As a person of faith, discovering I had cancer was hard. The journey since has been even harder.

I’m a very private person. That’s just who I am. But the very nature of this story, the personal nature, demands I open up.

In 2022, I was diagnosed with squamous cell carcinoma of the lower right mandible. I thought it was an abscess. I felt a lump on my lower right jaw and saw it in the mirror when I opened my mouth. It didn’t hurt. I thought it was an abscess, which is a buildup of pus from an infection. I thought that because I had a tooth removed at the end of 2021. No, it was a cancerous lesion that would have to be removed. I contacted a Penn Medicine specialist in otorhinolaryngology — head and neck surgery — Karthik Rajasekaran.

In my opinion, cancer, no matter what form, is humanity’s enemy number one.

I’m not the kind of man who gives in to fear, and even when the diagnosis was confirmed, my lifetime of spiritual and religious studies, personal convictions, and training in physical and emotional control all kicked in.

I would need it.

In June of that year, I underwent surgery. I spent 10 days in the hospital and three months on disability, recovering. The nature of the surgery wasn’t just removing the lesion, but also the lower right jawbone. A portion of bone from my right shoulder blade would replace it.

The lower right portion of my face was hugely swollen after surgery and permanently slightly disfigured. I’m vain, I admit it, but my care team at Penn Medicine assured me the swelling would go down, and it did. I didn’t need chemotherapy, but six weeks of targeted radiation therapy at the Abramson Cancer Center was necessary.

Before the surgery, the doctor told me I wouldn’t be able to turn or lift my head. The procedure changed my center of gravity, necessitating the use of a cane sometimes, and as if that wasn’t enough, when I could eat solid foods again, my taste buds were off.

That was the easy part of this journey.

This is a journey in and through the dark places of the heart, mind, and soul. Really dark places.

My life is twisted inside out. I sleep much more.

Chewing is hard. I soften foods to eat and make thick soups that I puree and eat through a straw. I’ve lost a lot of weight, which might not seem like a bad thing. But I have a closet full of very nice suits and shirts I can’t wear.

Speaking has become a labored process; my resonant, expressive voice is altered. It has improved, but it’s been a difficult process. I carefully pronounce some words to be understood. If I talk for about 20 minutes, my jaw starts to ache and saliva seeps down the right side of my mouth.

Oh, did I mention the right lower portion of my face leaks fluid? Both the saliva and the leaking fluid smell. I didn’t notice the odor at first. Then my ex-wife, who has an uncanny sense of smell, told me. I keep my neck bandaged and change the dressings twice a day and at bedtime. The dressings are always saturated with fluid in the mornings.

And there’s pain. Serious pain. The surgery damaged the nerves of the lower right jawline. It wasn’t very bad at first, but as the nerves healed, it worsened. I had never experienced such pain before.

I take gabapentin with two extra-strength Tylenol every eight hours. In between I have oxycodone, a small dose every four hours. It all helps a lot, but God help me, I want to be the healthy, strong man I used to be. Handsome, well-dressed, and articulate. The man I was is gone. I’m adapting to a new reality, and I hate it.

The awful truth is cancer robbed me of who I was. The illness forced me to retire from my position at Ceisler Media and Issue Advocacy. I still have a piece of my career, doing independent journalism for the Delaware Valley Journal and opinion pieces in The Inquirer. Sometimes I get a story published in Broad & Liberty. But it’s not the same. I miss me.

I’m scheduled for a second surgery to address the fluid leaking from my neck. My surgeon explained during my last visit about osteoradionecrosis of the jaw. My options? A procedure as complicated as the original except the cancer is gone.

I didn’t sleep that night. I was all the way in that darkness of the soul. Angry, depressed, bad dreams. I didn’t pray at all.

But I did the next morning. “Lord God, I’m not angry with you, but I am angry because of what’s happened to me.” I continued with words that must remain private. I wasn’t in the dark place anymore, and I haven’t been back, although I feel sad almost every evening. Praying is always beneficial for me. Sharing my troubles with a friend, who shared her own that day, helped. I’ve since learned there is a less complicated option that will help my neck heal.

Writing this is healing in a way, and the recovery is a lengthy process filled with unknowns. Cancer killed my mother and my sister. It killed one of my brothers last year. One of my editors shared with me that his wife is a 13-year breast cancer survivor. He mentioned a breakthrough in research into the cause of pancreatic cancer — a disease that took the life of his father, his wife’s grandmother, and one of her uncles.

» READ MORE: Breast cancer strikes young Black women at alarming rate | Expert Opinion

Cancer, regardless of the diagnosis, leaves people fractured — if they survive surgery and live through recovery. In my opinion, cancer, no matter what form, is humanity’s enemy number one. It affects us all; no one is free from it. Every single human being knows someone who has survived it or died from it.

But I believe if the nations of Earth poured all of their resources into killing cancer instead of each other, we could not only have a cure within a decade, we would also understand that humanity is nature’s ultimate weapon against death. What a revelation that will be.

Larry Miller is a retired special projects manager for Ceisler Media and Issue Advocacy and a former police reporter for the Philadelphia Tribune. He is a lifelong resident of Philadelphia.