Learning to Live Inside the Only House I Own
The letter came at dawn. Cancer. Prostate.
The words sat on the page like unwanted guests who had moved in without asking permission.
I sat in the oncologist’s office, staring at charts I didn’t understand, listening to words that felt like they belonged to someone else’s story. Stage. Treatment. Prognosis.
But one thought kept coming back, clear and simple: Everything I ever called “home” was borrowed. Except this.
The house I live in? Someone else lived here before me. Someone else will live here after. The mortgage says it’s mine, but it’s not really. It’s temporary. Borrowed space.
The city I claim as mine? It existed centuries before I was born. It will exist centuries after I’m gone. I’m just passing through.
Even my name isn’t really mine. My father had it first. His father before him. Back and back through generations, through languages I never learned, through people I never met.
But this body? This collection of bones and blood and breath? This is the only deed written in my cells. The only address that follows me from birth to death.
And I’d spent my whole life treating it like a rental.
I’d renovated kitchens in houses I’d eventually sell. Planted gardens in yards I’d leave behind. Spent weekends painting walls that would see other families. Invested money in properties I’d abandon.
But this body—my only permanent residence—I’d neglected. Criticized. Taken for granted.
This flesh had been the most faithful landlord imaginable. Never asked for rent. Never demanded deposits. Just provided shelter for my consciousness, day after day, year after year. Without complaint. Without conditions.
And I? I’d been the worst tenant. Negligent. Ungrateful. Constantly complaining about the accommodations.
“The walls are too thin.” “The structure isn’t perfect.” “This place needs work.”
Never thinking that this was the only place I’d ever truly live.
That night, I stood in the shower. Hot water running down my back. And I did something I’d never done before.
I placed my palms against my ribs. Felt the curve of bone beneath skin. This was my architecture. My walls. My roof. My foundation.
Not someone else’s. Not temporary. Mine.
The cancer was a squatter. An intruder. Cells that had broken the rules, moved in without permission, started remodeling in ways that violated every agreement I thought I had with my own flesh.
But the cancer was also a teacher.
It reminded me: This body is your responsibility. Not something to escape from. Not something to improve for others’ approval. But something to inhabit. Fully. Gratefully. While you still can.
I thought about all the homes I’d left in my life.
The childhood bedroom where I grew up. Gone now. The room exists, but it’s not mine anymore. Someone else sleeps there.
The college dorm. I can barely remember what it looked like. Someone else lives in that room now, studying late, dreaming their own dreams.
The first apartment where I lived alone. I thought I’d never leave. But I did. And someone else moved in the day after I moved out.
Every home I’d ever had—I’d left it behind. Every single one. Each departure was practice, I suppose. Practice for the final departure. When consciousness packs its bags and leaves this last address forever.
But until then? Until that final day?
I would be a better resident.
I would know the geography of my own pulse. Learn the rhythm of my heart like a familiar song. Appreciate the plumbing of my circulation—blood flowing through miles of vessels, feeding every cell, removing every waste.
I would tend to the electrical system of my nerves with care. These signals that let me feel my daughter’s hand in mine, taste my wife’s cooking, hear music that makes me cry.
I would maintain this property. This irreplaceable architecture. This temporary temple that houses everything I am.
Because here’s what cancer taught me: Every other home is rental property. This body alone is mine.
Temporary, yes. Fragile, yes. But mine. Truly mine.
The treatment started. Radiation. The oncologist explained how it works, killing the bad cells, trying not to harm the good ones too much.
I listened. Nodded. Signed forms.
But what stayed with me wasn’t the medical terminology. It was something simpler.
This body has carried me through everything. Every first day of school. Every heartbreak. Every joy. Every failure. Every moment I’ve ever lived has been lived here, in this flesh.
And I’d spent most of my life wishing it were different. Better. Younger. Stronger. More attractive. More something.
Never appreciating what it actually was: home.
My son visited last week. Twenty-three years old. Strong. Healthy. Thoughtless about his body the way young people are. Taking it for granted because it works perfectly.
Like I did once.
He complained about a knee that sometimes clicks. About gaining a little weight. About his hairline, which he thinks is receding but isn’t.
I wanted to tell him: “That body you’re criticizing? It’s the only one you’ll ever have. The only real home you’ll own. Treat it better than I treated mine.”
But I didn’t say it. Because he won’t understand. Not yet. Some lessons can only be learned through time. Through loss. Through sitting in an oncologist’s office, realizing you’ve been a terrible tenant in the only property that truly matters.
My wife helps me with exercises now. Simple stretches. Walking. Nothing dramatic. But it’s care. Maintenance. Attention I should have been giving all along.
She’s patient. Loving. Doesn’t say “I told you so” even though she has the right. She’d been telling me for years to take better care of myself. To exercise. To eat better. To rest.
I didn’t listen. I was too busy renovating other people’s houses, tending other people’s gardens, investing in properties I’d never keep.
The cancer is responding to treatment. The doctor is cautiously optimistic. But whether I survive this or not, the lesson remains:
This body is my only true home.
Not perfect. Not permanent. Not even mine to keep forever.
But mine to live in now. Mine to care for. Mine to be grateful for.
Every morning, I wake up and feel my heartbeat. Still here. Still working. Still carrying me through another day.
Every night, I place my hand over my chest before sleeping. Thank you, I think. Thank you for another day. For another sunrise. For more time in this temporary home.
The eviction notice may come someday. Cancer or age or accident. Something will eventually force me out of this residence.
But until then, I’m done being a negligent tenant.
I’m learning the rooms of my own body. The hallways of my veins. The windows of my eyes. The doors of my ears. The foundation of my bones.
This is my home. My only home. The only deed I’ll ever truly hold.
And for however long the lease lasts, I will honor it. Tend it. Appreciate it.
Because every other home I’ve had, I left behind.
This one—this body, this temporary temple, this faithful shelter—will leave me.
But until it does, I’m here. Present. Grateful. Finally home.
