A Diagnosis Realigned and the Strange Comfort of Moving Forward Anyway

December 2, 2025

The holidays feel different this year.

I’ve always loved this season, the small rituals, the music stitched into every space (Wham!’s “Last Christmas"), and the way cold air clings to someone’s coat when they walk inside. But when you’re going through cancer treatment, the holidays shift in ways you don’t expect.

The plan now is to stay in NYC through Christmas so I can begin bridging chemotherapy, the step that prepares my body for the arrival of my genetically modified T-cells, as part of the CAR-T process. I suppose I am no longer GMO-free.

Just to keep expectations grounded: starting CAR-T doesn’t remove the possibility of a transplant.

The Days Before Everything Shifted

Right before Thanksgiving, life sent a few reminders exactly when I needed them. Our friends John and Alex came to visit, carrying the kind of familiar energy that settles you without even trying. Gabriel came down too, on his way home for the holiday.

We wandered through the Bryant Park Holiday Market, letting early winter lights and cold air pull us out of our own heads for a bit. We ate hand-pulled noodles and watched a guy sell questionable items out of the back of an SUV, nothing worth buying, but somehow still entertaining. We also had a Friends-giving meal!

I also got to steal a few hours with my friend Scott while he was here with his family. Over pints in an Irish pub, it dawned on me that we’ve known each other for over twenty years. Together, we’ve ridden thousands of miles and climbed mountains measured in vertical sweat and grit, all in support of our fellow law enforcement officers and their families.

Thanksgiving Day brought a different kind of comfort. I spent it at the Raffucci’s house. The boys were home. Maria’s brother was there. It was the kind of gathering that fills a part of you that’s been running on empty. I took the train back with Gabriel afterward, and Maria drove home on Sunday.

None of those moments solved anything. But they softened the landing for what came next.

Understanding the Real Diagnosis

I have T-cell/Histiocyte-Rich Large B-Cell Lymphoma.

For months, everyone, including my doctors, believed I had classical Hodgkin’s lymphoma. My symptoms matched. The early pathology matched. The scans matched. But as new imaging came in and pathologists revisited the slides, the pieces stopped fitting together.

The diagnosis had to be amended. The truth is that I had THRLBCL all along.

THRLBCL is deceptive. Under the microscope, the malignant B-cells are sparse and scattered, hidden inside a storm of normal immune cells—mostly T-cells and histiocytes. That reactive crowd overwhelms the view and can make the disease look almost identical to classical Hodgkin’s.

No one missed anything, THRLBCL is simply hard to unmask.

With updated pathology and a clearer picture, the path forward had to change.

Correcting the diagnosis shifted everything, and now I’m headed toward CAR-T therapy, a futuristic-sounding treatment that begins with something incredibly grounded: placing a leukapheresis catheter.

A normal IV isn’t enough to handle the blood flow needed to collect T-cells, so you get a dual-lumen central line. Bigger, stronger, and definitely not subtle.

They used twilight sedation, this surreal space between waking and sleep where voices blur and time stretches. You’re present, but not fully anchored.

I remember flashes: the cold of the sterile drape, the dull pressure as the catheter was threaded in, distant voices drifting in and out, the feeling of being there, but not entirely.

No pain, just distance.

When I woke in recovery, the catheter sat just below my collarbone, stitched in place and surrounded by that deep, bruised tenderness that tells you something significant just happened. Another scar to add to my collection.

The next day came the apheresis, the actual T-cell collection.

It’s quiet.

It’s slow.

It’s strangely peaceful.

Your blood moves through tubes into a machine that filters out the T-cells and sends the rest back. Hours pass. You watch something invisible but essential happening in real time, and you realize these cells might one day fight for you.

After the collection, they removed the catheter. Quick, but still sore. Every stretch reminded me it had been there. But its removal felt symbolic: one phase behind me, another beginning.

I also signed up to be part of a clinical trial built specifically for aggressive B-cell lymphomas like mine. If I can help one person, it makes all of this worthwhile.

Moving Forward

The revised diagnosis was a shock, and it reshapes everything that came before it. But clarity, even when it stings, is still direction. Every correction, every scan, every bruise, every step is part of a path I didn’t choose but am determined to walk.

I’m not walking it alone.

One day at a time.

One step at a time.

Always with gratitude, for the people who show up, steady me, distract me, and make all of this bearable.