So here I am, about a month into the Stage 4 diagnosis. Strange, scary, overwhelming, and life, it’s completely shifting my brain, my thoughts, my perspective. I used to care about every slight. Now? Someone pisses me off? Bye. Didn’t even notice they walked in the room. No patience for drama. I don’t have regrets. Well, maybe a few, but mostly it’s just time that stings. That one time I wasted chasing whatever high, whatever failing relationship, it burns more than the diagnosis itself.
Doctors talk about remission, talk about killing the cancer, but their faces are sad, and their degrees mean nothing when the tools they've got haven’t changed for 50 fucking years. It’s all chemo, radiation, pain, side effects. They put on a brave face and push the same old narrative, half of the time it doesn’t work, and no one wants to mention that.
I want something different. I want what’s real. The press-pulse protocol. Low-dose chemo, metabolic therapy, hyperbaric oxygen, combined with strict diet. It’s the one thing that gives real hope, but it’s only available ina few countries, including Thailand, only if you can swing $50,000 a year. That solution isn’t in the US. There’s no upside for big pharma. No money to be made. So it's treated like an obscure footnote, not a frontline treatment.
I don’t have $50,000. I’ve got scattered savings, mounting bills, co-pays I can’t afford. I'm bleeding cash with no end in sight. The fight I’m facing isn't against cancer cells, it’s against clockwork and balance sheets. And so I’ll struggle through this here: patchy chemo, OTC salvage, RSO (Rick Simpson Oil), keto, fasting, glutamine suppression, prayer, rage, the works. Because I have to.
I don’t lack courage. Not for a goddamn second. I lack the fucking money. And that’s a fucking tragedy.
This diagnosis has dug a trench through my mind. I oscillate between fury, despair, grit, and blank exhaustion. Some nights I can’t sleep because I'm too busy wondering how the hell I’m gonna keep the lights on and afford the next treatment, any treatment. Other nights? I sleep because I'm bleeding mentally and need the peace.
Friends are retreating. Loved ones don't know what to say. I get the texts “thinking of you” but they fade after a day. No one wants to hear that chemo’s messing with my guts or that I’m terrified the bill collector is going to show up at my door. Do I have to choose between cancer treatment and food? Already have.
It’s terrifying to realize that your life’s worth half what it is if there’s no payout. Money and health are bedfellows, and one just knocked on the door wielding a foreclosure notice.
I don’t expect pity. I don’t want a pity parade. I want truth, mine and everybody else’s. So here’s the raw, unfiltered version: if you think I’m lacking courage, or that I’ve tapped out, or that I’m looking for sympathy, you’re reading the wrong guy.
But I’m not going to lie to you either.
This shit isn’t fair. It isn’t poetic. It isn’t wrapped in some silver-lining bullshit. I still think I can beat this thing. But let’s be real, miracles come with price tags. And when the clock starts ticking faster, you learn how expensive every breath really is.
I'm not just fighting cancer. I’m up against a system that commodifies survival. That dangles hope like a carrot on a stick, then sells you the stick.
So if you're still reading, you're part of this with me. And that means everything.
Because we’re all closer to this kind of breakdown than we think. One shitty diagnosis, one paycheck miss, one uninsured loved one away from the same dance. And what I’m finding out is simple: illness is expensive, invisible, endless. The health care system is about who can afford to live, not who can afford to die with dignity.
I’ve got a life to finish, a documentary to make in 2028, people I adore, chapters left in my book, beaches I haven’t surfed yet, motorcycles waiting, stories to tell. I refuse to step off the cliff early.
But if I’m doing this alone? I die in the dark, not of cancer, but of loneliness, financial ruin, and quiet surrender. And that? That’s bullshit.
I’m in. Fully. Mentally exhausted, brutally scared, but mentally in. If I can’t make it to Thailand, I’ll burn every alternative therapy, every prayer, every joint, every ounce of rage and help I can find. I’ll fight with every cell of this body. I know what a battle looks likeand I’ve already decided not to stand with the corpses.
So I’ll do what I can, with what I have. And if you’re reading this?
Thanks for seeing me.
Let's turn this mess into a fight with heart.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
