My Story

The morning of September 20th should have been a day of joy. It was Staci’s birthday, and I had a huge day ahead at work. But at 3 a.m., everything changed.

I woke to use the restroom, and as I stood up, I suddenly felt lightheaded. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor. At first, I brushed it off, got up, and tried again—only to collapse once more. This time, I called out, “Staci, I think I just passed out.”

She rushed in, eyes filled with worry, and immediately said we needed to call an ambulance. I resisted. I insisted I was fine once I sat down and reminded her I couldn’t miss work that day. But she saw something I didn’t—she saw the life draining from my face.

When the paramedics arrived, lying down, my vitals looked normal. But the second I stood, all the color drained out of me. That was my first ambulance ride ever.

My first day in the hospital after diagnosis.

At the hospital, after some initial testing, I went to the restroom again and discovered blood in both my stool and urine. Suddenly, everything shifted into urgency. I was rushed to endoscopy, where they found Stage 2 esophageal cancer.

At first, there was a sliver of hope. If it hadn’t penetrated the wall, maybe immediate surgery could remove it. But the news came back—it had spread too far. Surgery wasn’t an option.

I remember sitting with Staci in silence, just the two of us, processing the weight of it all. After the doctor left, I told her, “I don’t believe in a God who brought us together just to tear us apart 10 years later.” I clung to that conviction.

The plan became six weeks of chemo and six weeks of radiation, then surgery if it was possible. Because of my gastric bypass ten years earlier, surgeons weren’t even sure my stomach could be used to replace my esophagus. But first things first: treatment.

Chemo, Radiation, and Pride

My first chemo was in the hospital. That Wednesday, I came home just in time to watch Iowa State play Texas. Jacob Park was at quarterback. We lost, but I didn’t care. I was alive, I was home, and I wasn’t about to let cancer steal my Cyclones.

My first night home, I had to watch this shit show.

From then on, Mondays were chemo, and every weekday at noon was radiation. I was proud that I hardly missed work. I missed every Monday, but the rest of the week, I showed up. Not because I felt strong—but because I was terrified that if I let myself go home one day, if I gave in even once, I’d disappoint everyone pulling for me. Pride became part of my fuel.

At chemo, there was always a young boy who was hooked up before me and still there after I left. I’d watch him and think, “If that kid can fight like that, then I can’t complain. I have to keep going.”

The community rallied. Friends brought meals, helped with chores, and showed up in ways that humbled me. I couldn’t let them down.

My support team

The Night With Caitlyn

One night, my daughter Caitlyn came upstairs, tears streaming down her face. She sobbed, “Dad, you don’t deserve this.” That cut deeper than any diagnosis. I pulled her close and told her, “We’re not going to think like that. We’re not going to give up.”

That’s when I showed her a motivational video I’d found—one I watched often myself. It said:“Life can beat you into the street and leave you there if you let it. You can stay there and take the beating—or you can get up and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done.” See the video HERE

I told her, “That’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to keep moving forward.” That moment wasn’t just for her—it was for me, too. Saying it out loud gave me strength I didn’t know I had.

Faith and Christmas Eve

Faith carried me. Every day I prayed the Hail Mary, the Our Father, and then begged God to guide the doctors’ hands. “Point the equipment in the right spot,” I prayed. “And if You save me, I will tell everyone what You’ve done for me.”

That Christmas Eve, I sat in church during Mass, still fragile, still recovering, and people I knew came up to me one by one. They hugged me, told me they loved me, and held me close. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much in church. Those embraces weren’t just gestures—they were lifelines.

Inspired by the Cyclones

Iowa State beats mighty Oklahoma

Through it all, the 2017 Iowa State football team became my mirror. They weren’t supposed to win that year. They lost their starting quarterback, were given no chance against Oklahoma, and yet—against all odds—they won.

I saw myself in that team. Beaten down, written off, yet refusing to quit. Every upset they pulled off—Oklahoma, TCU, games that no one thought they’d win—lit a fire in me. If they could keep fighting, so could I.

When Joel Lanning switched positions, when Kyle Kempt came in from nowhere, when the team just kept grinding—it reminded me of my own fight. Every Monday morning before chemo, I’d watch that motivational video and think of the Cyclones. They didn’t give up. Neither would I.

Surgery and Recovery

On my birthday, December 4th, I sat in a hotel in Iowa City drinking colon prep instead of celebrating. The next morning, December 5th, I went into surgery. Miraculously, they were able to remove my esophagus and use my stomach. The chemo and radiation had worked. Most of the cancer was gone.

Morning of surgery

Recovery was brutal. Eight days in the hospital. I even landed in A-fib after getting too excited watching Iowa State men’s basketball beat Iowa. Leave it to me to nearly give myself a heart episode celebrating a Cyclones win in enemy territory.

Three days after coming home, my incision got infected. The pain of being rushed back to Iowa City and having the wound reopened was worse than anything else. Staci became my nurse—packing and cleaning the wound daily. She was my rock.

Laying in the hospital after my ambulance trip

By late December, I sat surrounded by friends and family, feeding tube in place, watching Iowa State win the Liberty Bowl. Matt Campbell’s first bowl win felt like mine, too.

Watching a Cyclone Bowl Victory

A 5% Chance

Over the next three years, I went for scans every six months. Each came back clear. Finally, in 2020, my doctor told me something he had kept to himself: “When you first left my office, I told my assistant you had a 5% chance of survival.”

Five percent. And yet, here I was.

That’s when I knew—I had been given a second chance. And I wasn’t going to waste it.

I promised myself I’d never again live in fear. I started a podcast. I co-founded 3 Beards Media with my friends. We gave back to charities. We built something that mattered. I leaned harder into family, faith, and community.

I wake up every day thankful—for Staci, who carried me through, for my kids who gave me strength, for friends who fed us and prayed for us, for doctors whose hands were guided, and for a football team in 2017 that reminded me how to fight.

This isn’t just a cancer story. It’s a story of grace, grit, community, and second chances.

Every day, I choose to get up and keep moving forward. Because that’s how winning is done.

Chris Shipley