Still Standing: Stage 4, Faith, and Forward Momentum
I almost didn’t say anything.
That’s how this all started. I was at my annual physical, lacing up my shoes to leave when my doctor asked, “Anything else?” I could have said no. But I said, “Yeah… I’ve just been tired. Bathroom stuff’s different. There’s blood in the stool, in the bowl, something feels off.” That moment changed everything.
From there, it moved fast. Bloodwork, colonoscopy, imaging. The initial diagnosis was Stage 3C colon cancer. It was a gut punch, but I was told that with surgery and chemo, there was a solid chance of beating it. I had a predicted 5 year 75% survival chance, pretty good odds.
Lori and I started a blog to keep people updated, (https://hodgert.blogspot.com/) it was easier than retelling the same hard news again and again. Some days, Lori wrote for me when I didn’t have the strength. That blog became a lifeline for me and my community. There were so many people who cared and wanted updates, but I couldn’t call everyone. We called it Today is a GREAT Day, not because every day felt great, but because we needed the reminder. Most days, I believed it. But some days, I just had to borrow the belief from those around me.
You don’t fake positivity. You choose it, even when it’s the hardest choice you make all day.
Before treatment started, I had a Position Emission Tomography aka PET scan, aka Radioactive Superhero mode engaged – inject and swallow some contrast and tell you to lie perfectly still for 30 minutes after injecting me with something radioactive so my insides could be lit up like a lite-bright. They inject me and I’m like, ‘You’re trusting ME not to Hulk out? Even in the worst moments, I’ve always leaned on humor. It doesn’t erase pain, but it reminds you that you’re still alive.
The night before surgery, I painted my toenails royal blue, the awareness color for colon cancer. I figured if I was going into the OR, I might as well go in with style. That’s when the texts started. Friends sent pictures: blue fingernails, blue toenails. My daughter and her friends all painted theirs. Even a few guys proudly rocked a strategic single blue nail. It wasn’t just funny, it lifted my spirit. It gave people a way to show up when they didn’t know what to say. And for me, it was proof I wasn’t doing this alone.
It wasn’t about the nail polish. It was about people finding a way to say, ‘You’re not alone.’
Thirty days after my colonoscopy, I had surgery to remove 18 inches of my colon. My uncle gave me the best line afterward: “Well, now you’re just not as full of s*** as you were!”
We were expecting three days in the hospital, then home, and maybe a couple rounds of chemo. Unfortunately, during the surgery, we discovered the cancer had spread outside the colon wall and destroyed what was assumed to be a couple of lymph nodes. That pushed me from Stage 3C to Stage 4.The cancer had slipped outside the wall, destroyed a lymph node, and I had officially crossed into Stage 4. Because men (and women) we don’t always speak up. We joke. We brush it off. We say, ‘I’ll handle it.’ But sometimes silence is deadly. I was this close to walking out the door that day. If I had, this would be a very different story, or no story at all, just a statistic.
The odds dropped fast. My 5 year 75% survival rate fell to 10–15%. And then things got worse. Sixteen hours after surgery, I was in excruciating pain. A leak had developed. Sepsis had set in. By 1:30 AM, 30 hours after the initial surgery, I was in full septic shock: high fever, confusion, uncontrollable shaking.
The doctor on duty that night finally made the decision that they couldn’t wait until morning and called the surgery team in. They rushed me into emergency surgery. The odds? Now I had a 50% chance of surviving the night.
I cracked jokes as they wheeled me in, not for them, for me. But behind the humor, I was scared. Not for me. For Lori. For my kids. I didn’t want their story to be: “Dad died early from cancer.”
That’s the last thing I remember before counting backward from 100. Statistics indicate that I went from a 10-15% five-year survival rate to a 50% chance of surviving the night. They opened me up from below my belt buckle to mid chest to clean out the infection and gave me an ileostomy, bringing my small intestine to the surface and rerouting waste through a pouch. It saved my life, but adjusting to it? That was brutal.
It’s not pretty. It saved my life, but it was one of the hardest things to mentally and emotionally adjust to. I spent 16 days in the hospital. The first night back home, I woke up reaching for my IV pole. Lori had to remind me I was home.
“The cancer was in my body, but it showed up in everyone’s life around me.”
Chemotherapy treatment started 6 weeks after I got home. I called chemo days “Spa Days.” Because if I had to be stuck in a chair getting pumped full of poison, I might as well rebrand it. Some days, I fell asleep mid-drip or mid-sentence. Nausea was a constant. But my chemo nurse? She was a saint. Every other Wednesday, she’d welcome me with kindness and let me tell a story or two. She helped me laugh and find joy in spa days. Not everyone who sat next to me on those spa days made it to the next one. That stays with you.
I still tried to live. I coached football through chemo. The team and fellow coaches really looked out for me, stood between me and chaos, or a fast-moving tackler. They slowed down around me, because my balance was off and sometimes I had to coach from a knee. They slowed down, shielded me, looked out for me, and made sure to wash their hands to keep me safe.
Easter Mass broke me down a little. Home for only a few days, I needed to go. I had just enough strength to take communion… and not enough to stay. I had to leave right after. That moment reminded me how far I still had to go, not just in healing, but in faith.
Most days, I couldn’t say “Today is a GREAT day” on my own. But somehow, I’d still hear it, God whispering just loud enough to get me through. Somewhere in the mess, faith anchored me. Some days, I prayed for strength. Other days I just prayed to make it to the next hour.
Resting and recuperating were a series of steps and lots of help. People wanted to know how they could help, some brought meals for us, some stopped by to keep me company, somebody showed up and took all the limbs I had cut out of my front yard, anther friend made it his mission to get me to walk everyday, another friend took Bono for walks (he was stuck on the couch with me) they came to share their stories, to find out how I was doing and to take some of the burden off my family.
My community showed up and healed us.
Cancer doesn’t end when treatment does. You’re not just living post-treatment, you’re living with the cure, and everything that it took to get there. Ten months after my first surgery, I had my ileostomy reversed. Just being back in that hospital bed brought waves of anxiety. I realized healing isn’t just physical, it’s emotional, too.
Today, I live with the scars and effects. Neuropathy in my hands and feet, pain that flares like ice picks, numbness and tingling are a constant reminder of the price of the cure. But today we have 2 grandkids, my daughters are married to incredible men, we’ve watched all 3 of our kids graduate from college, and I ski. I golf. I play. I live.
You don’t beat cancer by acting tough, being strong and silent.
You beat it by showing up every day, in the pain, the fear, the scars, and still choosing to live with hope, with purpose, and with love.
If you’re walking through something hard, your diagnosis, someone else’s, or just life, I’m here and I’ll listen.
We can talk on the phone.
We can sit over coffee.
We can share a beer.
Or we can sit in silence.
Just know this: You are not alone.
All the Best,
Dave Hodgert