A personal account of my Stage IV ALK-positive lung cancer diagnosis and the moments that changed everything
In June 2025, my life changed in a way I couldn’t have anticipated. What I thought would be a routine medical issue quickly turned into something far more serious—a reality I was completely unprepared for.
Ten days before I was admitted to the hospital, on Father’s Day 2025, I went to the emergency department with pain in my upper abdomen. They ran scans, found some nodules in my lungs that I was supposed to follow up on, and ultimately diagnosed me with pneumonia. I went home thinking it was temporary—something treatable. But by June 24, everything had changed. I had been struggling to breathe for days, and when they scanned me again, the doctors told me it looked like the nodules had “exploded” throughout my lungs. What had seemed contained was now everywhere.
That same day, I learned that fluid had built up around my heart—a pericardial effusion that had reached a dangerous level. I didn’t fully understand the severity in the moment. I had even driven myself to the hospital. But very quickly, things became urgent. I was hours from death.
A cardiologist performed an emergency procedure, inserting a tube into my chest to drain the fluid from around my heart. I was awake for the entire procedure, and while I was numb, I could still feel the pressure—the push and pull of the tools, needles, and tubing inside my body. A sample was sent off for testing, and the tube remained in place for days, continuously draining fluid, as they monitored me and tried to understand what was happening.
Three days later, the results came back: cancer. Stage IV lung cancer. How could that be? I'm not even a smoker, nor was I ever around it for prolonged periods of time. Further imaging showed that it had already spread—to my brain, to two areas of my vertebrae, and to my liver. Before we even knew the specific type, the situation required immediate action. On June 28, I underwent an emergency chemotherapy treatment.
On July 1, I was transferred to another hospital because there was concern that if the fluid around my heart didn’t stop accumulating, I might need surgery. While I ultimately didn’t need the pericardial window procedure, the move—and the possibility of it—shook me even further to the core. Around that same time, word began to spread about me being in the hospital and my initial diagnosis. People started coming to visit. I know it came from a place of care and support, but it also felt like something else—like people were bracing for the worst.
I was between two hospitals for two weeks before being discharged on July 7. I had my 2nd chemotherapy treatment on July 21. And just as I was beginning to adjust to being home, I was readmitted on July 23 with a persistent fever that no one could explain. I spent another week in the hospital undergoing tests, but no clear cause was found. Ultimately, the fever was attributed to the cancer itself or the chemotherapy treatment—a diagnosis of exclusion—and I was discharged again on July 28.
Three days later, on July 31, I got a call that changed things yet again. An infectious disease doctor told me I had CMV—cytomegalovirus—a virus that can be dangerous, even deadly, for someone who is immunocompromised. What had gone undetected during my second hospital stay suddenly had a name, and it required immediate treatment.
In the weeks and months that followed, there were countless needles, scans, and tests—CT scans, MRIs, and bloodwork—revealing more about what I was facing. Eventually, we learned that I have a rare mutation: ALK-positive non-small cell lung cancer, found in only a small percentage of patients. But in those earliest moments, lying in a hospital bed with a tube draining fluid from around my heart, everything came down to one simple realization: life is far more fragile than we allow ourselves to believe.
I’m sharing this not because I have all the answers, but because this experience has reshaped how I see time, family, and what it means to be prepared. There’s a clarity that comes from facing something like this—one that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.
When life hangs in the balance, what matters most becomes impossible to ignore.
My hope is that by sharing my experience with Stage IV ALK-positive lung cancer, I can help others better understand what a diagnosis like this feels like—and maybe encourage someone to think about life, family, and preparation a little sooner. I had no idea how unprepared we actually were for what came next.