Life has a way of testing us when we least expect it. Fish on Fridays is my true story of loss, military service, cancer, recovery, faith, and discovering unexpected strength along the way. Pre-order your copy today and be among the first to read this inspiring memoir.
Chapter 28 — A Good Leg to Stand On
“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” — Viktor Frankl
Not long after everything we had already been through, another problem began to surface. Pain started in my knees and legs, and once again it was becoming difficult to walk. Like most people, I tried to manage it on my own. Tylenol, injections—things would help for a while, but the pain always came back. The frustration built slowly until the only option left was to tough it out.
One afternoon, I was outside in the yard picking up limbs when I tripped and fell. The pain hit instantly—sharp and overwhelming—shooting through both legs. I couldn’t move. What bothered me as much as the pain was the thought of someone seeing me lying there. I didn’t want help. I didn’t want to cause alarm. So, I crawled to the side of the house and pulled myself up against the wall, trying to look like I belonged there.
I pulled out my phone and called Cathy. No answer. I called again. In that moment, I considered calling an ambulance. On the next try, she picked up.
“Cathy, I need help. I’m outside by the garage.”
That old commercial came to mind—the one where the woman says, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” I used to think it was exaggerated. Lying there on the ground, I understood it completely.
When Cathy came outside, she immediately knew something was wrong. She tried to help me up, but the moment I shifted my weight, the pain dropped me right back down. That’s when we both knew this wasn’t something that would just go away.
At the hospital, things initially seemed uncertain. X-rays didn’t show anything obvious, and they were preparing to send me home with pain medication. Cathy wasn’t convinced. She pushed back, insisting they take a closer look. That decision made all the difference. An orthopedic intern reviewed everything again and examined my legs more carefully.
Both quadriceps tendons were torn.
If he hadn’t caught it, I would have been sent home.
Instead, I went into surgery. A week later, I was in a rehabilitation hospital, learning how to do basic things again—getting in and out of bed, using a walker, rebuilding strength. Simple things weren’t simple anymore.
Back at home, a ramp was built so I could get in and out of the house. Life adjusted around what I could and couldn’t do. Then, just when things were starting to improve, I fell again.
This time, I heard it.
The stitches tearing.
That’s a sound you don’t forget.
We were right back where we started. In total, I went through four surgeries. At one point, the surgeon told me my right leg wouldn’t need another procedure because, as he put it, “you need one good leg to stand on.” That line stayed with me.
For most of my life, I had been the one helping others. Now I was the one who needed help. That’s not an easy adjustment. Progress came slowly—months of therapy, moving from casts to a walker, then to braces, and eventually to a cane. Even now, I still rely on that cane for balance, but compared to where I was, it feels like progress.
Before all of this—before cancer before the surgeries—I was physically independent. I had spent years in the Army pushing myself, jumping out of airplanes, and meeting every physical standard that was expected of me. Now I needed help just to get through basic parts of the day.
That’s humbling.
There were moments when I felt sorry for myself, but I tried not to stay there. Through all of this, Cathy was the steady force behind everything. She cared for me during cancer and again through this long recovery, carrying more than anyone should have to carry. If there were medals for caretakers, she would have earned several.
I can never repay her for what she did.
Those moments gave new meaning to words you say without fully understanding them— “for better or worse, in sickness and in health.” Life has a way of testing those promises.
Looking back now, I see those experiences differently. Not just as setbacks, but as part of the path. Each one shaped me in ways I couldn’t have seen at the time. I found strength not just in myself, but in my family, my faith, and the people who stood beside me.
Losing my independence forced me to confront a difficult truth: strength is not always measured by what we can do alone. And sometimes, it takes being knocked down to understand what it really means to stand. Through these trials, I found strength not just in myself, but in God and those who stood by me, and I learned that sometimes, failing is just the beginning of finding a good leg to stand on.
Lying there on the ground that day, unable to stand, I realized something had fundamentally changed. For most of my life I had been the person helping others. Now I was the one who needed help. That moment forced me to rethink many of the things I once believed about strength, independence, and what truly matters in life.
END
Life has a way of testing us when we least expect it. Fish on Fridays is my true story of loss, military service, cancer, recovery, faith, and discovering unexpected strength along the way. Pre-order your copy today and be among the first to read this inspiring memoir.
