I’m a cancer victim.

At least I am the one on record.

There are other victims.

The first is probably my wife, Kim.

She is the one who bears the brunt of my disease.

There are errands to run.

It’s Kim.

There are bills to pay.

It’s Kim.

There is family discipline to instill.

Yep, it’s still Kim.

She makes appointments, picks up prescriptions, heads to the grocery store, picks up paint and brushes at the hardware store, etc., etc., etc.

The kids do not have it so great, either.

When I originally came home from the hospital a year and a half ago after the surgery to cut the tumor from my kidney, 23-year-old Breanna stuck it out with me.

She fetched things. She grabbed pillows and blankets. She made sure I wasn’t too warm or too cold. She endured watching hour after hour of “Cops” and “Dog: The Bounty Hunter.”

When I found out the cancer had spread to my brain a year or so later, I started to cry.

That was just about the time that our 19-year-old son, Jordan, came in the front door with some of his buddies.

He started to cry, too, and he did not even know why. He knew it had to be something serious if his dad, someone who never met a serious situation he could not attach a punch line to, was bawling on the couch.

The doctors took care of that small lesion and I am fine.

But Kim is still handling the chores. Breanna and Jordan are still tiptoeing around the house way too often. Our other kids, Kyle and Brittany, are letting their hugs linger a lot longer than usual.

Cancer is a crazy disease. I’m the one on the prayer list in church. My wife and kids are the ones I pray for when it’s time to check in with God.

They are its victims, too.