I still remember that day so clearly, standing in the mall when the call came through. "Nandito ako sa mall at that time, pu-pull out for Under Armour parang last week ata or two weeks ago," I recalled to my teammate during what should have been a routine conversation. Little did I know that moment would become a turning point in my life, the calm before the storm that would test everything I thought I knew about strength and resilience. As a professional basketball player, I was used to pushing through pain, but nothing could have prepared me for the diagnosis that followed: stage 3 colon cancer at just 28 years old.

The statistics were terrifying - according to the American Cancer Society, colorectal cancer rates have been increasing in young adults by about 2% per year since the mid-1990s, with approximately 18,000 people under 50 expected to die from the disease this year alone. When my oncologist showed me the numbers, I felt like I was looking at a death sentence. The five-year survival rate for stage 3 colon cancer hovers around 65-70%, but those numbers felt abstract until they became personal. I remember thinking about that mall conversation differently afterward - the normalcy of discussing sponsorship deals while my body was quietly developing something deadly.

Basketball had taught me discipline, but cancer treatment required a different kind of toughness altogether. The chemotherapy sessions left me so weak I could barely stand, let alone consider shooting hoops. There were days when the nausea overwhelmed me completely, and I'd lie on the bathroom floor wondering if I'd ever make it back to the court. My medical team became my new coaching staff, designing plays for survival rather than victory. Dr. Martinez, my oncologist, explained that we were using FOLFOX, a combination of three different drugs administered through a port in my chest. The treatment protocol was aggressive - 12 cycles over six months, with each session leaving me more drained than the last.

What surprised me most was how my athletic background both helped and hindered my recovery. The mental toughness from years of training definitely gave me an edge when facing the grueling treatment schedule. I approached chemotherapy like game preparation - studying the side effects, practicing mindfulness techniques to manage pain, and maintaining strict nutrition even when everything tasted like metal. But my athlete's mentality also worked against me at times. I kept pushing myself too hard, trying to maintain workout routines when my body clearly needed rest. It took a serious conversation with my physical therapist to understand that recovery required listening to my body rather than overpowering it.

The support system made all the difference. My teammates visited regularly, even when I looked nothing like the player they knew. Coach Johnson rearranged practice schedules to accommodate my treatment, and the team owner ensured my insurance coverage remained intact throughout. The basketball community rallied around me in ways I never expected - rival teams sent well-wishes, and former players who'd faced similar battles reached out with advice. This network became my secret weapon, the emotional reinforcement that statistics can't quantify.

There were moments of profound clarity during the darkest periods. I remember one particularly difficult night in the hospital, unable to sleep from the pain, when I realized that beating cancer wasn't about winning in the traditional sense. It was about enduring, about finding meaning in suffering, about appreciating the small victories - keeping food down, walking to the bathroom unaided, managing a genuine smile for the first time in weeks. These became my personal championship moments.

The road back to basketball felt impossible at first. After treatment ended, I was so weak I could barely lift a basketball, let alone shoot one. My muscle mass had decreased by approximately 40% according to my physical therapist's measurements, and my lung capacity was at 60% of its pre-cancer level. The first time I tried running drills, I became winded after just five minutes. But I approached rehabilitation with the same methodology I'd used for basketball training - incremental progress, celebrated small achievements, and relentless consistency.

Now, looking back from the other side, I understand that cancer changed my relationship with basketball fundamentally. I used to play for the thrill of competition, the roar of the crowd, the satisfaction of a perfectly executed play. Now I play with deeper appreciation for what my body can do, for every moment of health, for the privilege of moving without pain. That conversation in the mall represents the before times - the normal concerns about sponsorships and appearances that once dominated my thinking. Cancer rearranged my priorities in permanent ways.

My jersey retirement ceremony last month felt different because of this journey. Standing there watching my number raised to the rafters, I thought about how cancer had become part of my story rather than the end of it. The medical battle taught me that true strength isn't about never falling - it's about how you rise after you've been knocked down. And if my experience can inspire even one person facing their own health crisis to keep fighting, then every difficult moment was worth it. The odds might be daunting, but as any athlete knows - statistics don't determine outcomes, people do.