From the moment he steps up to the check-in desk, I have him pegged: crusty, impatient, and demanding. Before the American Airlines flight attendant even has the chance to call for parents with young children or anyone else needing a little extra time to get settled, he stands directly in front of her with his foot pounding out a steady rhythm and his face settled into a tight-lipped scowl.

When she calls for us to board, (less than 5 minutes later), he charges down the jetway and crams his briefcase into the overhead bin across from my seat. I glance at his red-rimmed eyes, bulbous nose, and weathered face and wonder if he is a jet-lagged businessman or a raging alcoholic, in desperate need of a drink (or both).

Because I have no other choice, I wedge myself between him and a woman who has already folded her beefy arms across her chest and tilted her closed eyes towards the window in a “don’t you dare try to engage me in a conversation” pre-emptive strike. Every part of me wishes it was still Saturday and I was still with my friends on the Brooklyn Bridge.

A syrupy voice comes over the speaker to let us know we have to wait for a few bags to arrive from a couple of last-minute connections before we will be “up and on our way.”

He shifts back and forth in his seat as his scowl deepens. “Damn airline. Just my luck. We’ll probably be late.” I hear him mutter.

In an attempt to avoid conversation, I focus on the vent overhead and adjust the dial to reduce the stream of freezing air blasting at my face, and then pull out the in-flight magazine. Before I get past the Editor’s welcome page, he directs his gruff voice at me.

“You heading home.” From his tone, it sounds like a statement instead of a question.

Maybe he’s just having a bad day and I should give him the benefit of the doubt, I think. Besides, didn’t I just write that post about Lessons Learned on Street corners. 

So, I turn to him and smile, “actually I’m on a trip around North America. Been on the road for five weeks.”

“For work?” he asks.

Then comes the part where I attempt to explain in 60 seconds or less how I’m traveling around North America to connect with other cancer survivors, not for profits, and international volunteer organizations in an effort to discern how I can best help other survivors pick up the pieces of their pre-cancer life.

Typically I either get a blank look or a huge smile. It’s no surprise when he stares at me like I forgot to put on my clothes before boarding the plane. Then he twists his face into a “what the hell would you want to do that for?” frown.

“Oh so you’re an idealist.” The derision in his voice is palpable as he continues, “I USED to be an idealist, but then I learned how the world REALLY works.”

I can’t help myself. The words tumble out, “I used to be a realist, but then I got cancer. Now I CHOOSE to see the world from a hopeful place.”

“No,” he continues. “It doesn’t work that way. A realist is a reformed idealist who knows that life doesn’t work out. It’s a crapshoot and it’s all the luck of the draw whether we live or die. There is no point in having idealistic dreams. They won’t come true anyway.”

I can’t bring myself to nod or even acknowledge his rant. For once, I  am almost surprised by how little I care about his opinion. You see, the old Terri was a validation junkie, always in search of my next fix. If this conversation had happened even a year ago, I would have found a way to get him to see my point of view by agreeing with his. Like a hamster, I would have jumped on the wheel of approval and ran my little rodent heart out for the rest of the flight. All in the hope that he would give me a pat on the back and tell me that my idea was a sound one and he admired what I was trying to accomplish.

But, thankfully….the new me could care less what this grouchy, overworked (and probably overpaid) man thinks of me.

So, instead, I say, “I guess we are all entitled to our opinions.”

As soon as the plane levels off, I open up my laptop and start to work. I don’t need to hear one more minute of his diatribe about his state-of-the-art home in the woods of Connecticut and how he needs to travel 280 days of the year in order to maintain his lifestyle. Because HE’S living in the REAL world.

For a few seconds, I debate telling him about the amazing things that have happened since I took my most recent leap of faith and gave up my apartment in Vancouver. How I met Brene Brown after I heard her speak in Vancouver; how I saw Oprah live in Atlanta; how my time at LIVESTRONG in Austin (with Gary Thompson of CLOUDHealth) helped me remember Survivorship is Not A Phase; and how lucky I feel to have met with inspiring survivors like Brenda Coffee of Breast Cancer Sisterhood, Debbie Woodbury of Where We Go Now, Jennifer Merschdorf of Young Survivor Coalition), Matthew Zachary of I[2]Y/Stupid Cancer), Britta Aragon, Author of When Cancer Hits and Founder of Cinco Vidas); Elyn Jacobs; AnneMarie Ciccarella of Chemo Brain Fog; and Murray Jones of Talk About Health.

But he probably wouldn’t bat a crusty eyelash at any of it. And, he might have even find a way to twist his heel into my excitement about the HUGE NEWS I found out about on Friday. The news that a review I wrote about my volunteer experience in South Africa on the GO Overseas website led to me winning their contest for a Round The World Plane Ticket. I know. Pinch me.

How this news helps me believe that the immediate dream I have been secretly incubating is POSSIBLE. The dream to leave Canada in December of this year to travel and volunteer on almost every continent as a way to raise awareness of both the benefits of international volunteering and the challenges of picking up the pieces of your life after a traumatic event like cancer.

I know. December is next month. But, I have to be back in Canada in mid June for my brother’s wedding, so the sooner I leave, the more ground I can cover. Yes, I am mentally hyperventilating into a paper bag and have no idea how it will all come together. But, I will keep reminding myself that fear is just an emotion, not my dictator and keep focusing on feeling grateful for the journey I have had already. I know none of this would have happened, had I stayed safely ensconced in my Vancouver life.

Yes, I’m sure this crotchety “Negative Ned” would happily find a way to tell me I am deluded and will fall flat on my ass. And, maybe I will. But, hopefully, I won’t.

So, instead of worrying about what he thinks, I will focus on the work ahead of me. I have relationships to forge with volunteer organizations; a massive around the world itinerary to plan; and the challenge of figuring out how to fund this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I get it “Ned”. Life is imperfect and messy – don’t I know it. But, we only get one shot. So as I close my eyes and recline my seat on the mercifully short flight from New York to Toronto, I repeat the wise words of Scott Stratten over and over in my mind.

“Do not try to win over the haters. You are not the jack ass whisperer.”