In 1986, author James P. Carse published a book titled “Finite and Infinite Games” where a finite game is defined as a contest with known players, fixed rules and an agreed upon objective.  There is a clearly defined endpoint and there are winners and losers.  Think organized sports.  An infinite game has known and unknown players, changeable rules (or sometimes none at all) and the objective is to stay in the game as long as possible.  Think business, or some instances of global conflict like guerrilla warfare.

I have always been a highly competitive person that wants to win.  So much so that as a child, I delt with loss and failure quite poorly.  When playing baseball, striking out would invoke tears.  As a six- or seven-year-old ice hockey goalie, my first introduction to a wrist shot (where the player lifts the puck into the air instead of leaving it on the ice) was met with me sitting on the ice inside the net while the opponents scored goal after goal.  Sorry Dad, you and Mom must have been mortified.

As time went on, I learned to accept that I didn’t have to win at everything.  There were times to be ultra-competitive, like wrestling matches, and there were times to dial it down, like high school gym class.  By the time my high school wrestling career was finished, I had won about 75% of my matches with an overall record around 70-23.  Of the 23 losses, there were only two that devastated me.  By that point, I had (mostly) started to see losses as building blocks and learning experiences.

The competitive spirit carried over to my professional life.  Small businesses are always vying for customers.  The moves you make through product offerings, marketing campaigns, leadership decisions and cost controls determine your chances of winning over your competition.  And I devoured every opportunity to learn what I could to improve the situations for the businesses that I helped with.  For the most part it worked out well.  Unfortunately, not well enough to survive a global pandemic.

About a year ago, I was thrust into a different kind of competition.  Something was growing inside of me and threatening my life.  To complicate things further, it took at least three months before we knew what we were up against.  We were playing catch up from the moment we realized what was going on.

I’m going to take a second here to try to explain what we have been battling.  As we’ve navigated this journey, there have been things said by the doctors that tell us this was far worse than we’ve ever realized. 

There was the urologist that delivered the pathology news with the words, “I can’t promise you’ll be here in a year.”  During subsequent recent visits with this doctor, he has expressed how amazed and thrilled he is at the progress we’ve made.  As if it was not expected.

There was the visit to MD Anderson for a second opinion in April, where the oncologist started talking about hospice.  It was during this visit we heard the words Stage 4 for the first time.  We learned later that cancer is automatically stage 4 if it has spread beyond the origin point.  It was in my bladder, prostate, abdominal lymph nodes and on two separate vertebrae, one between my shoulder blades and one on my lower back.  Clearly, in this doctor’s experience, the outcomes from situations like these were not typically great.

We saw a second urologist after what was essentially a clean PET scan in May.  The purpose was to discuss the removal of the bladder, prostate, and abdominal lymph nodes.  He was very cautious, insisting on three more months of chemotherapy and then a six-week gap before surgery to minimize the chances of a recurrence, making the surgery pointless.  That surgery, which took place around four weeks ago, was successful, though not without its moments of doubt.  When they opened me up, they went for the lymph nodes first.  They were found to be quite enlarged and concerning.  They had to be tested before proceeding.  Had they come back positive, the surgery would have been aborted.  Fortunately, they were negative, and the procedure continued to its conclusion.  As we were leaving the hospital four days later, we were talking with the surgeon.  He expressed that when he got our case five months prior, things did not look great.  But (thankfully) he was of the mind that if a patient is ready to fight, who is he to stand in the way of that?

Even our primary care physician, who I saw last week for the first time since receiving the diagnosis, looked at all that has happened since then and considered the results somewhere between amazing and miraculous.  While I’m probably hyperbolizing here, I don’t think I’m far off based on her reactions. 

One thing that I must note is that our primary oncologist never expressed the slightest bit of doubt.  She never discussed how nasty and aggressive the type of cancer that had invaded me was.  Not for one second was a bleak outlook brought up.  For my part, I never asked how bad it was, or what the outlooks, percentages, life expectancies were.  Maybe if I had asked, she would have answered.  But I’m glad she didn’t take it upon herself to provide that information unsolicited. 

It’s been a year since excessively high blood pressure readings started the first chapter of this story.  As outlined above, it seems there have been a few doctors that have seen other people in similar situations that have had different results than what we have experienced.  And that brings us back to the game – the contest between us and the cancer. 

I’ve thought a lot about winning this fight.  But I’ve come to realize that it’s not that simple.  There are too many stories of cancer recurrences in people that were previously declared cancer free.  Claiming victory and celebrating prematurely are among my biggest fears.

I’ve yet to have any of the doctors outwardly say that I have defied the odds and cheated death.  I’d be lying if I said that the highly competitive part of me doesn’t want to hear those words.  I’m not saying that would be better than winning Olympic Gold, but I’m also not saying that it wouldn’t be.  But the wiser parts of me know better.  They know that the game goes on and as long as we get to keep playing, we’re doing okay.

That’s why I look at this fight as an infinite game that I will be involved in for the rest of my life.  Winning is not about being declared cancer free.  It’s about getting to keep playing.  Sure, there are finite games within the infinite game, just as there are battles within a war.  I’m comfortable stating that we’ve had several small victories just as I’m comfortable savoring each of them. Those are the things that make up the bigger picture.

I don’t know what tomorrow may bring.  All I know is that as long as there is a tomorrow, we get to find out.  And at the end of the day, that is winning.