March 2, 2026
Before I got Medicare on March 1st of last year and transferred my care to Stanford, I had seen four different oncologists starting in April 2023, when I was officially diagnosed with lung cancer. Four.
And almost all of them were purveyors of doom and gloom — lecturing me about the “standard of care.” Or as I like to call it, the standard of scare.
They didn’t see me as a whole person.
They saw a lung tumor with a ticking clock.
More than once I was told that if I did nothing, I could be dead in a few months.
It’s been almost three years.
And I’m still not dead.
Apparently I’m terrible at meeting deadlines. 🤣
Since then, I’ve started telling ALL doctors and allied healthcare practitioners: Please stop making predictions about how long you think I have to live.
I don’t need a countdown clock. I need care.
Then I got to Stanford and met my new medical oncologist, Dr. Nathaniel Myall. It felt like getting a warm hug — without anyone trying to schedule my funeral.
He was the FIRST person in oncology who was willing to take my needs into account when discussing treatment. He met me where I was — anxiety and all. No pressure. No scare tactics. No “act now or else.”
Just collaboration.
It’s been a year now.
On Monday, I asked him — hypothetically — if I DID want to know what my chances were, what would he say?
He said he’s learned not to make guesses anymore because cancer is so unpredictable. You just never know.
But then he said something else.
He said he has seen miracles.
He told me he remains hopeful for me.
And then he added: “You are just so incredibly resilient.”
RESILIENT.
What a beautiful word.
I felt like the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz when he was finally handed his medal by the great and powerful one.
I am not special.
I am not invincible.
I am not fearless.
Trust me — I am scared. A lot.
But I keep walking through the fire anyway.
And apparently, that counts.
I am capable of doing really hard things — things I avoided for decades.
Like undergoing general anesthesia after a 43-year phobia.
Like having painful dental surgery after seeing a pediatric dentist most of my life. (Yes, I aged out of the prize box.) 🤣
My dental surgery was early Tuesday morning and went well. But once the lidocaine wore off?
Excruciating pain. All week.
I even took one dose of an opioid — something I had never done because I’ve always been afraid of drugs.
I didn’t like how it made me feel. And it didn’t help much anyway.
So I’ve been resting. Eating mashed potatoes like it’s my job. Reminding myself that “this too shall pass.”
Because resilience doesn’t mean you don’t hurt. It means you keep going anyway.
For me, this journey is no longer about finding a cure. It’s about finding peace.
I don’t need a knockout to win. I just need to stay in the ring.
Some days staying in the ring looks brave.
Some days it looks like mashed potatoes and ice packs.
Both count.
And I’ve got the socks to prove it. 🧦
As I shared last week from the poem The Race:
“For all of life is like a race with ups and downs and all.
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.”
So here’s to getting up one more time.
Even if you’re scared.
Even if you’re tired.
Even if you’re in pain.
Get up anyway.
Love & Nitrous Oxide,
AJ 💜
From the Puppy Files
Shiloh and Trixie remain my daily reminder that joy is non-negotiable.
Here they are resting after their zoomies — which, if you’ve never witnessed it, looks like two furry rockets launching from the couch for absolutely no reason.
They sprint. They skid. They collide. They recover instantly.
Now THAT is resilience.
Fall down. Shake it off. Chase the invisible thing again.
Honestly, we could all use a little more zoomie energy.