Authored by Brad Todd via The What For Substack,
We bought our house in the same year I discovered Piemonte, and that was fortuitous. The house came with a walk-in wine cellar and the family-owned vineyards strewn across the rolling Italian hills from LaMorra to Serralunga D’Alba provided a learnable collection of producers to fill it up. It is a good thing I have enjoyed the chore of curating this wine because I will not get to enjoy drinking it.
This afternoon, maybe even as you read this, I will be in a long surgery at Johns Hopkins Hospital to remove a nasty high-grade malignant tumor from my ethmoid sinus. It is a distant cousin of the cancer blob I had cut out in 2020, after an unnecessary Covid test speared loose a hunk of tumor I did not know was there. The pandemic saved my life once, and it put me in contact with the crackerjack medical team at the world’s best otolaryngology unit that will save it again.
Sinus tumors are rare – though I prefer the term “exceptional” as only hundreds of people a year battle these bastards. After what will be a rough post-surgery recovery, I will get radiation and maybe a lagniappe of chemotherapy. But I will not be savoring my amazing Italian wine collection. After my 2020 surgery, I lost my sense of smell for about six months, and my taste overall for a little less than that. My olfactory receptors were removed from my left nostril, but I started with a bloodhound’s nose so half of that was plenty to keep. Wine was still complex and wonderful as soon as I recovered from that surgery’s trauma. But not this time, not with this surgical plan.
The question I am asking, and also suggesting for you, is what other wine did I store and not drink?
What other wine can I drink when this is all done?
Before I knew cancer was back, I had a conversation last month with someone about getting over it the first time. I told her, as I have often said, “you cannot un-hear that your body is trying to kill you.” She immediately asked me: “what did you change?”
I gave two answers, one applied to work and one to home.
First, I said cancer made me adopt a professional policy of only giving the same good advice twice. The younger version of me would lay awake at night grinding on how I might get clients over the hump on a strategic decision they were resisting. Cancer in 2020 made me a more disciplined advisor. Sen. Dave McCormick, whose winning campaign I helped guide in 2024, often says he is glad he “got the post-cancer Brad.” As a former CEO and Army officer who has made a career of perfecting leadership, he could see that I had developed perspective on how to sit on a running horse, in jockey terms, and dig in my heels only, and exactly, when it was critical.
On the personal side, I told my friend that enduring cancer in 2020 made me put my kids’ big moments at the top of my priority list. The first time I left the house after surgery, too early of course, was to coach my daughter’s rec softball team. It was excruciating and exhilarating at the same time. Then, over her four years in high school, I missed exactly one re-scheduled, rained-out prep game to my knowledge, and I have yet to miss my son playing football – though this Friday night’s scrimmage is in doubt. There was one freshman baseball game, with one at-bat, up Interstate 270 at rush-hour that I could not reach. I made it to the recitals, the voice contests, the awards ceremonies, the parent chapels and school plays. I made them all, save one where she had just four lines. I skipped work meetings that were billed as essential. I rebooked CNN hits. I even ducked out on TV commercial shoots when I could not schedule them around the ball games and plays. I kept the main thing the main thing, and still do. Thank goodness cancer found me right before my kids hit the high school phase of important activities instead of finding me afterward, because I could have easily screwed this up based on my prior professional trajectory.
But I did still store up the wine.
My collection is mostly Barolo, the King of Italian wine, though there are some Barbaresco bottles, some California strays, and a handful of cheap but complicated Sagrantino vintages from Umbria that few Americans have discovered yet. I got hooked on single-cru wines, meaning they are made with grapes grown on the same small patch of ground, with the same sunlight. Over time I have listed toward the steeper crus that surround the village of Serralunga D’Alba, deciding that the Prapo cru is the best, though the higher-elevation Monvigliero cru is also a charm and Lazzarito a treat.
I have long-ish Barolo verticals by G.D. Vajra, my favorite producer, in the delicate Bricco Delle Viole and the easy-drinking Ravera crus, bottles of which I bought my surgeon and his assistant the week after my 2020 tumor resection, with a promise we would all drink them simultaneously when I hit the five-year-all-clear mark that cancer patients universally point toward.
That celebration happened last fall, and statistically speaking, I should not be fighting the same tumor in Year Six. But tumors do not keep calendars. Now I must undergo a medical path that will certainly obliterate my ability to savor Italian wine but save my life in the process. It is a fair trade that I am willing to make.
The imminent loss of my ability to appreciate this stored asset is making me contemplate what else I under-savored over the last six years.
One thing is vacations. Our family did not take one this year; we just did not carve out the time. My wife and I also punted our 25th Anniversary trip for the third year in a row. We now intend to take it in December after radiation, paired up with a speech I am giving. But I am a little ticked off we have not done it three times, instead of skipping it three times. Early in our marriage we took a great anniversary weekend every year and they are life highlights for me; we are highly compatible in travel habits and those trips bring out our beautiful integration. We fly by the seat of our pants, having the same high tolerance for uncertainty. We once went to Europe with exactly nothing planned for the last half of our itinerary until after we were on the continent. The resulting spontaneous side trip to Chamonix, hiking and then sitting poolside staring up at Mont Blanc with no agenda, was the unexpected dead-stop recharge we needed.
After this current crap is over, she and I will take more trips. Spending time with her, doing whatever she wants, has to be elevated as an aspiration on my post-cancer agenda. We have spent 19 years doing a darn good job of child-rearing together and I think the post-parenting phase of “us” also will rock.
I also intend to read more books. Substack has been a great addition to my life because it took over some of my X doom scrolling, but it also has been a parasite sucking away time I formerly devoted to literature. That needs to be rectified, as I am only halfway through Cormac McCarthy’s library and that is unacceptable progress for a 56-year-old East Tennessean. Reading books overall has cratered in our society, so I am not alone in that, but I can do my part.
I volunteered more after cancer for charity and church initiatives I care about – but some of that may be attributable to aging as much as surviving. All of us should inventory our give-back quotient as we hit our peak executive years when we can do the most good. Stacking cans at the food bank is great but coming up with a plan to get weekly milk deliveries is more impactful.
Showing up has always been a good trait of mine – friends’ funerals, moving days, performances have always hit my calendar – but I will probably up my percentage closer to 100 after this. Church services in general have been a bigger deal in my life since 2020 – my faith did not need an accelerant, but my worship discipline did. I recommend it. Cancer probably made me a little bolder in publicly professing my own faith – or a little less self-conscious about acknowledging it, even if it was live on CNN. I recommend that, too, and I predict I will be even more uninhibited now.
Live music is something I probably did not expect to elevate based on a medical diagnosis, but it will happen this time. Some of the highlights of my middle age have been great concerts. A show on a New York City rooftop this summer with my wife and kids and the Turnpike Troubadours, my favorite band, was the single best two hours of 2026 for me. The next Turnpike show in Richmond in October should coincide with commencement of my radiation and I hope to make that happen. Since my musical daughter loves shows too, and my son and I share a genre taste, I will pro-actively put big shows in concrete on the calendar, even if we must travel to get there.
The next few days will be a rough ride after at least seven hours of surgery – followed by a couple miserable weeks on the couch with my face full of surgical packing as I taper pain meds. I will binge shows on all the streaming platforms and grumble that college football is not yet here while staring down my fat but snuggly dog. Together, he and I will make a longer mental list of things I intend to do with the next, hopefully long, tranche of borrowed time God has given me.
You can make that kind of list, too, without the anesthesia and face-packing I will get, as all of us are on borrowed tranches of God-given time whether we learn that from a radiologist or not.
Drink the wine.
Make the game.
See the show.
Tell the people you love that you love them, out loud.
Pray a little more – and throw in a prayer for your favorite columnist.