How Can I Help?

 March 26, 2025

Today’s the first time I’ve felt nauseous. I took a prochlorperazine at 1:30 p.m., and it seems to be helping. I’ve also got mild cold symptoms — just the sniffles and a tiny cold sore. Nothing like the brutal colds or flu I had as a kid.

Lately, one question keeps running through my head: “How can I help?”

In January 2021, I was admitted to the University of Utah Medical Center with necrotizing pancreatitis. Looking back, that might have been the start of what eventually led to my cholangiocarcinoma diagnosis.

Since joining these Facebook groups, even briefly, I’ve been overwhelmed — in the best way — by the support, kindness, and compassion I’ve found. I’ve met some incredible people.

And still, “How can I help?” is the question I keep coming back to as I scroll through posts. Sometimes I comment — a few words of encouragement, a question, or a bit of my own story. Other times, I just listen and learn, or forward the post to someone I know may have an answer. I'm still new to all this.

As I shared recently: “I am of faith, with a voice, and on a mission.” That mission is to walk through this journey, step by step, however it unfolds. These groups give me strength. They make the path less lonely.

I was diagnosed on February 11, 2025. Right away, I started reading everything I could about cholangiocarcinoma — treatments, survival stats, patient stories. But what I couldn’t find was the process — the everyday reality of living through it. So, I decided to document mine, in case it helps someone else just starting out. That’s what you’re reading here.

Everyone’s path is different — mentally, physically, spiritually — but maybe mine can be one more voice of support in the mix.

I’ve seen people beat the odds. That gives me hope. What once felt like a bleak diagnosis now feels like a mission. This community is made up of trailblazers. And like the saying goes, a cord of many strands is not easily broken.

Before I go further, I want to share something my sister wrote after my PET scan last week. She’s officially declared herself my caregiver — and, honestly, she’ll probably be the one to do it. What she wrote in her journal hit me hard. It’s too good not to share.

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Random Thots of a Batshit Caregiver

3:03 a.m. Cup of coffee #2. Happy March 26, 2025, to me.

Yesterday, I took my brother in for his first PET scan. When he came out, I told him I was starving. He says, “Yeah, I’m craving alkaline batteries. Can we hit Radio Shack?” I lost it — full-on cackling in the waiting room. It felt so good to laugh.

While I was waiting, I found myself singing He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother (yes, I’m that person), and joking with the nurses about how brothers are a pain in the ass. We laughed. It helped.

Laughter matters. My brother is reminding me of that — and I’m weirdly grateful.

But let’s be honest: cancer is terrifying. It’s a gut-punch. Still, you have to grab the moments when they show up. Life doesn’t wait for your plans. It just barrels through. You’re not in charge. But if you stay present and feel the real stuff, you start to see how precious the small moments really are.

We don’t know what tomorrow holds — or even this afternoon. So we keep going, one blessing at a time.

After I dropped him off, I got hit with this wave of regret — like, why didn’t we spend more time together before? Talking. Laughing. Being real. I’ve never been into small talk. I want the honest, messy, gut-level conversations. And now we’re having them. Finally.

We’re not young anymore. But maybe that’s okay. You stop wasting what matters.

Until tomorrow,
—Steve

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