“Do you believe it's possible to stay alive until you die?...I want to feel excited about each new day. Like a kid, you know. But over a lifetime. I don’t know if it’s possible.” These are the words of Old Joe Grady as written by my father in my father's book "Staying Alive in Bear Country." It is an ethos by which my father lived. My father died July 30, 2025, about three weeks after doctors first believed he had multiple myeloma and two weeks after my mom could not get him to wake up. I stood holding my dad’s hand next to his bedside for 20 minutes after the doctors removed the breathing tube until he took his last breath. I remember hoping against hope he suddenly would wake up and recover while also urging him to be at comfort and peace and end the pain he clearly was in but wouldn’t tell us about.

“That is awesome!” This was the last message I received from my friend Colin before his body finally succumbed to the cancer that had been wracking him for nearly two years. Colin was responding to my text telling him I was determined to accomplish a goal we’d talked about for years…to run Boston or London. Colin died from Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma September 7, 2024.

“I’ve determined I want to qualify for Boston as a goal before I’m 50.” This was one of many texts I’d had with my friend Marc over the years about endurance racing. Marc and I enjoyed doing Ironman races and even after he moved away from Oregon, we talked about training and doing another Ironman or marathon together. In 2023, I decided to run the New York City Marathon to help raise money for cancer research in honor of Colin. I’d talked with Marc about training and maybe racing, but he was fighting through some health issues that doctors were not able to figure out, although they believed it was not cancer. Marc died from stomach cancer on September 26, 2024.

Colin, Marc and I shared many things in common beyond running and staying active. Colin, Marc and I all got married within about a year of each other. All three of us also had 2 kids who are in the same age range. In many ways, my life parallels theirs and their stories easily could be mine.

I count myself lucky that I was able to spend as much time as I did with Colin during his battle with Lymphoma. I tried to visit him at the hospital as often as I could to check in and see how he was doing, but mostly just to hang-out and spend time with my friend. Colin did not want to be felt sorry for…he wanted to live life to its fullest and for everyone else to do the same. We rarely spoke about his cancer, unless it was to discuss how impressed the nurses were with him with his knowledge about his treatment and the hospital. We discussed life and the Portland Timbers. Colin and I were huge soccer fans and went to many Portland Timbers games together. As Colin told me, after informing me he was starting hospice care, “I am happy that you and I had Timbers games. That was our thing…it’s rare that you have a friend that will watch the game the same way you will (excited, but analytical, a fan, but not irrational).”

Colin’s cancer was the world’s worst roller coaster ride. He started out very upbeat. When he called to tell me about his diagnosis, the conversation began with him asking me how I was doing and asking for any funny work stories (I am a criminal defense attorney, and Colin got a kick out of talking about my practice). He then told me he had cancer but then assured me he was going to beat it. And, a few times, we thought he had. Several times test results suggested he was in remission or was cancer free. Colin was fortunate enough to get accepted into a study in DC at the NIH and the results started out very promising. One day we got together with several other friends and Colin showed us scans of his liver and, just as a radiologist would, explained to us how a dearth of white spots meant the cancer was gone. Unfortunately, mere weeks later, the cancer had returned and was stronger this time. The NIH study no longer would work and Colin was back to the drawing board. Despite some initial optimism and hope, Colin was pretty much out of options.

As Colin was approaching his end, he made the incredibly hard and heartbreaking decision to spend whatever time he had left with close friends and family and for it to be meaningful time. He did not want to wilt away in the hospital and live out his life supported by machines. Colin started hospice care in August 2024. He died the day after his 10th anniversary. A few days before he died, he was able to see his oldest son, Jack, off to Jack’s first day of kindergarten. Colin was determined not to die on his anniversary and had asked his doctor if she could get him a unit of blood to help him make it through the day. In order to do so, she said she had to run some tests. Colin understood, but did not want to hear the results, although he was okay with the doctor sharing the results with Evyan, his wife. The doctor told Evyan, in sum, “Colin’s numbers indicate he already should be dead. Colin is living off pure will to make it through your anniversary.” He died the next day.

I signed up with Haymakers for Hope to fundraise in support of the fight against cancer prior to my father's diagnosis. My father was 82 years old when he died. When he learned he might have cancer, he told all of us, his family, that he was at peace. He had lived a good and full 82 years and had no regrets. My dad lived his life in the very way Old Joe Grady had queried if it were possible...he was excited about each new day. He lived life like a kid.

Colin, Marc, and my dad's stories are the stories of far too many people in our world today. There definitely have been advances in treatment and science, but we still have a long way to go. Tragically, a lot of funding is disappearing just as studies and trials have been making some progress. I am determined to fight, and I hope you will join me, to advance the research and trials so that the “Colins” and “Marcs” and "Pete Crows" of the future will be able to mark the end of their cancer battle as “complete remission” and not “death.”