"You have cancer," the doctor said.

With those three words every aspect of my life changed. Each thought and action now had a new frame of reference. All dreams for the future went on hold. Events of the past acquired a new perspective. Even the present seemed to change right before my eyes. When I looked at the doctor, I was no longer able to focus on his face. I was afraid to look at the Unit's face. Even the sunlight passing through the window somehow looked different, entering the room slower than before.

A life consists of defining moments-points in time when irreversible changes of direction or purpose occur. You may think you have some control over what happens but in reality, all you get to do is make decisions and live with the consequences. It is like a T-intersection where you must choose a left or right turn. We all encounter defining moments although you may not know it at the time. A medical diagnosis of cancer, however, is undeniably a blockbuster.

So what was I doing in an examining room at the Swedish Tumor Institute in the first place? What sequence of events had me to a place that most people avoid at all costs? The story begins a long time ago in a faraway place-Vietnam-but before we go there, let me quote a bit from a remarkable book about champion cyclist Lance Armstrong. Co-written with Sally Jenkins, It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life tells the personal story of Lance Armstrong's life, from childhood through early success, nearly fatal cancer, recovery, survivorship, more triumph, (victory in the Tour de France), marriage, and first-time fatherhood.

Lance had a really, really bad week. Diagnosed with stage 3 testicular cancer that had metastasized to his lungs big time, he went into surgery the next morning and started chemotherapy a few days later. Then bad went to worse when the cancer was discovered in his brain before the end of the week. To top the week off, a letter arrived from the hospital shortly after he started chemo: "Our records show that you have no health insurance."

But Lance fought back and gained insight that only a cancer survivor can see and understand.

"Cancer is like that, too [a struggle that you may or may not win for no obvious reason]. Good, strong people get cancer, and they do all the right things to beat it, and they still die. That is the essential truth that you learn. People die. And after you learn it, all other matters seem irrelevant. They just seem small."

"People die. That truth is so disheartening at times I can't bear to articulate it. Why should we go on, you might ask? Why don't we all just stop and lie down where we are? But there is another truth, too. People live. It's an equal and opposing truth. People live, and in the most remarkable ways. When I was sick, I saw more beauty and triumph and truth in a single day than I ever did in a bike race-but they were human moments, not miraculous ones."

On Monday I had no insight or even knowledge of my future, just a terrible apprehension of the scary medical terms my doctor was describing. But I knew my life was going to change dramatically because I was entering a different time and place called Cancerville.

Surely nothing worse than this can happen this week. I'm not as tough as Lance.