One Year Later

Douglas Cordova

At times it feels like my surgery was a lifetime ago. Other times it feels like it was yesterday.

July 28, 2026, marked one year since I underwent a Whipple procedure to remove a tumor from my pancreas.

Looking at me today, most people would never know what the last year has been like. I’m back at work. I’m traveling again. I’m playing basketball. I’m cooking. I’m working out. Most importantly, I’m back to being a husband and a father. But getting back to this point was the hardest thing I have ever done.

The human mind has an incredible way of protecting us. Over time it softens painful memories and allows us to move forward. While I’m grateful for that, I also don’t want to forget this past year. I don’t want to forget what it felt like, what I learned, or the people who carried me through it.

So, while it’s still fresh enough to remember, I wanted to write down what this past year was really like.

In March 2026 I shared my story—so far—on Let’s Win, in “My Surgery Revealed a Different Cancer Story.” I was eight months past my surgery. There is much more I could tell you, but today I am focusing on my recovery.

Getting My Life Back

I had a few setbacks after surgery, which extended my hospital stay. But when I finally got home for good, I knew recovery wasn’t going to happen all at once—it was going to happen one small victory at a time.

I couldn’t control my next scan. I couldn’t control what my pathology would ultimately show. I couldn’t control how quickly my body healed. But I could control whether I noticed the progress I was making. So, I started my Doug Progress List.

Every time I got another piece of my life back, I wrote it down. Looking back now, it wasn’t really a list. It was proof that I was moving forward, even on the days it didn’t feel like it. Then, not long after getting home, I received a phone call that changed everything.

I was sitting on my couch when my phone rang. It was my head surgeon from NYU. I assumed he was calling to see how I was recovering. Instead, he said something I’ll never forget. He told me that in all of his years as a surgeon, this was the first time he had ever had to make a phone call like this. My diagnosis was wrong. I didn’t have pancreatic adenocarcinoma.

After further testing, they determined I had a Stage 1, Grade 1 pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor. It was still cancer. I had still had one of the most difficult surgeries a person can undergo. But my future suddenly looked completely different. Instead of preparing myself for chemotherapy, there was a chance I wouldn’t need it at all. Instead of wondering what the next few years might look like, I could begin thinking about getting my life back.

A few minutes later my parents walked through the front door. As soon as I told them, we all broke down. That afternoon my wife Nikki and I went for a walk. The weight that had been sitting on both of our shoulders for weeks finally felt lighter. For the first time since all of this began, I genuinely believed there was a path back to the life we had.

That phone call didn’t erase everything I had already been through. It didn’t make recovery any easier. But it gave me something that had been difficult to find. Hope.

Small Step, Big Milestones

From that point forward, every day became about getting another small piece of my life back. At first those victories were incredibly small. Eating regular meals again. Logging into work for a little while. Helping around the house by doing dishes or laundry. Cooking dinner. Driving myself to get a haircut. Sleeping through the night. Having my final drain removed. Working out for the first time. Each one felt enormous.

Then the milestones kept coming. Standing beside my best friend at his wedding and being healthy enough to give my speech. Five morning pushups. Then ten. Then twenty. Then thirty-five. Cooking for our family again. Hosting friends for dinner. Going back to our annual Halloween party. Walking back into my office for the first time. Going out to dinner. Seeing Maroon 5. Having dinner with my college friends. Hosting Friendsgiving. Traveling again. Playing basketball again. Every one of those moments reminded me that I wasn’t simply recovering. I was becoming me again.

But there was one part of my life that meant more than all those milestones combined. The hardest part after surgery wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t the recovery. It was what I couldn’t do for my boys. I couldn’t pick them up. I couldn’t hold them. I couldn’t put them to bed. Even spending time with them was difficult because I was exhausted and physically limited. My favorite title in the world is “Dad,” but for a while, I didn’t feel like I could truly be one. More than anything, I wanted to get back to being their father in every sense of the word.

Every milestone on my Doug Progress List wasn’t just another accomplishment. It was one step closer to becoming Dad again. Looking back, getting that part of my life back wasn’t simply one of my greatest accomplishments. It was one of my greatest blessings.

As the months passed, the milestones became bigger. My first clean scans. My first weekend away. My first client lunch. My first flight. My first work trip. More clean scans. Family vacations. Beach days. Barbecues. Basketball. Life slowly began to look familiar again.

Then, almost exactly one year after everything had started, another moment found its way onto my Doug Progress List.

On June 24, Nikki and I dropped both of our boys off at sleepaway camp. Most people would probably see that as an ordinary day. For me, it wasn’t. One year earlier, Brandon was already at camp when I received my diagnosis. At the time, I didn’t know what the future held. I didn’t know what kind of father I would be able to be. I didn’t know if life would ever feel normal again.

Standing there one year later, watching both of them head into camp (Ian for his first summer!), I realized just how far we had come. It wasn’t about camp. It was about being there. Being healthy enough. Being strong enough. Simply getting another chance to be Dad.

Looking back now, I realize my Doug Progress List was never really about pushups, basketball games, or work trips. It was about reclaiming my life, one ordinary moment at a time.

One Year Later

As I look back on this past year, I realize there were so many moments when I had no idea what was waiting around the next corner. I’m grateful that I didn’t know.

Had I fully understood what recovery from a Whipple procedure would be like, how difficult those first few months would be, or how many setbacks I would face, how daunting my initial diagnosis was, I probably would have been overwhelmed.

Instead, I unknowingly did the only thing I could do—I focused on the next step. The next walk. The next meal. The next night of sleep. The next workout. The next milestone. The next scan. Eventually those next steps became months, and those months became a year.

Even today, life still isn’t the same. I still have occasional pain from surgery. Some mornings my stomach reminds me that half my pancreas, my gallbladder, and part of my small intestine are gone. I still must think about what I eat, take my Creon with meals, and pay attention to how my body responds. And every time another scan approaches, there’s still a little voice in the back of my mind that wonders what they’ll find. I don’t know if that feeling ever completely goes away. But I’ve learned that gratitude is far more powerful than fear.

Love Helped Me Get Through

If there is one thing this past year reinforced for me, it’s that no one gets through something like this alone. There is absolutely no way I would be where I am today without Nikki. She carried far more than anyone should ever have to. She slept on an uncomfortable pull-out couch night after night in the hospital, somehow balanced taking care of our boys while taking care of me, kept our home running, and somehow remained the strongest person in the room even when I know she was scared herself. She never let me feel like I was facing any of this alone. I truly don’t know how I would have gotten through this without her.

My parents, my in-laws, my sister, and my sister-in-law were incredible. Whether they were sitting beside me in the hospital, opening their homes to me while I recovered, helping our family in countless ways, or simply being there whenever I needed them, they reminded me every day just how fortunate I am.

Becoming a father has completely changed the way I look at this part of my story. I can’t imagine getting a phone call telling me that one of my boys had cancer. As a parent, that’s a call you pray you never receive. Yet somehow, despite everything they had to be feeling inside, my parents never let me see their fear. They remained incredibly strong, positive, and reassuring every step of the way because they knew I needed them to be. Looking back now, I have an even greater appreciation for the strength they showed during what had to be one of the hardest times of their lives.

Then there are my boys. I don’t know if Brandon and Ian will ever fully understand how much they helped me through this. There were days when I was exhausted. There were days when I was frustrated. There were days when I questioned how long it would take before I felt like myself again. But every step I took toward recovery was really one step closer to being the husband and father I wanted to be. Without even realizing it, they gave me something to fight for every single day.

I’m also incredibly grateful for everyone outside my immediate family. My friends who stopped by just to sit with me. My extended family who constantly checked in. My work family, who made sure work was the last thing I had to worry about while I focused on getting healthy. Former coworkers, clients; neighbors, people I hadn’t spoken to in years, people who only knew me through social media. Every text message, every phone call, every visit, every meal, every prayer, every simple “thinking about you.” Please know that I read every message; I appreciated every gesture.

Even on the days when I didn’t have the energy to respond, I felt every ounce of the love that was being sent my way. I’ll never forget it.

What Truly Matters

Cancer has a way of stripping life down to what truly matters. It reminds you that tomorrow isn’t promised. The ordinary moments aren’t ordinary at all: that dinner around the table; driving your kids somewhere. Cooking for your family. Going to work. Playing basketball with friends. Taking a walk with your wife. Watching your boys leave for camp. These aren’t routines. They’re privileges.

A year ago, all I wanted was another chance to live my life. Today, that’s exactly what I’ve been given. I still have more scans ahead of me. I’ll have to wait another four years before doctors can officially say I’m clear. But I’ve stopped wishing time away. I’ve learned to appreciate today. Because today is enough. If this past year has changed me in any way, I hope it’s made me a better husband. A better father. A better son. A better brother. A better friend. And simply a better person. I know I won’t ever take the people in my life—or the ordinary moments we share—for granted again.

One year ago, I hoped I would survive. Today, I’m focused on living. And for that, I will be grateful every single day.

Here’s to Year Two!