Strategic Discipline Blog

My journey through Acute Myeloid Leukemia continues with Chapter VII from CANCER CURED – Miracle Moment – Decision Made.

Decision Made

I'm pacing the hallway on the 7th floor of the leukemia ward—slow laps between the 15 or so patient rooms, weaving past the nurses' station over two dozen times. It’s not a long stretch, but I walk it like a pilgrim on sacred ground. My feet feel weightless, as though I’m floating. There’s a bounce in every step I take.

If you’ve seen Alistair Sim's performance as Scrooge in the 1951 film A Christmas Carol, you’ll remember his moment of joy—when he’s dancing around on Christmas morning, standing on his head, giddy with the realization that the spirits have given him a second chance at life. That’s how I felt. Like Scrooge. Or maybe reborn. Rekindled. Filled with a spirit of hope I hadn’t felt in months.

I wondered if anyone could tell. Could the nurses or patients sense this strange elation radiating from me?

Earbuds in, I was listening to Sahara by Russ Freeman & the Rippingtons. The music started slow—like the first few days of diagnosis—then gradually built into something bright, electric, alive. The rhythm mirrored my journey: the quiet struggle, the grind, the mounting momentum... until finally, the crescendo. Liberation. I couldn’t help but smile. Sometimes I even cried—tears of joy streaming down my cheeks as I walked, imagining myself climbing a glowing stream of light toward something sacred. Peaceful. Free.

Was it a premonition? Or just the emotional high from the deep meditations I’d begun?

Just a week earlier, Dr. Begum had told Michelle and me to forget the clinical trial. “Spend your remaining time with your loved ones,”  she said. The words echoed like a hollow bell. Hopeless. Final.

It was a stark contrast to the fierce defiance I felt after Dr. Zenk’s initial diagnosis. Back then, I’d responded with fire in my veins. And even now, despite Dr. Begum’s prognosis, I wasn’t ready to surrender. I couldn’t. Not yet.

So I returned to my routine—walking the 4th floor halls morning and night. It wasn’t just about staying active. It was part of my healing ritual, my war map—my “dashboard” to beat cancer. Alongside it, I had intensified my daily meditations, driven by a renewed vision of the life I was determined to reclaim.

I followed Dr. Joe Dispenza’s 7-step meditation process:

1. Induction
2. Recognizing
3. Admitting and Declaring
4. Surrendering
5. Observing and Reminding
6. Redirecting
7. Creating and Rehearsing

I’d been nailing the first six. But Step Seven? That was my Everest.
Still, I pushed forward—focused, unwavering, almost desperate to fully embody the person I wanted to become.

As Dispenza says:
"When your behaviors match your intentions, when your actions are equal to your thoughts, when you’re being someone else, then you are ahead of your time. Your environment is no longer controlling how you think and feel—how you think and feel is controlling your environment."

And then something shifted.

My walks began to feel electric.
My meditations? Alive. Charged. Radiant.

I started visualizing Michelle and me in Hawaii. At first, it was just a pleasant image—an imagined future where I’d recovered from AML and was speaking at a health and wellness retreat. But then it became something more. Vivid. Lush. Real. The sand between our toes, the crashing waves, the palms dancing in the breeze—every detail shimmered in Technicolor.

I imagined our boys arriving with their families, greeted with leis, laughter, and celebration. We attended a pig roast. I gave my speech, telling our story of healing. Their smiles, their presence—it all felt so real I could almost hear their voices echoing in the warm island air.

And every time I finished these meditations, something miraculous happened.
Tears—deep, overwhelming, joyous tears—poured from my eyes. I wasn’t just visualizing life after cancer. I was living it in that moment. Experiencing the triumph. The freedom. The bliss.

It happened three, maybe four times. I’d come out of meditation sobbing with gratitude. Not because I was sick—but because I felt so alive, so free. So utterly transformed.

I remember hoping a nurse wouldn’t walk in and find me bawling. How would I explain it? That I was crying not from despair, but from joy so intense it cracked something open inside me?

I didn’t know what to call it back then. Enlightenment? A spiritual high? Nirvana?

All I knew was this: I couldn’t wait to meditate again. Because in that space, I was no longer dying. I was already healed.

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Next week I will share this encouraging, supportive team's incredible efforts on my behalf in Warriors for Doug.

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NEXT BLOG – CANCER CURED - CHAPTER VII – Complications Delay Clinical Trial