Life Begins LivRFN
After facing a grim prognosis, Matt Ward was inspired by three little letters that changed his approach to life. Now he hopes to change yours — RFN.
By: Matt Ward / 7 minute Read Time
In the fall of 2017, I flipped the cancer card. What I thought was a benign lump in my neck turned out to be a deadly form of idiopathic melanoma. When my surgeon called and told me I needed an oncologist ASAP I felt like I’d been hit between the eyes with a two-by-four. I was stunned and scared, and I immediately called my rock star wife, Deb.
Cancer wasn’t new to me. Seven years earlier, I’d lived through watching my long-time partner die of lung cancer. Leanna and I never married, but she helped raise my children and instilled in me an appreciation for life that I had not known before. In many ways, she taught me how to live and love and, regrettably, how to die. But I wasn’t ready to die just yet. In many ways, I felt my life had just begun.
You see, after Leanna died I wasn’t looking for a new relationship. I hadn’t even considered getting married. Then I met Deb and all that changed. I told her, “If you love me it’s, in large part, because of the influence that Leanna had on me.” After Deb and I married and blended our families, my priorities changed.
For 24 years, I operated a general contracting business and built a very successful company. But in 2016 I shut it down to spend more time with Deb and my family. The following year when that lump appeared, it seemed like a cruel joke. It also filled me with a sense of determination to live. Cancer wasn’t f#cking around — and neither was I.
When we first discovered the lump, my doctor took a wait-and-see approach. Wait-and-see wasn’t for me. I insisted on having the growth removed —right now.
When the biopsy showed conclusively that I had melanoma, I insisted on starting immunotherapy —right now.
At that time, immunotherapy was a relatively new treatment for this type of cancer, so the outcome was uncertain. Prior to the development of immunotherapy, melanoma had a five-year survival rate of 10 percent. Basically, it was a death sentence. Now, there was hope.
Every two weeks, Deb and I drove to UCH Medical Center for my infusion. Afterward, the side effects were rough —like a 36-hour hangover. But the aggressive approach was worth it. There was something deep inside me that said,
“Whatever I need to do to fight this prognosis, I’m going to do it — right now.”
That sense of urgency and intention didn’t stop there. In the fourth month of my treatment, an idea came to me. I had a vision of building a home in the mountains for my beautiful wife and our four kids — and maybe (someday) for our grandkids. I dreamed of a house filled with love.
Over the course of my career, I’d overseen more than 1500 projects, but I never built anything for myself. After my diagnosis, I knew it was time. Right now.
The house I envisioned would be our family’s legacy.
I worked with an architect to get my vision down on paper. Then, one Saturday, Deb and I loaded up the dogs, grabbed a couple of road pops, and headed to the mountains where we found a piece of property that was the perfect spot to build our new home. It all came together. There was no “let’s wait and see.” It was all about let’s do this now —right now.
Not surprisingly, my house was built with great attention to detail —and in record time. Within four months after we broke ground, the house was dried in and the interior work could begin.
The signature piece of our new home was a family wall that would be covered in round cuts of wood hewn from trees felled on our property. It was a fitting focal point for the house because each ring of a tree is an accounting of time’s passing — and a reminder that the only moment we have is right now.
Our entire extended family spent that holiday creating the first five feet of the wood wall. Those who could handle chain saws sliced logs, while others hauled them inside. There, Deb and other family members directed where each piece would go in the massive, vertical, mosaic puzzle.
It was a true collaboration and we had a great time putting it together. When completed, there were more than 400 wooden rounds carefully placed on that wall, each piece a symbol of our unity as a family and the time we have together.
Building the Vista House became part of my therapy. It gave me something to focus on in the present as I dreamed of our future.
I had 52 infusions over two years. Halfway through my treatment cycle, my doctor told me that I could scale it back to once a month. But that didn’t make sense to me. I was committed to an aggressive approach — as in, right now.
By fall 2018, I had 25 infusions. Around that time, I was preparing to attend a men’s group retreat. We were given some questions to answer: Where are you stuck? What stories do you tell yourself? What patterns do you have?
As I thought about those questions, “RFN” just appeared in my heart and mind. You know how musicians talk about the way they hear a song in their heads and just sit down and compose it? That’s how this concept came together for me. I wrote this to share with the group:
Pursue your positive goals and dreams — right now
Get rid of any negativity in your life —right now
Be intentional in everything you do. Be your best!!
Life is short, precious, and fragile. This is not practice — you only get one!!
Live your life and always be kind – right now
What does right now mean?
Right F#cking Now! (RFN)
And that’s how RFN was born.
Looking back, RFN was a mantra building in my life for years, but I don’t know if it would have come out without the encouragement to be vulnerable in this men’s group.
Recently, Deb added “live” to the motto because it really is a way of life. I had to live through Leanna’s cancer death, shut down my successful construction company, and for some reason, the Lord sent me through my own cancer journey to be inspired to LivRFN.
As I spread the word through this newly formed initiative, I hope LivRFN inspires other people to make choices to live more fully and intentionally without having to face death and go through what I did.
So what’s my life like —RFN?
In January 2020, I made the decision to stop my immunotherapy treatments. Ending my treatment was trippy. Why stop something that’s kept me alive? I always thought, “When, not if, the cancer recurs, will it kill me this time?” Every four months, I’d go in for a scan and get the best news you can get after a cancer diagnosis: The four magic words, No evidence of disease (NED).
In February 2022 I’d been NED for two years. At my quarterly check-up, the doctor sat Deb and me down and said, “We have some new data. If you’ve had no recurrence of the disease for two years after treatment has stopped, research now shows that your cancer is more than likely to not reoccur.”
I was stunned. Deb pushed for more information, “What’s ‘more than likely mean’? What percentage of patients are not recurring?”
His answer: About 90-percent. In other words, a cancer diagnosis that was once considered a death sentence now only has a 10-percent chance of returning. That’s a significant mind shift! Now, instead of “When” it is truly an “If” it will reoccur!
I am grateful, so grateful, to simply be alive — right now.
When I look back on what has been most meaningful and memorable in my life, experiences way outnumber the acquisitions or accomplishments. A new house or a new car is cool, but spending time with Deb, my family and friends are what I’m all about — right now.
Right now — I have the hope of living to see my grandchildren. Right now — every day is a miracle. Right now — anything is possible. Right now — Right F#cking Now!!
About the Author:
I’m a husband, father, recovering general contractor, decent skier, elk hunter, solid beginner fly fisherman, e-bike rider, quality human, and friend. Mountains and nature feed my soul! Inspired by my experience with life and cancer, I launched an initiative called LivRFN to encourage others to be intentional with their lives. You can find out more about LivRFN soon at www.LivRFN.com.
