Let the record show: on Thursday, June 25, 2026 – 10 days after entering the hospital to have a radical cancer surgery, eight days after leaving the hospital, three days after having some medical hardware (tubes and bags) removed and two days after making my first outing with a visit to the bank and a local Publix to go grocery shopping – I achieved a significant milestone.

I rolled our garbage can from the garage to the curb. Unassisted.

It was glorious. I can’t wait to do it again.

But that’s been the story of the last several days – ordinary moments that I otherwise would have shrugged off have taken on profound significance. Small things become big milestones. Everything is epic. I’ve never been more thrilled to brush my teeth, wash my hair, step into a shower or – in a more remarkable moment – receive Communion, the Body of Christ, from the hands of my wife on a Sunday morning in our dining room.

Miracles abound. God won’t let me forget that.

This is my life now, as I tip-toe my way to full recovery from major surgery, and I wanted to give some account of how it all happened. (Spoiler alert: I survived). A lot of people have asked, “So what’s going on? How are you?” This helps to tell my story. Maybe it will help others facing the same hill and let them know the climb isn’t as scary as it may seem.

But mostly it’s just a way for me to share what’s been going on and to express the wonder and gratitude that are a daily part of my life now.  This is a great way to live, frankly. Because just being alive is pretty great, too.

Monday June 15. I was scheduled to arrive at the hospital, UF / Spanish Plaines Hospital in the The Villages, at 2 pm. Surgery was scheduled for 4 pm. (I know: that seems late to me, too. I was told they try to schedule the robotic procedures for later in the day. I was going to be having a radical prostatectomy, having my prostate removed with laparoscopic surgery – a few small incisions. Less invasive, quicker recovery.) So I got up early to run some errands. I got a haircut (because I wanted to look snappy before I went under and I figured it might be a while before I felt up to visiting the barber again) and visited the bank and went to early morning Mass at my parish, St. Francis of Assisi, in Apopka, Florida. I couldn’t receive Communion because I was fasting, but I asked the pastor, Fr. Matthew, if he could anoint me after Mass. He was happy to. (I was also anointed just before I had my biopsy a couple months ago. For those keeping track, this means I’m now a member of the Seven Sacraments Club.)

Along the way, the hospital called and said the doctor wanted me there earlier, at noon. He had an opportunity to begin the surgery sooner. Could I do that? By then it was 10 o’clock. I did some quick math in my head and said sure. I headed home and told Siobhain, and then we were out the door, to begin the 80-minute drive to The Villages.

We got to the hospital just before noon, and they walked me and my wife to my little preparation room, where I undressed, put on a gown and socks and waited. And waited. And waited. Nurses came in to ask, repeatedly, my name and birth date. Needles were inserted. Temperatures were taken. Blood was drawn. My blood pressure was checked several times. They even did an EKG (note to my PCP: whoever was responsible for sending my surgeon my EKG results from last month didn’t do it.)

The anesthesiologist stopped by. So did my surgeon, Dr. Venkata Marella. All systems were “go.” At some point, they took my wife to the waiting room. Then they all arrived to wheel me down to the operating room. I told one of the nurses, “I already bought my PROSTATE CANCER SURVIVOR tee shirt. Tell the doctor I don’t want him to turn me into a liar.”

I think they decided it was better for all concerned if I just shut up.

With nothing more to say or do, I thought this would be good time to pray a silent Act of Contrition.

A few second later, I went to sleep.

I woke up feeling predictably groggy. I heard my wife’s voice. “Honey? Honey? The doctor says they got it all.” I managed to blink and swivel my head and saw my wife’s face coming into focus. I was delighted.

I wanted to tell her. But my lips wouldn’t cooperate.

“Vlgrhed!? Rdghdae erg arghf.”

“I’m going to call your sister and my father.”

“Gdtyah.”

Then they rolled me down to my room. I was flying. The breeze was refreshing, I watched the ceiling tiles roll by.

They managed to get me into my bed and I was surprised to discover that I had a private room. They got me situated with a little effort – there were lots of tubes and bags attached – and there was some spinning involved that I told them was not cool. “Feel zwick,” I muttered. They put a container in front of me. But once I was settled, I was fine.

Siobhain was staying overnight at a nearby hotel and wanted to get there before it was dark, so she quickly said goodnight and that she loved me. My lips managed to muster “Larve you!” I asked her to take a snapshot: my first picture without my prostate.

And that was it. I looked at the big wall clock over the window. It was almost 8:30 pm.

I slept intermittently the first night. I spent most of my time watching TV, which ranged from TV Land sitcom reruns to evangelical religious channels to an absolutely ludicrous soap opera on CNN, “As the Reflecting Pool Turns.”  All in all, I was fairly comfortable. I prayed a little, working my way through a decade of the rosary, and whispering what has become my simplest and prayer, my go-to in all times of anxiety. “Oh Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.”

I didn’t have any reading material, except for hospital brochures on my dining tray. I couldn’t do the Liturgy of the Hours. Siobhain had taken my phone with her. Somehow, I rested, I slept, I watched TV, I prayed to Mary.

Early Tuesday morning, I’m not sure what time, an aid came in with a big tray. “Good morning! Breakfast!”

With some effort, and no small amount of soreness and dread, I was able to adjust my body. I lifted a massive plastic lid off the plate. The aid explained: “Pancakes with lemon puree and blueberries, scrambled eggs, decaf coffee, and orange juice. Enjoy!”

They were kidding, right? This couldn’t possibly be hospital food.

The plate looked spectacular. And I didn’t want any of it. Nope. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Take it away. The last thing I wanted was to put food in my stomach. I had zero appetite.

But…lemon and blueberry pancakes? Really?

I grabbed a knife and fork and started to work. It was delicious. I ended up eating about half of it, and even managed to down the coffee and orange juice.

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Throughout the morning, people drifted in and out. I thought of Prufrock: “In the room, the women come and go / talking of Michelangelo.” There were tubes to check, drugs to give, measurements to take, bags to empty. Sometime in the middle of the day, Siobhain returned.

She gave me updates from the family phone calls and she told me how great I looked.  Meh. I didn’t need a mirror to prove otherwise.

Lunch arrived. I think some kind of gravy and meat and mashed potatoes were involved, but I really was too full. Were they trying to replace whatever weight I lost when they removed my prostate? I nibbled on some fruit and juice.

At some point, one of the nurses had a brainstorm. “Let’s go for a walk!” A physical therapist arrived a few moments later and told me what we were going to do: try to stand and head down the outside hallway with a walker.

My spirit was willing, but everything else was weak.

For a brief moment, as multiple people struggled to get me to stand, I thought it must be the Fourth of July. I swear I saw fireworks.

By unanimous vote, it was decided we’d try this again tomorrow. I was disappointed. They told me to expect to leave the hospital the day after surgery. “Did anyone give you painkiller before the physical therapist came in?,” they asked. I had some Tylenol, I told them. Otherwise, er, no. Morphine was mentioned. “That might be a good idea,” I said.  “Before, not after.”

We agreed to give this another shot tomorrow.

I made some phone calls to a few people, including one of my editors, who didn’t quite believe I was calling from my hospital bed the day after having my prostate removed.  I didn’t believe it either. Was I high?

Overall, I felt remarkably good. If I didn’t move and just laid in bed, perfectly still, I felt normal. I was ready to go home. Wasn’t I?

Er, no.

But I’d be put to the test one more time the next morning.

Next: going home.