I almost lost my father twice. It taught me to live in the moment.

Nothing warned me as I climbed the hill from my bus stop in the final months of high school, until two cars in the driveway and my father meeting me at the door. "I have cancer," he said. "But I'm going to be OK." The diagnosis — stage 4 tongue cancer that had spread to the lymph nodes — led to months of radiation, chemotherapy, and a neck dissection.

Swallowing became difficult, fatigue dulled his spark, and for the first time I watched the strongest person I knew become vulnerable through finals, a senior trip, and prom. The treatment worked and gave us years together: graduations, weddings, and 14 years of him as a grandfather.

Yet the radiation left lasting harm — labile blood pressure from carotid damage, trouble swallowing, a hoarsened voice, and nerve damage limiting his arm. I often resent what the treatment took, then remember the apple picking, building a climbing dome, summers at the beach, our father-daughter dance, and a recent cruise.

tongue cancer, stage 4, radiation, chemotherapy, neck dissection, swallowing difficulty, carotid damage, nerve damage, survivor story, father daughter