Before the T-Cells

December 27, 2025

If you have been with me on this journey from the beginning, you already know this, but my body and my treatment have never followed a straight line. They prefer the unconventional route. Detours seem to be their specialty, especially the unexpected ones.

So buckle up, friends. Here comes another detour.

This week was supposed to be straightforward. Gabriel was with me throughout, while Maria was home for a few days. On Christmas Eve, I was scheduled for a blood draw and my first dose of lymphodepleting chemotherapy. Maria would be on the train when we started but would arrive before I finished.

These were familiar steps. The necessary clearing of the runway so my T-cells could come home and do what science now believes they can do. I have done labs. I have done chemo. I know the rhythm.

Bodies, it turns out, do not always cooperate with plans.

After twelve vials of blood were drawn from my PICC line, some for standard labs and some for the study, I experienced a vasovagal syncope episode during the draw. That is the clinical way of saying I passed out.

Not my coolest moment.

I remember feeling clammy first, then nauseous, then suddenly very far away from myself. Somewhere in that process, I took off my face mask because I was struggling to catch my breath. Then everything went dark.

When I came back, the overhead lights felt brighter and there were people everywhere. I was drenched in sweat. About fifteen nurses filled the room, all talking at once. Some questions were directed at me, others at the nurse drawing the labs, and others at Gabriel.

I was awake but not fully present. Disoriented in a way that is hard to explain. I was hooked up to an EKG. When they tried to place the electrodes on my chest, they would not stick because of the sweat, so they taped them on. Someone wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm. Someone else drew more blood for cultures. Hands were on my shoulders, arms, and wrists. I kept hearing, he is still clammy, still sweaty.

I remember thinking that I just needed a nap and some silence and I would be fine.

Voices came from every direction.

The questions came quickly.

What is your name.

Where are you.

What day is it.

Do you know why you are here.

I could answer them, but slowly, as if my thoughts were moving through water. The sheer volume of activity made it harder to focus and added to the disorientation. At one point, I asked them to please ask one question at a time and wait for my answer before moving on.

I remember asking them to get Gabriel and make sure he knew what was happening. I knew he would relay everything to Maria.

As I started to come out of the fog, one question stuck with me. Someone asked if I was a diplomat. I said no. Then they asked what I did for a living. I answered, which led to the next question.

Was I FBI.

Apparently, I scoffed.

I do not remember doing that, but Gabriel does. He calmly answered for me. No, he is not.

According to him, I was so visibly offended by the suggestion that I never actually answered the question. I simply rejected it outright.

I was sweaty, shaky, embarrassed, and deeply uncomfortable.

The truth is, this one is on me. I did not hydrate enough. I did not sleep enough. I tried to push through instead of preparing properly. Cancer treatment has taught me many things, and one of them is that shortcuts always come due.

Gabriel stayed steady, calm, and present through all of it.

They transferred my care to urgent care so I could recover and receive fluids. Two liters of them, slowly dripping back into me. That transfer involved Gabriel and me riding together in the back of an ambulance. It was not exactly the holiday outing we had planned, but it felt oddly appropriate for this season of unexpected logistics.

About thirty minutes after I was admitted, Maria arrived. She always does, somehow at exactly the right moment. Gabriel headed back to the apartment, and Maria and I sat together for about six hours. There was no drama. Just time, fluids, monitoring, and waiting for my body to remember how to be upright again.

At one point, an attending doctor made an offhand comment that she knew we were not from the New York area. I initially assumed she had read my T-shirt, which had “hey y’all” printed on the front. That was not it.

Apparently, I have a Southern accent.

This was news to me. I have always thought my tone was fairly neutral, not Southern at all. That, in my mind, is my dad’s accent. His vowels linger. Mine, I thought, had moved on.

But there it was, clear enough for a stranger to hear within a few sentences. A reminder that no matter how many places you live, how many rooms you learn to belong in, or how carefully you think you have smoothed the edges, pieces of home stay with you. They surface quietly, without asking permission.

It made me smile more than anything else. In a hospital room full of wires, monitors, clipped conversations, and clinical efficiency, something familiar slipped through. A trace of where I started. A sound shaped by back roads, front porches, long conversations, June bugs, and voices that never rushed to get to the point.

Even there, far from home, with my body doing its own unpredictable thing, that small detail felt grounding. Proof that I am not just a patient, a chart, or a diagnosis. I am still someone’s son, still carrying echoes of a place and people who raised me. Apparently, I carry them right there in my voice.

Christmas Eve was supposed to mark the start of chemotherapy. Instead, everything shifted by forty-eight hours. Christmas Day became a pause, a real one. I rested. I unplugged. I stayed away from email, texts, and most electronics. I allowed myself to simply exist without tracking vitals, schedules, or plans.

There was something quietly grounding about that day. No treatment. No urgency. Just presence. It reminded me that even in the middle of medical chaos, stillness can be its own kind of medicine.

If you texted, called, or emailed me around then, I promise I was not ignoring you. I will do my best to get back to you. I truly took a break on Christmas, and I needed it more than I realized.

Friday, the 26th, became the real beginning.

I was anxious walking into the blood draw. That kind of anxiety lives in your chest, not your thoughts. As the nurse used my PICC line to collect blood, I could feel the quiet attention of the department on me. Not alarmed, just observant. The kind that follows someone who has had a recent incident.

I could also feel the nurse’s nervousness. She was calm and professional, but carefully watching me. I used humor, not just for myself, but for her as well. It helped ease the moment and reminded us both that this was just a blood draw, not a high-wire act.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had the sense that everyone was wondering if I was about to do my best impression of Jake Paul.

I did not.

Everything went smoothly. No dizziness. No cold sweats. No floor rushing up to meet me.

I asked about some of the questions they had posed when I was out of it. I asked the nurse if she had been the one who asked whether I was a diplomat. She was not, but she remembered it being asked. We laughed.

Several others came in to check on me before we began chemotherapy. I answered their questions and told them I was feeling better and better hydrated.

Then we did the thing.

Chemotherapy started, not as an ending, but as preparation. This is the work that makes room for what comes next. The clearing before the rebuilding. The quiet before something very loud and very hopeful happens inside my body.

This is not a heroic story. It is not particularly brave. It is messy, human, and a little embarrassing in places.

But it is honest.

Honesty, I am learning, is its own kind of strength.

One step closer.