Two years ago on April 2nd, my father-in-law died of mantle cell lymphoma that had metastasized to his brain and stomach. He was diagnosed in February 2004, fought hard to win remission, and was consumed by the cancer a mere 13 months later. Mantle cell lymphoma is a rare form of blood cancer, and it has a grim prognosis.

The April 9 issue of Newsweek features an article by Jonathan Alter describing his battle with the exact same cancer, diagnosed one month after my father-in-law March 2004. He’s in remission. It’s so poignant to read the article and wonder why he survives and my father-in-law didn’t. It’s just how the odds played out. Alter wrote:

The only constant in cancer is inconstancy; the only certainty is a future of uncertainty, a truism for all of modern life but one made vivid by life-threatening illness. According to the latest projections, a third of all Americans will be diagnosed with cancer at some point during their lifetimes, most likely when they’re old. Many will never achieve remission at all, while the lucky ones like me get to live with a sword of Damocles hanging over our heads. A friend compares his semiannual scans to visiting a parole officer. When the scans are clean, it’s worth another six months of freedom, though with no guarantee of extra time for good behavior.

–Jonathan Alter, My Life With Cancer

These words strike me at the core. Cancer is a treatable disease, but at the same time there is so much about it we don’t know that it’s impossible to say it’s curable. Alter described the treatment plan he created to supplement the medical interventions. Worth noting.

By this time I had fashioned my own daily recovery plan, which I dubbed Herman. The H stood for humor, a few minutes each day with “Curb Your Enthusiasm” or Will Ferrell or an Ian Frazier story or a friend who would make me laugh. E was—and is—for exercise, which may not fight cancer but clears my head. R represented religion. At the depths, I tried to read something about Judaism or talk to God a little every day, though like a soldier escaped from the foxhole, I’ve backslid since. (Religion often morphed into superstition, as I avoided the sweater I had worn on the day of a bad test result and refused, long after remission, to refer to my cancer in the past tense for fear of tempting a recurrence.) M was for meditation, which with the help of my friend Barbara helped calm me for a time. A was for attitude. Studies show no connection between a good attitude and reducing tumor size and I can’t stand the way our therapeutic society makes people feel that cancer is their own fault because they weren’t more chipper. But mind-set is important. By chance, I was already at work on a book about Franklin D. Roosevelt, and the writing offered a useful distraction from cancer. His upbeat attitude after being stricken with polio was inspirational for me, and made me wonder, What Would Franklin Do? N stood for niceness to my family. They bore the brunt of my irritability, which I tried to reduce, not always successfully.

I wish Mr. Alter many years of remission.