Stolen Glances

You can find Neil’s story in our June issue, “What Gets Us Through.”

Register to hear Neil share his story out loud at our upcoming Perkatory event on June 4th, 2026.

Back in November, I attended one of the events Elephants and Tea hosted through the James Cancer Center’s “Care for Life” program. That was where I received my cancer treatments, but truth be told, it took me many years before I actually wanted to attend any kind of support group. This one wasn’t my first. I didn’t—and still don’t—attend many of them. Certainly not regularly. Mainly because ‘I’ never saw myself as a cancer patient. Or, at the very least, it saw it as the least interesting thing about me. I used to joke, “The doctors did all the hard parts. I just lay there!” However, one of those jokes was met with a response I hadn’t expected—and it has been a splinter in the back of my mind ever since.

“I don’t know. I think living is the hard part.”
So, let’s consider that for a moment. One of the prompts given at that support group back in November was, “What is something small that gives you joy?” What I shared there was much more than what I’m going to give you in this moment, but I promise I’ll pay it back with interest. My answer was “stolen glances.” I had some specific instances in mind, and one in particular I chose to focus on, but the idea was bigger than what I had time to express in that setting. Ever since, I’ve wanted to sit down and give it the attention it was due.

I think most of us who’ve been through cancer treatment can empathize with the phrase “stolen glances,” though not necessarily in a way that “gives you joy.” The unfortunate part about cancer treatment is that it forces you to live life through stolen glances. There are people you want to spend eons talking with, but you can only manage a few minutes of small talk and pleasantries. Mountains you want to climb, but you can only take the first few steps and see them through your window. That’s the choice, though. The bill that comes due.

One of the most profound pieces of wisdom I’ve ever heard comes from an economist named Thomas Sowell: “There are no solutions. Only Tradeoffs.” Cancer is—with vanishingly few exceptions—a cataclysm. However, it’s one you can survive. The tradeoff, though, is some semblance of living life through stolen glances.

So now that I’ve thoroughly dragged down the mood, I think it’s time to start paying back some of those promises. I’m currently about eight years out from my initial diagnosis. My doctors still want to do six-month follow-ups, but that’s hardly an inconvenience. For the most part, what’s done is done. What’s healed is healed. There are a few bits and bobs that need sorting out, but I’m well into the “new normal” all of us were told about during treatment.

I was one of the lucky ones who had access to a work-from-home job when COVID hit, and I used it as an opportunity to take an extended visit back to my parents’ farm, and into nostalgia. Little by little, though, “extended” became more and more, well… extended. Until, one day, my roommate of 10 years messaged me to say he was going to move out to live with his long-term girlfriend. (I can’t imagine why he’d prefer her company to mine!) Little by little, and then all at once, that extended visit became “lives with parents.” Not exactly the honorific a single man in his mid-to-late 30s wants, no matter how noble his road to getting there was. Still, I had a car. I had a job. It could be worse. As with most things preceded by “it could be worse,” though—little by little, then all at once—it usually does.

Over the next couple of years, culture shifts and a new direction for the company I worked for—brought on by a new CEO (as well as genuine attempts to make workflow easier)—meant my job was less and less secure. Until one morning meeting when I was given a choice: stay, but with a schedule I knew I couldn’t keep, or take a severance package and step into an entire world of “horrible unknown.” They were kind enough to give me a week to consider it, but by the end, the only thing I knew was that I didn’t actually have a choice. The life I wanted wasn’t in the safe hole I’d shackled myself to. It was out in that horrible unknown.

Now, how the hell does all of this tie back to stolen glances? Much less to “something small that gives [me] joy?” It’s easy to look at the picture I just spent the last 300 words or so painting and think that’s all my life is: a 30-some-odd-year-old man living with his parents, with no car and no job. But it’s always more complicated than that.

I had also stopped hiding in quite so many holes. I started making an effort to go outside—just taking laps around my parents’ farm. Riding the exercise bike in the evening. Walking in the various parks on the weekend. All the little things that fell through the cracks most days. All of this fresh air came with plenty of stolen glances, too. Maybe one or two from someone on the trail. The unexpected eye contact from someone at the store. The girl behind the counter at the coffee shop on the way home. Out of all of them, though, there was one in particular.

One of my good friends and his wife (who is also a good friend!) have a little girl, about three years old. She’s in that genuinely curious phase where everything kind of makes sense, but only kind of. You could theoretically have a conversation with her, but “C’mon, Daddy” is just as likely to be a response to something silly Daddy did as it is a phrase she just likes saying. I wouldn’t call her a shy child, but there are plenty of situations where we’ll be in a group, and you can tell it’s all just a bit too much for her. All these people trying to spend time interacting with her. Hanging on every single cute thing she’s doing (because they’re all cute!). Eventually, she has to pull away from it all just to “get some air.” Which is where our endearing little larceny finally occurs.

Up until this point, I haven’t mentioned what my cancer was. Not because I’m ashamed of it, or even mind talking about it. Like I said, in my opinion, it’s just the least interesting part of me. That said, the consequences are no less impactful.

In late 2016, I felt a lump underneath my tongue. Probably something I’d noticed as some kind of discomfort at one point or another, but nothing I’d paid much attention to. Until, little by little, I did. When I went into the doctor’s office, he had the same practical, matter-of-fact tone I’d hear all throughout my treatment.

All of which did very little to change the consequences. He told me that the fact it didn’t hurt when he touched it meant this wasn’t something like a cyst and was very likely more serious. A few more weeks and a biopsy later… “Stage 4 squamous cell carcinoma.” They were very careful to stress that “stage 4” in this context referred to the size of the tumor, not necessarily that it had spread to surrounding systems, but again. Consequences. This meant, at best, losing a large portion of my tongue. Not to mention extensive rounds of both chemotherapy and radiation.

Fortunately, for about a year or so after the original diagnosis, “at best” was possible. The surgery had gone well. I had interesting new scars. I’d made it through chemo and radiation in one piece. Sure, I’d have to be on top of brushing my teeth and taking my meds, but otherwise, “we were able to achieve a good compromise between function and treatment,” as Dr. Rocco would put it. Life wasn’t the same, but it was close enough.

Now, the keen among you will have noticed the “I” in the first paragraph. Not I. “I.” There’s a reason I make that distinction, and I’d be a pretty horrific writer to tease you with it and never pay it off.

One of the other prompts at the session in November was, “Are you the same person before and after cancer treatment?” While the job “I” had was an office job, it would be wrong to say that’s who he was. “I” was a musician. Specifically, a trombone player. One of those people who were too talented for their own good! Plenty of awkward interactions where “I was first chair in the top band” was met with “cool!” and nothing else. Still, that’s who “I” was.

Eventually, that statement about being first chair in the top band became true when “I” went off to college and signed my name on the dotted line for all the bills associated with the ever-so-useful—and incredibly lucrative—Bachelor of Music degree, which is still my highest education. Unfortunately, a necessary component of who we are is our dreams for the future. And so, “I” didn’t survive cancer. That man is gone. Any dreams of playing for major symphony orchestras, bumming around on cruise ships, or even just the fairly successful ska band he made with his buddies after college were gone. He managed to hang onto them for about a year or so, but when he mentioned “I’ve had a little bit of trouble swallowing recently,” in a doctor’s appointment, ‘at best’ needed to be cut away, too.

And so, the “new normal” became speaking through an app on my phone. Breathing through a hole in my neck. More rounds of intensive chemotherapy and radiation treatments, which killed about a third of my jawbone. On and on. Even more missing pieces. Even more stolen glances. Which neatly brings us back to our little larcenist.

As I previously mentioned, she is about three, and thus necessarily and overwhelmingly cute. (Perhaps too cute for her own good!) Every now and again, while she was off getting air from all of these strange adults, I’d catch her. At first, just a quick glance—something where I’d meet her eye for a second or two, and she’d promptly look away. Maybe a second longer the next time, until eventually she stole a slight grin from me as well. This went on for a while, until she couldn’t steal a grin from me without cracking one herself. One day, her mother and I were chatting, and she told me, “She really likes you! She was constantly asking ‘Where’s Neil?! Where’s Neil?!’ after you left the other day.” Ever since, all her stolen glances and cracked smiles have split my world in two.

It’s so easy to look back on those stolen glances from the past and replace them with thoughts of, “What’s going on with his face?” or, “I just asked him a question. Why is he on his phone?” I’m sure some very kind people may even start with, “What happened to him?” I don’t begrudge any of them. After all, they are fair questions. Still, I can’t help but feel tired some days, like I just need some air. Constantly walking through life trying not to impose on others. Trying not to make them feel uncomfortable. Ordering food from kiosks and apps because typing out a conversation when there’s a line behind me feels so selfish. However, in more and more of those moments, flashes of stolen glances from that three-year-old little girl make me realize what she really stole.

If there is one piece of advice I could leave to the world, it would be: “Don’t try to jump into someone else’s head. Most of the time, all you accomplish is crawling further into your own.” Because that’s the truth of it. There are so many days when each of us just “need some air.” When the world is far less horribly unknown and instead intolerably too much. What we don’t realize is that, instead of touching grass or getting some air, we’re actually crawling inside holes.

Little by little, and then all at once, those holes become our world. Now that I have a few more stolen glances of my own, I can see that vanishingly few are actually filled with people who only see the missing pieces. Most people are more than happy to sit and chat, regardless of how slow or how many typos it takes. They are all some version of a three-year-old little girl who just got caught stealing a smile, yet couldn’t help but give it back.

… And with every single one, I’ve never been so happy to have my world split in two.