Just after Thanksgiving 2015, I had emergency abdominal surgery for what turned out to be stage III-C colon cancer. I was 33 and in good shape. It came out of the blue and took me like the mists of Ravenloft to a world unfamiliar and horrible. Life became chaos in a whirlwind of pain, without restraint, without warning. The landscape of my life was reduced to rubble in an instant and for a time, it would seem, evil had won.

When I woke up, everything had changed, the world was different. The air was different, people were different somehow in an unfamiliar way. I knew I would never be able to go back to the way things were. The curse had taken hold and my future became uncertain. An eighteen inch scar ran down the center of my abdomen like I had been gutted by some experiment gone wrong. I awoke in a bed with tubes down my throat, tubes in my nose and IV's sticking out of both arms. I was stitched back together and covered. There was a bulge to the right side of my stomach so i felt around as I came out of the cloudiness that only anesthesia can supply. A pouch seemed to be permanently attached to the right side of my new mended body. I was able to pull up the covers to reveal a colostomy bag. It was a grotesque site. One of shock that I'll never forget.

As my family poured in upon my awakening, I saw on their faces what the doctors would later tell me. Doctors like to tell the family first so they are mentally prepared to support you when they break the news personally, but they aren't allowed to tell you until the doctor does. I could read the faces in the room and I knew. I tried to handle the news as I do anything else, with humor, and a smile. It's my gift to put others at ease, and as different as everything seemed, I wasn't about to let go of what made me, me. Not yet.

Two weeks in the hospital, teams of doctors, financial counselors, countless scans, mobility exercises, chemotherapy consultations, hundreds of needle pricks, blood draws, tests, pain meds and fourteen screenings of "Guardians of the Galaxy" later, I was released back to the world with future chemo treatments on the books. Immobilized for the most part and in pain, I was relegated to the couch for weeks. My first chemo treatment was just before Christmas and I had a second opinion scheduled with Mayo clinic. "At least I was home.", I thought.

If Cancer was a spell, it'd be cast as Silence.

My girlfriend cared for me, worked, took care of meals and paid the bills, I'll forever be grateful for that. This pained me though, to be a burden, seemingly useless. Every morning she left for work I was left with the feeling of being that burden, this we compounded by one thing. The quiet...the loneliness. This was my horrible demon, from which there was no escape. There to torture me ever day. Even more so than having a colostomy bag, which is it's own sort of hellish torture. The lonely days while I had no one to talk to and the void surrounded me in my apartment. I had access to my computer, where I could eek out human contact via the internet. The thing with that though is that during the day everyone is at work, so no one was really available to chat and keep me company. I the evenings people had things to do. Visitors was out of the question for most, because Hollywood has us brainwashed into thinking that Chemo means instant death if they come see you. I understood that, but the days wore on and the need for human interaction grew to the point that depression started to set in. I even tried setting up a youtube channel so I could talk to a camera and pretend it was an audience. Eventually that just turned into updates so I could tell everyone how my recovery was going without answering the same question four-hundred times. Once I was mobile, I would sometimes go to the office at my apartment, since it was right next to my unit, and see if i had any packages. I knew there weren't any. I just wanted to see another person. To use my voice. There were weeks, I literally didn't speak all day until my girlfriend came home from work. After a few months of this, I thought I'd never be able to adapt to being a normal person again when this was all over. Maybe I'd forget how to communicate with people?

If Cancer was a class, it'd be a Cleric.

One day, I had a friend invite me to play a game of D&D on roll20 with an ongoing campaign they had an opening in. I was a noob, but I'd always wanted to play. I was greeted with open arms and we were off to the races. We played for six months on Sunday nights and it became the highlight of every week. When we had to cancel because people couldn't make it or it was a holiday or something came up, it was devastating to me. The human interaction and the imaginative processes that took place was an escape for me like no video game ever could produce. I was hooked. It was also making the difference in my recovery. I was free in this world, I was powerful, I could heal myself and others, I could save the day, I could win against all odds, and Most importantly, I could TALK! I immediately started to feel better about everything. I had interaction, I had friends, I had purpose, I had hope.

While I was going through treatment I was reading a lot about how your mood directly contributes to your body's ability to fight cancer. Releasing stress is key. Keeping a positive outlook was necessary to keep your immunity up. Depression raises cortisol levels and that's bad for bodily functions. I had finally found a way to maintain some positive focus. I was bringing my own personal brand of hope into the chemo ward with my new found hobby with me every two weeks when I had to go in and sit in a chair having poison pumped into my body. Everyone was friendly, everyone was willing to talk. People were dying all around me and all they wanted was to just be looked at like a person. To talk to someone, like I was able to when playing D&D with people around the globe. So I had conversations with them. I noticed them, I felt for them. It was no longer about me and my struggle, but about "the party's struggle". I did for them what D&D did for me and it made a difference in that place. I felt like I became a real, life domain cleric. I gave of myself to help them and Dungeons and Dragons was my secret source of power. Sixteen treatments later I ran into a few snags, but my resolve had never been greater. Sometimes I wonder if I hadn't started role playing, if I would of come out of my depression. It still lingers and I'm traumatized by the events, but that's to be expected. Any great journey that provides something that brings personal enlightenment and reflection that enriches the soul, comes at a price.

So maybe D&D didn't cure cancer, but it got me through treatment and that's close enough to a cure for me.

If Cancer was a race, it would be Human.

Thanks for listening.

This was my first "test" post for Steemit.com but my original post can be found on reddit here: https://www.reddit.com/r/DnD/comments/7htuh4/dd_cured_my_cancer/?ref=share&ref_source=link