fix the machine that is me. They mapped me with an MRI, opened a few small ports in my lower abdomen, and removed the prostate like a faulty part in a classic car. I woke up feeling like I’d done 300 crunches, which is the most exercise I’ve done in a single day since the Marine Corps.

Now I’m walking around with a Foley catheter — a medical leash that drains urine while the inside plumbing heals. It’s not glamorous. It’s not dignified. But it is temporary. And temporary discomfort has a way of sharpening permanent truths.

Because when you’re dragging a bag around like a reluctant emotional support animal, you start asking yourself the real questions:

What do I want to do with the time I’ve been given?

What matters now?

And the answers don’t come from fear. They come from gratitude. From humor. From the quiet moments when the house is still and you realize you’re still here. Still breathing. Still capable of choosing.

Here’s what I know so far.

I want to spend my time doing things that make me feel alive — not just busy. I want to play more music, not because it’s a gig, but because it’s oxygen. I want to write more stories, not because someone asked, but because they’re sitting inside me knocking on the door. I want to love the people who love me back and release the ones who don’t. I want to laugh — loudly, freely, even if it makes the catheter bag jiggle.

I want peace. Not the kind you negotiate. The kind you protect.

I want mornings that start slow, with gratitude instead of urgency. I want conversations that matter. I want to leave something behind — a song, a sermon, a story, a moment — that outlives me in someone else’s memory.

And I want joy. Not the Instagram kind. The real kind. The kind that sneaks up on you in the middle of a hard season and reminds you that life is still good, still funny, still worth showing up for.

Cancer didn’t give me these desires. It just cleared the static so I could hear them.

So here I am — a crash‑test dummy with a few dents, a few scars, and a Foley bag — still rolling, still grateful, still choosing the life I want to live.

And if you’re reading this, maybe you’re choosing too.

https://youtube.com/shorts/TL9-9oFITso?is=GGj5Jq9485XEFH8R