This is a dedication to all those who have fought, are fighting, and will fight the battle I currently face, so that they might see my story and fight a little longer, cry a little less, and laugh a little more.

I was diagnosed with cancer 2 weeks before my 20^th birthday. The funny thing about being diagnosed is that they don’t actually tell you what you have; instead, they give you a list of confusing adjectives and medical terms all pointing to one big bold word at the bottom of the page – Malignant. The doctor will say something comforting, your parents will cry, and whoever else is in the room will probably feel a discomfort unlike any other they have felt before. You, on the other hand, will only have one question on your mind: “will this kill me?” That’s a tough one, for anyone, especially a 19 year old who thought his chest pains were a result of an armbar gone wrong.

The answer, however, came months before I was diagnosed, in the strangest of places, at the strangest of moments: my first match in the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu Nationals. I remember it clearly with great regret. It would be my first of two losses in competition, and my opponent’s name still resounds clearly in my head. Christian Quismundo. I remember stepping onto the mat in my Gi, excited, scared, smiling like a retard. The match didn’t end in submission, although it almost did. It began with the regular feeling out process, until I sat down, grabbed a hold of his sleeves, and positioned myself in whats known as a spider guard. Once that happened I felt as if I was in control. I felt as if I could pull this mother off and look like a beast in front of my team.

Lord, how wrong I was. Quismundo was a strong guy, trained for about 2 years more than I did, in both Judo and Jiu-Jitsu, and had a game face that, to be honest, had me worried that urine would leak midway through the match. I felt as if I was in control until about halfway in, when he began passing my guard. I panicked and it wasn’t long before he had me in side mount. That’s when it began. A slow pounding in the upper left side of my chest. A thud thud thud. Not a heartbeat, but a pain that to this day can only be described as your heart humping your lungs. It was horrendous, but momentary. A few seconds later, I was back in the real world, where I was mounted by the Jiu Jitsuka midway through the BJJ nationals. I looked to the sidelines and heard four words from my coach that would define and inspire what was to come in so many ways.

“Angelo, keep on moving.”

At the time I had no idea what they meant, nor what they implied. Sad to say, I did the opposite. I froze, unable to think, trying to scan my brain for whatever escapes I had to side mount. In a few moments, Quismundo had transitioned to a more upright position, with a hold on my left arm. I knew what was coming but was too retarded to do much of anything. I squirmed like the fool I was trying frantically to look like less of an idiot then I already did, but it was too late. Quismundo won on points, and I lost looking like someone straight out of an anti-cocaine infomercial. After the match, my coach, Ali Sulit, looked me in the eyes and said “You should have kept on moving.”

I would remember those words avidly. Especially through out my first few sessions of chemotherapy. Right after the needle leaves your hand. The effects will kick in. I’m sure there have been enough tear-evoking cancer movies to paint an ugly picture. The truth is, it’s not always like the movies. Everyone should know that cancer is not a walk in the park, just like it isnt a death sentence.

However, the hardships one endures throughout the disease require a special strength to be mustered. A strength I was happy to find in the memory of a coach shouting at me whilst a stronger man mounted me. “Keep on moving”. I was happy to do so. I can remember to this day, being in the fetal position, rosary in one hand, Biancas hand in another, slowly whipsering those four words. “Angelo, keep on moving”. Those words became a solemn mantra, after every session, after every blood test, after every hardship that followed.

A few months after the tournament, I was a vague shadow of my former self. Bald, ten pounds lighter, and scared shitless in a sky blue medical gown. My close friends, parents and I were in the PET scan room in St. Luke’s. All of us were wondering what the extent of my cancer was, and whether or not it had spread since my last scan. Luckily it hadn’t, and the only new signs of it were two small specks dispersed on opposite sides of my upper body. Unfortunately, the PET scan also revealed that the tumor was a big one – about the size of my fist, right on top of my heart, and inbetween my lungs. The good news was, the doctors had finally determined what sort of cancer I had: Large B-Cell Lymphoma, which like most cancers these days is treatable and survivable. It also meant that I was a prime candidate for a study, which would not only pay for my treatments but give me the most advanced medicine the modern world was aware of.

It wasnt long before the blood tests, ct scans, injections, and even the chemotherapy became routine. The discomfort was easier to deal with, and the drama eventually subsided. Surprisngly, I started gaining weight, laughing more, even grappling a little in my living room when my brothers and friends were up to it. The CT scans began to show signs of shrinkage, and that feeling of relief slowly began to sit in. I was getting better.

Only then did I realize that the question I had asked myself all those months ago had an answer. However, it wasnt the one I was looking for, the reason being that no doctor will assure your survival nor will they resign you to your doom. The answer is: do not ask yourself whether or not you will live or die. Do not ask your self what your chances are. Ask yourself the purest question asked by every honorable human being who has seen what is to come and was frightened that it may take his life.

Will I keep on moving, no matter what the outcome?

You will always find that the most inspiring stories are not of men and women who have survived, but those who have passed, and had fought for their lives with the strength and passion that each life is worth fighting for. The individuals who stared the possibility of death in the eye and in the words of Edmond Dantes, said ‘Do your worst…for I will do mine’, because, unlike Quismundo, cancer cannot win on points. There is no bell to signal the end of the match. There is only you and that voice in the sidelines. Listen to it. Smile, and be brave. Keep on moving.

- Angelo Gayanelo