Cancer, a word once distant, had finally claimed its place in my life. The symptoms had been elusive, too insignificant to warrant a medical investigation. A few night sweats weren’t the kind of thing that would send me rushing to a doctor. It was just the cost of do- ing business—the daily grind of advertising, with its relentless travel. Several times, I woke up drenched after a nap on a plane, where the temperatures were usually cooler than normal. I’d never heard of a connection between cold sweats and cancer, so I brushed it off as a side effect of work stress or just the price of getting the job done. I had lost 15 pounds but attributed it to going back to the gym, think- ing I was blowing off steam by working out.

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The diagnosis began with something as innocuous as a pimple that wouldn’t go away. It turned out to be malignant—a silent en- emy unmasked, invading my body but sparing my head. Now, sitting at the Sylvester Comprehensive Cancer Center at the University of Miami, waiting to meet my destiny—the oncologist who would keep me alive—my mind raced. I couldn’t stop wondering if something other than cancer might kill me in the process. The fear was constant, anxiety gnawing at my insides. I’d read survival stories about patients who died from treatment side effects. I tried to stay calm, thinking of all the advancements in medicine, but the cold sweat returned, and my hands were clammy. I glanced at my two siblings, wondering if they felt the same way.

The wait dragged on, hope sinking into quicksand. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the TV—some watching Wheel of Fortune, others staring at their phones. I wished they’d turn to CNN; maybe there’d be news of a cancer vaccine, something to let me escape this nightmare.

[Practical Tip: Waiting for diagnosis results is one of the hard- est parts of any journey with cancer. Here’s what helped me

during those long, anxious hours: bring a distraction. Whether it’s a book, music, or a favorite podcast, having something to take your mind off the fear can give you a small sense of control. And don’t be afraid to talk about your feelings, whether it’s with family in the waiting room or a friend on the phone. Verbalizing your fears, even when they feel irrational, can help keep the anxiety from overwhelming you.]

An hour passed, and the anxiety tightened its grip as I imagined the worst scenarios. I wasn’t just afraid of choosing the wrong treat- ment—I was petrified because I didn’t understand cancer and all its reported maladies. There was still so much to learn, especially since I knew zilch about lymphoma, my cancer type. Understanding the un- known soothes me.
I knew I had to follow protocol to the letter, cultivating hope and trusting the unseen—the doctors who would diagnose me and plan my treatment. I prayed for a higher power to guide them. My goal was to stay calm, to hold it together. As fear and anxiety threatened to unravel me, I focused on not letting it overcome me. Finding a lymphoma expert was a challenge. Top hematologists were booked for months. Then, luck intervened through my neighbor and friend, Alan Pollack.

[Practical Tip: Finding the right oncologist can be daunting, but it’s crucial. If you are facing long wait times for specialists, don’t hesitate to lean on your network—friends, family, even acquain- tances. Often, personal connections can speed up the process. If that isn’t an option, ask for second opinions or explore cancer centers that specialize in your type of cancer. The right specialist can make a world of difference in your treatment and peace of mind.]

He connected me with Dr. Izidore Lossos, South Florida’s fore- most authority on lymphoma. Initially, Dr. Lossos couldn’t see me for six months, but Alan’s words changed that. I was scheduled to see Dr. Lossos the following week, after a series of tests—blood work, lumbar puncture, bone marrow biopsy, PET, MRI. My siblings, Patricia and Kelvyn, accompanied me to every exam. Once, I’d yearned to be an only child. How wrong I was.
 

Tic, tac. I felt wound-up, tightened by the burden of waiting. I had promised myself not to let discomfort show, to act “as if” noth- ing scared me—only fear itself. Slowly, progressively, I kept repeat- ing those words across my mind’s screen: “nothing to fear but fear itself.” Maxims I’d picked up throughout my life for my self-care toolbox. Another tool was tapping into my accomplishments, draw- ing strength from them to trust the process. These memories gave me the confidence to face my health verdict. I continued to rely on Alcoholics Anonymous maxims like “This too shall pass” and “act as if” to steady myself.
Two hours had passed, the weight of the moment heavy as a sumo wrestler. We were going to review the results of all the tests, includ- ing my first HIV test in over five years. Despite being in a monoga- mous relationship, irrational fears gnawed at me. My mind, a twister of fear, shame, and anxiety, was close to uprooting my sanity. The dread of treatment, once a distant threat, now loomed large.

And then, suddenly, the grip of fear loosened, like a taut rubber band finally released. The anxiety dissipated the moment the nurse practitioner called my name. Yamila Venegas Melendez’s presence was so stunning it literally pulled me to my feet—an inescapable in- vitation. She exuded grace as she invited us to follow her. Funny how such a simple gesture could feel transformative. “Veronica will take your vitals, and Dr. Lossos and I will see you shortly,” she said, guid- ing us to another station. With my brother Kelvyn and sister Patricia beside me, their support meant everything.

It was at that moment I remembered something fundamental: throughout my life, my connections with people have always meant more to me than anything else—more than whatever might be writ- ten in stone. When I connect with someone, when I believe in them,​ it’s as though everything becomes possible. It’s as if I’ve found my link to a greater force, a connection that transcends fear and doubt. But here, facing this diagnosis, what I feared most was whether I’d be able to trust Dr. Lossos. The power of connection between two people is like when an animal imprints...

Veronica, another nurse with a wonderful disposition, flashed a smile I’ll never forget. Her bright, big, perfectly proportioned teeth aligned elegantly like Ionic pillars. She took my blood pressure several times to get the right results. I suffered from White Coat Syndrome, where blood pressure spikes in a medical setting but remains normal elsewhere, often due to anxiety. My temperature, weight, height— questions followed. Fifteen minutes later, we were led to the private room for my diagnosis.
As I waited—now, I know this sounds overblown—I struggled to maintain composure. AA principles from my last forty years of sobriety ran through my mind: shun self-pity, stay present, trust the process.

 

But a drumroll in my heart confirmed that the only way to hear any kind of life sentence was to plainly hear it, to embrace vulner- ability. I thought I’d never recover from my father’s death. Yet here I am, telling you my story twenty-four years later. Was I entering the fight-for-your-life twilight period, or was this a chance to understand and transform tragedy into ____? Was this a task to conquer or a rite of passage? The only way forward was to adapt, to accept events as they came. With the grace of a higher power and the help of this doc- tor, I, too, would unfold and, ultimately, survive.

When I finally met Dr. Lossos, his stature struck me. Proof that genius doesn’t correlate with size. He spoke with a soft Israeli accent, downplaying his expertise in the complex world of cancer. Yamila’s grace and compassion complemented his demeanor, bringing cer- tainty to the uncertain. Dr. Lossos conducted a thorough examination, measuring swollen lymph nodes with a skill that commanded respect.

His focus left me silent, my thoughts clouded by the impending diagnosis. I fantasized about escaping the room, running like Forrest Gump, fleeing the relentless sameness in the march of time.  Dr. Lossos continued his examination, calling out measurements to Yamila, who recorded them on the desktop.Curiosity overcame me, and I asked, “How do you measure with- out instruments?” Unsmiling, he replied, “With my two fingers.” After a pause, he added, “Please, no talking during the examination.” His refusal to meet my eyes struck me as odd. A twinge of discomfort shot through me as he pressed on my spleen, noting another measurement. I chose to remain silent, as instructed.

At last, Dr. Lossos shared his findings. “You have follicular and diffuse large B-cell lymphoma, likely stage four,” he said. “We need more tests to decide on the best treatment.” His words were di- rect, carving out a space for both fear and hope. He understood the gravity of the situation, knowing my family had never faced cancer before. Shocked, I spoke without thinking: “How am I going to take care of Mother? And you, Kelvyn?” Patricia reassured me, “We’ll take care of each other.” Our bond, unbreakable, became our strength. Kelvyn ran his hand down my back, silently telling me he was with me all the way.

Since my father’s passing in 2000, I’ve been supporting my mother, ensuring she was well cared for, especially after her quadruple heart surgery. In 2015, my brother had a benign tumor pressing against his pituitary gland. Kelvyn and Mother lived together in a house I bought from my father when he died. Family means everything to me—or perhaps more simply, my mother and brother had become my deep- est concern as their recoveries lingered.​

Curiosity overcame me, and I asked, “How do you measure without instruments?” Unsmiling, he replied, “With my two fingers.” After a pause, he added, “Please, no talking during the examination.” His refusal to meet my eyes struck me as odd. A twinge of discomfort shot through me as he pressed on my spleen, noting another mea- surement. I chose to remain silent, as instructed.

 

At last, Dr. Lossos shared his findings. “You have follicular and diffuse large B-cell lymphoma, likely stage four,” he said. “We need more tests to decide on the best treatment.” His words were direct, carving out a space for both fear and hope. He understood the gravity of the situation, knowing my family had never faced cancer before.  Shocked, I spoke without thinking: “How am I going to take care of Mother? And you, Kelvyn?” Patricia reassured me, “We’ll take care of each other.” Our bond, unbreakable, became our strength. Kelvyn ran his hand down my back, silently telling me he was with me all the way.

Since my father’s passing in 2000, I’ve been supporting my mother, ensuring she was well cared for, especially after her quadruple heart surgery. In 2015, my brother had a benign tumor pressing against his pituitary gland. Kelvyn and Mother lived together in a house I bought from my father when he died. Family means everything to me—or perhaps more simply, my mother and brother had become my deep- est concern as their recoveries lingered.

Putting that aside, my eyes fixed on a small crack in the floor while my ears hung on Dr. Lossos’s every word. It was funny how his voice softened, carrying more feeling—a bedside manner that seemed to come out of nowhere but made me glad, nonetheless. His words painted a vivid picture—“Like being lost at sea, I will guide us back to land”—and filled me with determination. I resolved to hold onto hope, to fight, to live.

Ideally, I wanted to have faith—a deep certainty that everything would be fine—but for now, hope was enough, a fragile refuge yet a genuine belief that things would turn out well. I trusted that faith would grow over time, nurtured by small victories. Yet I began to wonder if I had ever truly had faith in anything, because every trauma demands a different response. My mind was always analyzing, dissecting whatever doubt presented itself. Truth calms me.

Dr. Lossos continued explaining the treatment, using the analogy of a boat lost at sea. “I’ll row us back to shore,” he said. “All you need to do is trust—nothing else.” I understood the metaphor, but one question lingered in my mind. “Even if we reach shore,” I asked qui- etly, “will I still be able to have children?” I had never wanted kids, but I asked because I needed to know how deeply this illness had damaged me.

There was a brief silence, a pause that spoke volumes. Dr. Lossos looked at me, his usual composure softened. “I’m sorry,” he said gen- tly, “that’s a hard one to accept.” The gravity of his words hit me with full force, making the reality of my situation even more tangible. It was clear how emotional Dr. Lossos became as we all wept together. The fact that he was part of that emotional outburst only proved that he was speaking the truth.

As I was leaving the appointment, Yamila pulled me aside. “You know,” she said, her voice low, “it’s rare to see him affected like that. He truly cares about his patients—he likes you.” Her words lingered with me long after, reinforcing the realization that this journey would test not only my physical endurance but also the strength of the con- nections I formed along the way.
Dr. Lossos’s unique manner cultivated a deep sense of trust in me. He inspired me to confront the present with an open mind. “I will take care of you from the neck down,” he said, pointing from my neck to my feet. “And you focus from the neck up,” he added, smiling.

“From the neck up” meant I needed psychiatric guidance, as the treatment would be long and consuming. Since the tiny replicant as- saulters hadn’t reached my head, I had to keep my mind cool, steady and selective—avoid toxic thoughts.

[Practical Tip: Mental health is as important as physical health during cancer treatment. Don’t hesitate to seek help from a therapist or counselor, especially if you’re feeling overwhelmed. Many cancer centers have psychiatric or psychological support as part of their treatment plans. It’s okay to admit that this journey takes a toll on your mind as much as your body. Taking care of yourself “from the neck up” can make a huge difference in how you handle the treatment ahead.]

I knew that keeping a cool head for me was a nearly impossible task since analyzing was a defense mechanism that had taken over my approach to life to be focus on solving working issues. Luckily, Sylvester had a cancer support group that included “psychiatry” ser- vices “specially” for cancer patients. Then came the fact that try to ruin it all: Follicular Lymphoma only goes into remission—there’s no cure. It could return whenever it wanted.

But no, it won’t return on its own terms—not while I’m here. At 3:33 a.m.—witching hour or not—it was time to start adapting. Good night. And remember, water is never just a drop of H2O. Together, we are more than oceans.