On May 14, 2018, at 9:15 a.m., at the UC San Diego Medical Center, three doctors walked into my room, and before they even said a word, I knew. In our job, you learn to read people. You don’t need the report. You read body language, eye contact, the way people carries themselves. This wasn’t routine. “You have cancer,” I was told.

Then they told me what kind: Stage IV triple-hit B-cell non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. That isn’t something that you hear and just nod through. That’s something that changes your life in a sentence.

What really went through my head

Many people might believe that the first thing that people feel when they hear this is fear. For me, it wasn’t. It was silence. Everything just stopped. I saw their lips moving, but I wasn’t hearing anything after the word cancer. The room still was there, but I wasn’t in it anymore, and then the first real thought hit me: My kids. I can’t leave them behind. What are they going to say if I’m gone?

Then it came in pieces:

• Am I dying?
• How bad is it?
• What about my kids?
• What happens to everything I built?
• What do I do right now?

And here’s the truth that no one tells you: You likely aren’t processing information in that moment. We pride ourselves in the fire service on staying calm under pressure, on taking control, on making decisions. This isn’t that. I wasn’t the one running the call anymore. I was the patient.

The part I wasn’t ready for

What hit me next wasn’t just the diagnosis nor the isolation. I was lying in that hospital room, and it started to sink in: I was alone. No crew, no family walking through the door, no one sitting next to me asking the questions that I couldn’t form yet. That matters more than you might believe. My world just flipped upside down, and the last place that I wanted to be was alone inside of my own head.

In the fire service, we spend our life surrounded by people. Suddenly, it was just me—in a hospital room with a word that couldn’t be taken back.

Gap that would’ve eaten me alive if I let it

Here’s what I didn’t understand that morning: There was a gap between being told that I had cancer and truly understanding what that means. That gap can be dangerous, because it can fill your mind with worst-case scenarios.

I didn’t know yet what kind of cancer beyond the name. What stage really meant for me? What were my chances? What was the plan?

Our brain likely doesn’t wait for facts. It goes straight to the worst place that it can go, and if you don’t have someone grounding you, guiding you, helping you to process it, that gap can eat you alive.

What I didn’t have but should have

After 21 months of treatment, I made it through, but I didn’t make it through the way that I should have. There were things missing in those first weeks that would have changed everything—not just for me, but for my family.

I didn’t have an advocate. No one sitting there taking notes. No one asking questions. No one catching the things that I missed—and I missed a lot.

It’s highly unlikely that a person can do this alone. I don’t care how squared away you might be. This isn’t a fire. This is your life. You need someone in that room with you.

I didn’t have immediate family support. This is the part that’s difficult to say, but it must be said: I didn’t have the support that I needed from my family in those early days, and that made everything heavier mentally. I wasn’t just dealing with cancer. I was dealing with it without the support system that I believed that I had.

If you’re reading this and you have family, bring them in early. If you don’t have family, build your support somewhere else. Don’t do it alone. In my case, there already was stress in my marriage, and because I wasn’t aware of the support for myself and my family, it broke us. Get support immediately for your family and your children—as well as for yourself.

I didn’t know about the Firefighter Cancer Support Network (FCSN). This is the big one, because it shouldn’t have been missing. I didn’t know about the FCSN when I was diagnosed. I didn’t know that there were firefighters who already went through this, who understood exactly what I was facing, who could have helped me to understand what was coming and to navigate decisions, who could support my family and who could give me clarity when everything felt out of control. Instead, I tried to figure it out as I went.

That doesn’t need to happen. If you’re a firefighter and you hear the word “cancer,” you must know this: You aren’t alone—unless you choose to be. FCSN exists, so use it.

What you must do immediately

This isn’t theory. This is from someone who lived it. If that day ever comes, here’s what matters in the first hours and days:

• Get someone in the room with you immediately.
• Slow everything down. You don’t have to understand everything in one conversation.
• Write things down or have someone do it. You won’t remember what’s said.
• Reach out to the FCSN early, not weeks later.
• Take care of your head. This is as much mental as it is physical.

Different kind of fight

This isn’t a fire that you can see. There’s no size-up. No hoseline. No quick knockdown. This is long. It’s personal, and it will test you in ways that nothing in this job ever has. That said, here’s what I know: As firefighters, we are built to fight. We just need the right tools.

Why I’m writing this

After 21 months of fighting, I beat it, but I took hits that I didn’t need to, not because I wasn’t strong enough, but because I didn’t have the information and support that I should have had in those first weeks. If this article does anything, I want it to do this: I want the next firefighter who hears the words “You have cancer” to be better prepared than I was, to have support, to have direction, to not sit in that hospital room feeling completely alone.

If this resonates—if it reaches even one firefighter or family member—then it’s worth it.

Furthermore, this is just the beginning. There’s more to talk about. What treatment looks like? What will be the effect on your career? What will be the toll on your family?

We owe it to each other to share what we’ve learned the hard way. We don’t go into a burning building alone. We don’t go into any incident alone. We work in a team.

Every department must build its team to support its members for the day, God forbid, that one of them is told “You have cancer.”