Rogge’s Story
“Fortuitous Fellow”
Rob Roggeman’s Cancer Story begins with a splitting headache on an air plane coming back from a Sauter Wedding in Huntsville, AL in JUNE 2023. I was in intense pain for 30 minutes or so and it didn’t let up until we landed in Tampa. Of course, my wife, Lisa, was concerned, and when I woke up the next morning with my left eye swollen shut, she said, That’s it you are going to the Doctor because you probably had a stroke and busted a blood vessel in your head last night on the plane. I told her I felt fine and went to work.
Lisa texted me a Dr Appt for the end of the day with my Primary Care, Doctor Jon Rog. I knew she was worried because when I went to the DR appt she was there, and she never has been to any of my DR appointments. Lisa wanted an MRI to see if my brain was damaged though I had no symptoms…and Dr Rog agreed as well as making an eye appt for my swollen eye.
So off to BayCare for my MRI we went, and we waited for the results. Dr Rog told us the technician saw something that could be just a shadow, but I would need another MRI this one with contrast. So we scheduled another one. I called my adult children Julie McCobb and Maggie Massengill to give them the news, and Julie said, “Dad, you know they only bring you back for a contrast MRI when they find cancer in the first one.” I was why would you tell me that! Sure enough, Dr Rog told us once again that the “shadow” was definitely something and the BayCare technician recommended watching it for 90 days and re-do the MRI. Dr Rog told us he would be more convinced if a Moffitt Neuro Surgeon recommended that. We agreed.
I was 59 with a brain tumor and headed to Moffitt. As soon as we arrived on the Moffitt Campis we were amazed at the positive attitude of the staff. Everyone there is working first and foremost for the patients! We meet with Dr Vogelbaum who told me I was “very fortuitous” to have listened to my wife. He told us it was his opinion that the 2x4 cm tumor on my front left lob had to come out as soon as possible, and that I was a great candidate for the new Interoperative MRI surgery which Moffitt was just bringing on line. In fact I would be IMRI Patient #1. All through the pre-op appointments I was asked by all the departments what were my symptoms and when I answered I don’t have any, I got quite a few raised eyebrows in return.
Finally my surgery date arrived. We were checked in and ready to go as the first patient of the day. My wife, daughters, cousin Kelli, and good friend Mick Haydak were all there to see me off to the IMRI operating room. The surgery was 3.5 hours long during which the staff kept my wife informed and Dr Vogelbaum briefed her afterwards in what he believed was a successful surgery. They would send it to the lab for the all important Pathology Report.
I came to in the recovery room and was asked what level was my pain between 1-10 with 10 being the most. I was at 4, but really I was hungry and could I get some lunch. Everyone laughed. Recovery was easy for me as the tumor was really in an accessible part of my brain. No muscles or tendons exist in your skull just skin and bone so recovering from brain surgery was not hard or painful, but I did have 27 staples across the front of my head. I left the next morning after a post-operative MRI.
The Pathology Report came back positive for stage 2 cancer, but the beauty of having an IMRI operating room is the Doctor can take MRIs during the surgery ensuring he maximizes its effectiveness.
Yes, I was “very fortuitous” to have caught this tumor growing in my head due to an unrelated headache and sty, to have listened to my wife to go to the Dr Rog appt, to have chosen Moffitt and Dr Vogelbaum, and to having a wonderful and loving support team!!
Robert’s Story
"Unseen Enemy"
I never thought much about my colon. I did the usual stuff—ate what I wanted. There were never too many burgers or fried foods. I’d always been the kind of person who took my health for granted, assuming that if I felt fine, I was fine. No family history of cancer, no real concerns. For the first time, I established a primary care physician and began with what felt like a thousand routine checkups, the kind of thing you do when you're “getting older.”
So, when I booked that colonoscopy for February 25th, 2025, it wasn’t with any sense of dread or concern other than my ass being exposed. It felt like just another preventative step, a little inconvenient but nothing worth losing sleep over. A few days of prep, a few hours in the clinic. Easy.
The nurse had told me the procedure would be straightforward, and when I woke up groggy in the recovery room, I didn’t think anything was unusual. They handed me a cup of water, asked me if I felt okay, and I nodded. I was fine.
But then the doctor walked in sit on the side of my bed and wasted no time telling me I did great with my prep but he didn’t like what he saw as he found something we found during the colonoscopy.”
I froze. The room felt smaller.
“We discovered an unusual growth at the ileocecal valve . It’s a tubular adenocarcinoma.”
I just kept looking at him, trying to process the words. Tubular adenocarcinoma? My mind scrambled for meaning, trying to latch on to something familiar. But nothing came. I just stared at him, my throat dry, my chest suddenly tight.
The doctor went on to explain the basics—how tubular adenocarcinoma is a type of cancer, but often one that starts off as a benign polyp however what was seen has the look and feel of a cancer and needs to come out now.
I kept thinking, But I didn’t have symptoms. I felt fine. There’s no way this is real.
“Do you have any questions?” he asked, but I couldn’t speak. I could only nod slowly, trying to hold it together, feeling everything inside me crumble.
The doctor asked if we had a surgeon and if not he could refer me to an oncologist. I needed scans. We’d talk about surgery. He mentioned chemotherapy, but I barely heard it. My mind was still stuck on the idea that cancer had found me without any warning.
When they discharged me, I walked out of that clinic in a fog. The world seemed distant, like I was walking through someone else’s life. People were going about their day, but I wasn’t with them anymore. I was in a different place. A place where things were out of my control.
I sat in the car with my wife, staring at the dashboard. My heart was still racing. I have cancer. It was a simple fact, but my mind couldn’t wrap itself around it. No symptoms. No warning. Just a surprise. A mass where there shouldn’t be one.
I tried to remain calm, but it didn’t matter. The words hung in the air between us, heavy and unspoken. It didn’t matter that we’d just learned this together; there was a silence now that we couldn’t fill.
That night, I didn’t sleep much. My mind raced through every moment, trying to make sense of it. How could I have cancer when I felt fine? When I had no idea? It felt like my body had betrayed me, like it was playing a trick I couldn’t catch. But more than that, I felt lost. I didn’t know where to start. The oncologist appointment, the scans, the surgeries—it all loomed over me like a storm I couldn’t avoid.
But even through the fear, I clung to something my doctor had said: We caught it early. There are options.
I guess that’s the only thing I could hold on to. The fact that there’s still time. Time to figure out what happens next, time to fight this thing with everything I have.
“The Surgery: A New Chapter”
April 16, 2025. The day my life shifted again, this time under the cold, sterile lights of an operating room.
The plan was to remove 9 to 10 inches of my colon—just enough to get rid of the tumor and the surrounding tissue that might have harbored any lingering cells. A right-side colectomy. I remember the doctor’s face when he told me the details, how his calmness didn’t quite match the weight of what he was saying. The surgeon talked about how the surgery would rid me of the “nasty cancer” that had taken hold of my body, how it would give me the best chance to stay cancer-free.
I didn’t feel brave. I felt scared, but also strangely resolved. I had no choice but to trust these people, this plan. I had to believe that this would work, that this would be my shot at survival.
When I woke up, I didn’t feel relief. There was no rush of joy that it was over. I felt groggy and sore, and the incision on my side was a constant reminder that things had changed. That something had been taken from me, but also something had been saved—my future, my chance at living without this cancer lurking inside me.
The recovery was slow. The pain was manageable, but there was something more profound happening inside me—emotionally, mentally. I wasn’t sure if it was the anesthesia or the weight of what I’d been through, but I found myself questioning everything I thought I knew about myself. Who was I now? Was I still the person who had no idea this cancer was growing inside me?
I had to remember that this was part of the process. Part of surviving.
“Chemotherapy: The Next Step”
Now, here I am—waiting. Waiting to begin chemotherapy on June 10, 2025 as a preventative measure to make sure the cancer doesn’t come back. It’s a new chapter, and I can’t help but feel a mix of fear and determination.
Chemotherapy isn’t something I had imagined myself going through. I always thought it was something that happened to other people, not to me.
But here I am, facing it head-on. Ready to do whatever it takes to keep this cancer away, to give my body the best chance at healing. The journey isn’t over, but maybe it’s only just beginning. The road ahead is long and uncertain, but I know one thing: I’m not giving up. I’m going to fight. And if cancer thought it had won with its surprise attack, it’s got another thing coming.
