A Five-year Labor of Love

“You have zero chance of survival.” That is what my nineteen-year-old brain heard as my doctor told me that the cancer that took my right leg three years previously had now spread to my lung, two-fifths of which had also just been removed. What he probably said was, “No one has ever survived once this type of cancer spreads through the bloodstream.” That was over thirty-five years ago. I survived. And then some.

Who Says I Can’t is about what effect hearing those words has on someone’s personality and how one can not only survive, but also fight back, recover, and thrive. This is not a “cancer book.” Those are written when the survival is new and fresh and the experience is raw. Instead, this book, written with more than a thirty-five-year perspective, is about human perseverance, adaptability, and strength. I am not a famous athlete, a movie star, or a national politician with a ready-made stage. But I have an important story to tell, one that might help others.

I was as devastated as one can possibly be after losing a leg at age sixteen, losing a major portion of a lung at age nineteen, having a year of chemotherapy, and all the while thinking I would die any day. To get through life at all I desperately needed to find a way to regain a sense of self-confidence. I did that through athletics. I went off to Utah to become a ski bum and came back a double black diamond amputee skier. I was told it was “sad that an amputee can’t ride from Boston to New York” which inspired me to have ridden a bicycle, one-legged and one-lunged, from Boston to New York City three times, as well as the 192-mile Pan-Mass Challenge bike-a-thon across Massachusetts seven times raising $100,000 in the process. To keep my diminished lungs strong and healthy I took up open-water swimming and have swum across San Francisco Bay 16 times in what is considered the most grand and intimidating of competitive open water swims—also to raise money for charity. I have been married for more than twenty-eight years, adopted my wife’s son, and had two more kids as well as one grandchild, all before I turned fifty. I earned a PhD in computer science, published two technical books, and started six high-technology companies, where I have been Chief Executive Officer, Chief Operating Officer, Chief Technology Officer, or Vice President. Now I am helping others turn their dreams into new companies. Starting a company from scratch is extremely hard; every step you take it feels like the world is saying “I bet you can’t.”

I have another message as well. I have endured a psychological adversity from the word “considering.” No one wants to hear, “You are good considering” in any circumstance. Whether it is because of gender, race, age, or a disability, “considering” neutralizes what would otherwise be a strong comment, a confidence builder—a compliment. “Considering” is a take-the-wind-out-of-your-sails word. It puts you in a different group. People with any sort of disability or disadvantage do not want to be part of that group. They work hard to be “normal.” In fact, they have to work harder than the “normal” people whom they are trying to join. But they have a secret: their disability actually gives them an edge. It makes them more focused, more disciplined, more determined. But if their accomplishments are nullified with “considering,” they are shoved right back into the unwanted realm of pity and sympathy. It crushes the confidence built up through all their hard work. “Considering” is an insulting word. I have heard the word all of my life. It has angered me and made me work harder. I have strived to ban it from any description of me, yet still I hear it.

I cannot say that I have “cracked the code” on how to deal with adversity, the kind of adversity countless others have dealt with wonderfully well. However, many people over the years have told me that my story is inspirational to them. Becoming an inspiration was purely an accident. It took me a very long time to recover enough to look outside myself and my struggles and realize that I could motivate others around me–even the able-bodies. Maybe, with this book, I can shorten the recovery time for someone or just motivate those who have been knocked down to pick themselves up and “try”. I know I would have liked a book like this when I was a sixteen-year-old with a stump for a leg lying in anguish, wondering what—if anything—I would be able to do next and wondering how—if ever—I could be “normal.”

When someone tempers your accomplishments with the word “considering” or rejects your aspirations with the phrase, “I bet you can’t,” the best defense is to show them that you can and you will. This book is about how I did just that and the insights with which I subsequently emerged. If these stories help just one person, this will have all been worth it.