I was in my car when I got the phone call that turned my world upside down. Sitting in a parking lot baking in the desert sun—an ordinary Monday that had just turned much less ordinary. After hanging up, I didn’t break down; I lit a joint, reversed out of the parking lot, and drove off. Each mile down the freeway was marked by a mix of disbelief and utter shock at my life, as I dropped expletives like breadcrombs down highway 51.

Before that call, I thought I’d already been through enough. I survived my mother’s suicide, quit my job, moved across the country with no backup plan, and thrived as a newcomer during the 2020 pandemic. I started an LLC, turned it into a six-figure business, and battled health issues from a gallbladder removal to living unknowingly in a mold-infested apartment, suffering from constant fatigue and diarrhea. I put my dad in a nursing home for dementia and watched him slowly vanish and suffered a bazar flood in my apartment after my landlord hired someone to fix my roof and the roofer fixed it by power washing it for 9 hours all in the same week. I lost half of my belongings in that flood/leak, and had my insurance company deny my claim because mold was involved.

Convinced that God was testing me, I embarked on a 40-day water only fast in the desert to seek atonement, hoping it would reset my string of bad luck. But just before the finish line on day 35 of my "Jesus Fast," I contracted Norovirus, leading to a slew of tests, including what I assumed was a routine colonoscopy.

Fresh out of anesthesia, I was casually informed about a key lime-sized mass just a finger's distance from my backside. Still, I thought it was probably nothing. Surely not cancer. Not the undignified kind. Not stage IIIC T2 N2 M0.

But when I got a call from an unknown number and a scheduler informed me that the biopsy from my colonoscopy had come back with a full-fledged pathology report, my world was upended. The other shoe had finally dropped.

Then came six months of silence.

I disappeared.

I retreated to the mountains for a dark night of the soul, sitting with my new, unmovable teacher. In the stillness, I found not despair but gratitude.

Instead of telling cancer to “F*ck Off,” I chose to say “Thank You.” I decided not to look at cancer as an opponent but rather embrace it as a guide and teacher. Perhaps everything does happen for a reason? This blog is my field journal, my raw and unfiltered account of what it means to live with cancer. Here, you'll discover the gritty realities of navigating a labyrinthine healthcare system, the challenges of managing a business amid cancer, and personal reflections that find humor even in the darkest places.

Join me as I share the lessons from my most unlikely teacher: cancer. It’s a journey of resilience, of finding laughter amidst pain, and of keeping the camera rolling no matter what. Welcome to stage IIIC—and just so you know, an oncologist is indeed a cancer doctor.