by Frank Gaimari

The house is quiet tonight. There’s just one lamp on, trying its best to hold back the darkness, but honestly, it feels like the darkness is winning. Outside, life rolls on — cars pass by, someone walks their dog, and I can even hear a television down the hallway. But here in my condo, the silence feels heavy, like the house is holding its breath right along with me.

Two days ago, they put in my PICC line. It’s still sore, taped to my left upper arm, a constant reminder that this is real — that chemo isn’t just a word I’ll face in the future, but something that starts now.

Tomorrow is chemo. My first treatment. Just writing those words makes my stomach twist.

I should probably say this — writing is my therapy. Putting these words down helps me sort through the mess in my head. It’s how I make sense of all these big feelings. Sometimes, writing is the only way I can face what’s really going on. It lets me breathe.

I won’t lie — I’m scared. Really scared. Fear feels cold and heavy, settling in my bones and refusing to leave. It’s been hanging around for weeks, always in the background, but tonight it’s front and center. Every time I close my eyes, fear serves up new images of what might come next. The unknown stretches out in front of me, and here I am at the edge, shaking.

Sometimes, my body hardly feels like mine anymore. This thing, Hairy Cell Leukemia, has taken over so much of it. It’s actually an extremely rare kind of leukemia — so rare, it blows my mind that I have it. What a strange name for something that’s flipped my entire world upside down. I’m so tired all the time, like I’m hauling invisible weights. I get out of breath just climbing stairs. My spleen is swollen, a constant, uncomfortable reminder that things aren’t right inside me. Nausea comes in waves, and sometimes it just lingers, making me wish I could feel normal for five minutes. Being sick is my new normal — a running list of what I can’t do or enjoy right now.

At first, when I got the diagnosis, it felt like this disease barged into my life and stole everything I was looking forward to — my plans, my energy, any sense of certainty about the future. It’s been a long stretch of canceled things, of trying to talk but not having the words, of silence when I need answers I can’t find. But strangely, in all the space left by what’s been taken away, something else has started to grow. Maybe it’s clarity.

When you stare your own mortality in the face, all the little things suddenly don’t matter. I’m aware — sometimes painfully, sometimes beautifully aware — of how precious each day is. Just being able to breathe without thinking about it or feeling okay for a couple of hours feels huge. This leukemia has taken a lot, but it’s also forced me to really think about what matters.

And you know what? It’s people. It’s the look my husband gives me when our hands touch, the soft sound of our dogs shifting and snoring in the next room. It’s sharing a quiet moment with an old friend and feeling understood. I see love everywhere now, even when it’s mixed in with fear and worry. Before, a conversation was just talk — now, every “I love you,” every hug, every shared story is a lifeline. We talk about things that matter, because suddenly we know we can’t take any of this for granted.

My cancer group therapy has also become a lifeline for me. Knowing there are people out there who really get what I’m feeling has made all the difference. I’d honestly be lost without them, and because of their support. Their understanding lifts me when I feel alone, helping me believe that brighter moments are possible, even in the middle of all this.

So here I am tonight, scared about whatever’s waiting for me in that treatment chair tomorrow. But I’m feeling something else too — gratitude. I’m grateful for the doctors and nurses, for the science that’s brought me this far. But most of all, I’m thankful for my people, my family, my friends — everyone who keeps me anchored through the storm. They’re the reason I’ll roll up my sleeve, take a deep breath, and start this fight.

I don’t know what comes next. There will be bad days, days when I’m so tired and sick that it feels impossible. But I won’t have to face it alone. If nothing else, this journey has shown me what strength really is, and how powerful love can be. Tonight, on the night before chemo, I’m terrified. But I know exactly what I’m fighting for. And somehow, that makes me believe I can get through anything.

Copyright ©️2026 by Frank Gaimari

Frank Gaimari is an author and film reviewer in Seattle, where he lives with his husband and their two golden retrievers. You can learn more about his work at http://www.FrankGaimari.com.