I wasn’ dead yet, but I might s well have been. At least that’s how it felt.
A few weeks earlier, I’d gone to my doctor for a routine wellness check. By the end of the appointment, I was more than eager to leave. Sitting in that flimsy gown on a paper-covered chair, facing a woman I barely knew, who had just conducted an intimate examination, I just wanted to be out of there. It wasn’t embarrassment—I was simply over it.
As I stood to leave, she asked, “Is there anything else?”
Usually, as an ex-nurse and a guy who doesn’t go to the doctor unless absolutely necessary, I would have said no. But for some reason, I found myself answering, “Actually, yes. I’ve been feeling more tired than I think I should”.
She asked me to elaborate. I told her about a recent experience where I struggled to lift a projector screen into the roof of my garage—something that should’ve been easy for me. I explained that, despite being generally active, I had been feeling unusually fatigued. She smiled and said, “Let’s get some blood tests done, just to be safe.”
I went to Quest Diagnostics, had the blood drawn, and then left for a week-long golf trip to Orlando with a group of 11 Canadians.
Life was good—golf, beer, cigars, and laughter. No stress.
One afternoon, after another round of golf, I was sitting by the pool when my phone rang. I didn’t answer because I didn’t recognize the number, and honestly, no one calls me except my wife. She was in England for a few weeks. The phone beeped with a message. I returned the call and spoke to a somewhat curt receptionist who said my doctor wanted me to have more blood tests and take some vitamin D—no explanation, nothing more.
Don, a friend and a top surgeon, asked if everything was okay. I shrugged it off and said, “Yeah, just some more tests. Probably a high cholesterol warning, telling me to lose some weight and quit the cigars, my doctor’s usual subjects”. I lit up a large cigar, forgot about the call, and got back to enjoying the trip.
A few days later, I returned home, had the blood work done, and called the doctor’s office to schedule an appointment. Once again I got nowhere. The receptionist said I couldn’t make one until the results were in. Frustrated, I vented to Deirdre, my wife, about the system. Calmly, she told me to check the Quest app to see when the results were available and then make the appointment. I didn’t know you could do that and calmed down.
The next day, I downloaded the app, created an account, and logged in. I saw that my results were marked “complete.” I called the doctor’s office, told them the results were ready, and managed to schedule an appointment for two weeks later. Later that evening, I proudly told Deirdre that I had figured out the app and had made an appointment. She asked me if the results were okay. I hesitated, again not realizing you could actually see the results on the app. I didn’t want to sound clueless, so I told her everything was fine.
That night, bored, I logged back into the app and found a list of results. Most of them were flagged in red. I knew enough from my nursing background to understand this wasn’t good, but not enough to diagnose myself. I tell everyone never consult the internet about health conditions, so I spent the next hour Googling the conditions, and the more I read, the more certain I became: I either had leukemia or another serious cancer. I was dead.
Tears came and went. I started thinking about my life—how I wanted to die and how to tell Deirdre, my family, and my friends. Surprisingly, I accepted my fate rather quickly. Maybe it was my training in palliative care and time spent working on cancer wards that helped me find peace with it.
How do you come to terms with the idea that your life is over? For me, it was about reflecting on all the things I had done, the people I’d met, and the places I’d seen. I realized that I’d had a good run, that I’d come farther than I ever expected. I’ve had an exciting and fun filled journey. So, without too much resistance, I accepted my fate.
That night, unable to sleep, I needed something to distract myself. Music felt too emotional; sports too trivial. I found “Inspired to Ride”, a documentary about 45 cyclists racing across America unsupported. For the next hour and a half, I was lost in their stories, forgetting about death for a while. It was an easy watch. Next, I watched “100 Meters”, the true story of a man with MS who completed an Ironman race. I laughed, I cried, and I loved it. Afterward, I finally went to bed.
I decided not to tell Deirdre yet. I didn’t want her to worry about me dying and until I had a definitive diagnosis. The week dragged on and on. I was dead but still going through the motions of living. When Deirdre returned, I acted as normally as I could until our doctor’s appointment.
At the appointment, my doctor sat down in front of me and said something along the lines of, “I’ve looked at your results, and I suspect you might have multiple myeloma. This isn’t my area of expertise, but I recommend seeing an oncologist and hematologist to get a definitive diagnosis.” I nodded and simply said, “Okay.” I didn’t tell her I had already figured it out a week ago.
I left the office and, in the car with Deirdre, finally told her. There were tears, silence, and then Deirdre’s calm and determined voice: we needed to go to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville.
Deirdre took action immediately, contacting the Mayo Clinic. They offered an appointment two months later, but Deirdre insisted we take any cancellation. Two days later, we were driving north to Jacksonville.
The drive felt endless, but we finally arrived at Mayo. I kept the mood as light as I could for Deirdre, who was understandably by now very worried. While filling out forms, one question caught my eye: “How do you best take in information?” The options were verbal, written, or visual. I checked “visual” without a second thought.
The day was a whirlwind of x-rays, scans, and blood work, each appointment flowing seamlessly into the next. No long waits. Finally, we met Dr. Ailawadhi, who, with the help of a white board, explained that, while it didn’t look like multiple myeloma, it could be something called MGUS. He wanted to rule out other possibilities. For the first time, I realized I wasn’t dead yet.
To narrow things down, he recommended a bone marrow biopsy the next morning. Despite knowing it would be painful, I agreed without hesitation.
The biopsy was uncomfortable, a bit painful, but quick. We grabbed coffee afterward and headed home happier than when we had left a few days before.
A couple of days later, Dr. Ailawadhi called himself. He explained that the biopsy confirmed I had a rare lymphoma called Waldenström macroglobulinemia (WM). It was a slow blood lymphoma that was not curable but there were a number of treatments. He asked me to return in a couple of weeks for follow-up.
In that moment, I felt like I had been given a second chance—a lifeline. I began to think about how I would live my life differently.
In an unexpected turn, I decided to cycle across America. It seemed like the perfect challenge: something to prove to myself that I wasn’t done yet. I didn’t want a disease to define me. I searched for a company that ran cycling tours from LA to Boston and found one that did it every year. I asked Deirdre what she thought. She said, “If it’s something you really want to do, go for it.” The best answer ever.
I returned to Dr. Ailawadhi, one of the leading experts in WM, and asked if there was any medical reason I couldn’t attempt the ride. He reassured me that, as long as I listened to my body, there was no reason not to go for it.
I signed up for the 3,400-mile ride across America, nine months away. And that was when I truly began living my second life.