How I'm Doing So Far.
The beginning of the road starts with gratitude.
I’m damn lucky.
I’ve got great insurance, a rock-solid husband, an incredible circle of friends, and access to some of the best hospitals and doctors on the planet. Every single day lately, I’m reminded just how fortunate I am.
There I was, sitting in the first oncologist’s waiting room — the first real appointment of this journey — nervous doesn’t begin to cover it.
Before this appointment, I’d already had three separate calls with nurses and admin staff. The first call alone was 26 relentless minutes of answering questions.
Then came the emails requesting more forms — OK. Next, a text message with even more forms — OK, sure. But when I walked into the oncologist’s office and they handed me yet another stack of paper forms — OH HELL NO.
All those previous hours spent painstakingly answering questions felt utterly wasted.
I was livid. I fantasized about being petty and writing, “check your website” across every line.
But just then, my eyes caught an elderly couple nearby, probably in their late 70s or early 80s, visibly struggling with the paperwork, insurance cards, and gathering doctor contacts.
At that exact moment, I felt a wave of pure gratitude wash over me. I can handle this!
As I continued filling out the forms, I got to a financial stability questionnaire — standard in California to gauge whether you’ll need financial assistance during treatment. Box by box, I checked…
NO… I’ve never been unable to pay my electric bill.
NO… I won’t struggle to get to my appointments.
NO… I’m not facing food insecurity.
YES… I have an incredible support group ready to step up whenever I need them.
Suddenly, the frustration of filling out these forms multiple times disappeared. In its place, genuine gratitude — something that’s been pretty vacant in my life.
I’m not naturally an optimist. I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. The glass isn’t half empty — it’s shattered on the floor. The world often seems like a dark place.
A lot of that mindset comes from my childhood. Sure, I always had a roof and food, but “stable” isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe it.
Divorces, moving around constantly — it always felt like just when things seemed good, something awful was lurking around the corner.
That anxiety crept into my adult life, causing depression, loneliness, and an ever—present sense of being an outsider.
Growing up gay in the ’80s and ’90s amplified that feeling tenfold. Trying to figure yourself out while the world around you labels you as different or broken — it’s exhausting.
But right there in that waiting room, all that faded. Maybe not forever, but for that moment, I felt a happiness so genuine that even cancer couldn’t touch it.
In that instant, I knew — I’ll be fine. I’ll beat this. 100%.
I’m (mostly) sound in mind and body, and I’ve got every resource I need to tackle this. These forms? I’ve got them. Appointments? Bring them on. Facing my fears? Watch me.
I’ve heard cancer or serious illness changes you, but nobody mentioned how fast it happens.