My Day

People frequently ask how I approach my day-to-day life, both the practical side of staying alive and how I handle things mentally. The reality is that I have a problem with throat cancer. Specifically, I have a recurring Squamous Cell Carcinoma. The medical story involves a tracheotomy, reconstructive surgery, and the removal of most of my epiglottis. The practical story is simpler: I cannot swallow. I rely entirely on a PEG tube, a port in my abdomen, for nutrition, hydration, and medication.

Since 2022, the cancer has knocked on the door four times. Statistically, for someone in my situation, the five-year survival rate is about ten percent. This is just a statistic, however, and these odds improve every day with technological advances. I currently navigate a six-week rhythm of immunotherapy and scopes.

Listing these facts paints a picture of a battle, but that is not how it feels. I am not a warrior fighting a war. I do not like the battle metaphor because it is too aggressive for my daily existence. I prefer the gardener metaphor. My body is the garden. It is occasionally unruly and prone to storms, but ultimately it is a space that requires quiet, consistent tending. My medical team handles the heavy landscaping, the surgeries, and the chemical interventions. My job is the daily maintenance: the watering, the pruning, and the soil health. And, truth be told, life in the garden is not too bad.

Rest

If there is a cornerstone to my daily maintenance, it is sleep. In a previous life, I used exhaustion as a measure of productivity. I have now moved in the complete opposite direction. I view sleep as the most active and important part of my treatment.

There is a biological connection here. When the body is stressed or exhausted, it produces cortisol, which suppresses the immune response and increases inflammation. By actively managing stress and prioritising deep sleep, I am giving my immune system the best possible environment to operate. This is crucial for immunotherapy, which relies on empowering my own T-cells to destroy cancer cells.

My goal is seven and a half hours a night. This is not easy. My treatment causes an overproduction of saliva that I cannot swallow, meaning I wake frequently to clear it (I have a spit bucket next to the bed). I use melatonin to help drift off and wear soft Boody clothing for comfort. I also take electrolytes before bed to prevent the dehydration that accompanies the colitis caused by my medication. I take a daily siesta to help top up the sleep I normally miss overnight. If I manage to achieve my sleep goal, I feel like I have achieved something important.

The Morning Routine

I do not eat breakfast in the traditional sense. I start the day with medication for thyroid, reflux, and steroids. Then I hook up a feed of 600 millilitres of water and fresh breakfast juice. I pour what I need into a bottle, hang it on a hook above me, and connect it to the tube in my stomach.

While the liquid flows, I write. I use Diarium, a digital journal, to capture the previous day. My goal is not just to record events, but to hunt for the good in them. I ask myself to describe the best moment of yesterday, no matter how small. The idea is by forcing the brain to scan for glimmers rather than triggers, it helps rewire my baseline emotions.

Next, I watch a short YouTube news summary and write a one-page plan for the day. I prioritize my tasks: health, admin, writing, and finding a way to help someone else. I also plan one specific "Moment" for the day ahead, a simple thing to look forward to that provides the anchor for the day.

To stay calm, I stick to living in the now. My rule of thumb is simple: live today, plan for tomorrow, think about next week, hypothesize about next month, and just imagine the future. I do not dream about anything further than a month down the road. Why borrow anxiety from next year when this month has plenty to offer? Mentally, disappointment is what affects me the most. By not having heavy future plans, I do not open myself up to that disappointment.

After this, every day I thoroughly clean the bathroom, the toilet, and the bedroom. It sounds mundane, but to me, it is a form of Zen practice. In a life where many things feel out of my control, I do this. Mindfulness is about anchoring yourself entirely in the present task.

At 9:30am, I hook up my main feed of the morning, a dense, protein-rich formula from Abbott's called 2Cal. I even add half a spoonful of coffee, not for the taste, but for that familiar caffeine hum, a small nod to my old morning ritual.

The Day: Physical and Restorative

My treatment leaves me prone to lethargy. The temptation to sit still is enormous. To counter this, I move. I go to the gym two or three times a week and focus on weights. I am not trying to build a physique; I am trying to activate my muscles. Muscle activation helps reduce systemic inflammation, complementing the immunotherapy. I do three sets of ten, lifting just enough to feel the strain.

I also seek out heat and light. I spend forty-five minutes in the sun or in an infrared sauna set to a gentle 42 degrees. This warmth improves microcirculation, aiding the delivery of immunotherapy agents to where they are needed most.

Because of the colitis, I deal with daily diarrhoea. I manage this reality with high-alkaline water, Vitamin D, and probiotics. I view this not as a burden, but as necessary medicine to ensure my gut microbiome remains diverse, which is heavily linked to how well a patient responds to cancer treatments.

In the afternoon, I have hook up for some more Abbott's 2 Cal and then take a siesta. It echoes the core of Greek Epicureanism. Epicurus taught that true fulfilment is found in a tranquil state of mind and by focusing on simple, natural joys rather than the stressful pursuit of desires. My rest is an Epicurean pause, allowing my body to reset for the rest of the day.

The Day: Social and Domestic

There are two challenges to participating in social and family life: my inability to eat and drink, and my physical fatigue. My goal is to remove these hurdles.

I have my wife, Kirsten, and my two daughters, Lexi and Zoe. They are my inspiration when the days feel heavy. I cannot sit down to a steak dinner with them, but I can still do my fair share. I do the shopping, I plan and cook the dinners, and I organise the after-school chaos. I try to be present as best I can.

I try to make the most of every day. I go for walks with close friends, see movies, practice my street photography, and build my new website project, GenXtoday.com. In the evenings, I go to concerts and shows whenever I can.

Leaving the house requires preparation. I must plan my rest, my food, and how much I will talk. Pushing through exhaustion leaves my body in a compromised state, so I take my energy levels seriously. If I am at a concert, I will often inject a medication that temporarily dries up my saliva production for four hours. It allows me to stand in the crowd, absorb the music, and feel entirely normal. Dealing with the dryness afterward is always worth the trade-off.

Everywhere I go, I carry a bag equipped with a feeding syringe, medication, and plenty of tissues. Whenever I can, I also take my Fujifilm X-T5 camera to capture the world around me.

Idealism

I read The New Yorker every day. I listen to Greek lessons. I chill out to music. I reconcile the family accounts and most importantly I connect with people. I maintain a system that organizes my life into neat, prioritized silos: Health, Connection, and Admin.

My philosophy is not complex. I do not spend my days researching miracle cures or second-guessing my oncologists. I let them be the doctors. I focus on being the patient who is easiest to treat, the one who is rested, hydrated, strong, and mentally resilient.

I believe that a negative attitude is not an option, but this is not a forced, gritty determination. It is a lighter thing. It is the realisation that despite the feeding tube, the silence, and the hospital scans, my life is full. I have my girls. I have the sun in the garden. I have the ability to lift a weight and write a sentence. I am not battling through life; I am living it, carefully and gratefully, one planned day at a time.