Day 28 of Childhood Cancer Awareness Month with Terri and her Hubby, Bill, discussing, "How Did We Do It? How to Hold and Lift Each Other Despite the Madness

So, the honest answer is...there is no neat or fancy formula. It was a bunch of combined things that helped us balance our lives as best we could, even on our darkest days and moments. We moved at this pace, One.Day.At.A.Time.

The following helpful information is what Bill has pursued for a few years to help him, and us, navigate from the mayhem to the miracles through a series of questions and answers, as well as through our writing, reading, and discovery in books by others, and reading the Stoics (for Bill, that is a daily non-negotiable). We wanted to make sense of the whole doggone thing, and we are still working on it. It is a lifetime of little moments, built on believing in ourselves and each other.

Let me start by foreshadowing: People Need People.

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How Did You Do It?” Bill Tomoff's excerpts of reflection

The Honest Answer, and the Practices That Kept Us Moving

People often ask Terri and me this question: How did we make it through five rounds of our son Ryan’s childhood and young-adult cancer, keep a marriage intact, raise Olivia, show up for work, and remain a close family? The short answer is that there is no neat formula. We moved one day at a time, with help, humility, and a bias for action. And when I look back with clear eyes, four pillars consistently show up.

Pillar 1: People (because people need people)

If there is a single word that explains our survival, it’s people. We were wrapped in a cocoon of support: medical teams, nurses, techs, social workers, employers, extended family, neighbors, and childhood-cancer communities. We learned a paradox that changed our lives: when you make it about others—by noticing them, thanking them, and lifting them—you also give yourself strength to endure. The support wasn’t an event; it was an ecosystem that held us up, allowing us to keep moving, appointment to appointment, night to night.

What this looked like in practice

Accepting help, and finding micro-moments to give it back—notes of thanks, small favors, a kind word to a nurse at 3 A.M.

Treating the long haul like a relay: different people carried the baton at different miles.

Living our family motto in real time: Excellence and Kindness — Live It. See It. Celebrate It.

Pillar 2: Endurance (the marathon mindset)

You don’t “out-smart” a years-long medical battle. You out-endure it. Distance running taught Terri and me to focus on the next step, the next breath, the next mile marker. That athletic wiring didn’t make cancer “easier,” but it trained us to keep showing up, especially when the course turned uphill in the dark. I often return to the idea that endurance is the ability to persevere through difficult periods for a long time—supported, paced, and resourced like a marathoner.

What endurance required of us:

Pacing: Push when we can, recover when we must.

Crew: Let others hand us “water” (rides, meals, coverage at work).

Focus: Not on finishing “fast,” but on finishing.

Pillar 3: Preparation and Precision (own the controllable)

My accounting background cut both ways. Chaos hates spreadsheets—but spreadsheets also gave me footholds in the tumultuous times. I tracked bloodwork labs, chemo cycles, medications, hospital days, deductibles, out-of-pocket maxes—not to control the uncontrollable but to reduce preventable stress and decision fatigue. We strived to preserve energy for the moments that actually needed judgment and courage.

What I controlled (and why it mattered)

Information: Organized notes meant faster answers in tense conversations.

Logistics: Calendars, checklists, and pre-packed “go bags” turned crises into procedures.

Self-care basics: Sleep, water, movement, and a quiet 10 minutes—a small daily hedge against overwhelm.

Pillar 4: Perspective (read, reflect, reframe)

Suffering is part of the human condition. That sentence is not defeatist; it’s liberating. It helped me stop arguing with reality and start focusing on the response. While I did not do this in the early years, later, I turned to books and daily reflections that helped me develop a deeper appreciation for gently moving through life. It reminded me that we are not alone, and that meaning can be made even in dark rooms at odd hours. Ryan Holiday’s Daily Stoic nudged me to “keep going.” Viktor Frankl reminded me that between stimulus and response, there’s a space—and in that space, we still get to choose. Those ideas didn’t fix anything. They steadied everything. Now, years later, my daily readings help me deal with the trauma of the times Ryan and our family endured.

What perspective did provide for us:

Normalized the hard: “This is hard” is not a diagnosis; it’s a description.

Re-centered agency: Even tonight, we can choose our stance.

Made gratitude practical: Ordinary Tuesday afternoons became sacred.

“Be gentle. Be kind — you never know what someone is going through.” That line became my reminder to move through hospitals, inboxes, and grocery stores with soft edges.

The 12 Practices I Share When Someone Asks Me at 2 A.M., “How do we do this?”

Not theory. Field notes.

1. Build the net: Proactively list your people; ask specific, bite-sized favors.

2. Schedule self-care like a dose: Sleep targets, hydration, movement, outside air.

3. Curate inputs: Short daily reads that strengthen perspective (Stoicism, meaning, resilience).

4. Shrink the time horizon: “What’s the next right thing?” Today > Tomorrow > Next week.

5. Document the essentials: Meds, labs, contacts, insurance. Treat admin like a safety rail.

6. Name the emotion: Say the quiet part out loud to someone safe; it reduces the load.

7. Keep a gratitude ledger: One sentence per day. It changes your attention.

8. Reframe without denial: “This is brutal—and we are still capable of small good today.”

9. Protect family touchpoints: Micro-rituals with your spouse and kids—five minutes counts.

10. Borrow hope: When yours runs low, borrow a friend’s. Communities exist for this.

11. Think like an athlete: Fuel, recover, pace, crew. Endurance is a team sport.

12. Hold a bigger frame: Faith, purpose, service—whatever reminds you you’re part of something larger.

What I have Come to Believe:

Ordinary days are a blessing. If you get one, recognize it and savor it.

We rise by lifting others. The fastest way to receive strength is to give a bit away.

Endurance is teachable. Not glamorous—teachable. Systems and support turn cliffs into stairs.

Meaning beats certainty. We rarely got the answers we wanted. We could always choose the purpose we carried.

A Closing Note to the Families Still in It

I can’t hand you a blueprint. I can hand you presence. People need people. You are not alone—not in the fear, not in the fatigue, not in the long nights or the complicated mornings. If all you do today is take the next step and tell someone you need them, you’re doing it right.

And when you have even a sliver of bandwidth, share your story. Your endurance becomes someone else’s evidence.

***You can read Bill's final blog post at this link (click the pink link). “How Did You Do It?” | A Letter to Families in the Childhood Cancer Fight: Your Endurance Becomes Someone Else’s Evidence

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I know this is a longer post today, but I believe it's needed for anyone going through challenging times, and not necessarily childhood cancer or any cancer. There are many situations that people need to go through, and maybe one person may find Bill's reflection helpful.

Thank you for being on the journey with me today, this month, and maybe since Ryan's diagnosis in 1996. Our family changed, yes, but we lived and breathed the complexity of the human spirit that makes overcoming adversity possible, though incredibly difficult, no doubt. By believing in 'People Need People,' drawing on all available resources, staying focused on what matters most (which can change by the minute, hour, day, or week), and trusting one's capacity to endure suffering, it appears to have been effective.

With gratitude,

Terri