The jackpot was simple: unlimited money, an A-frame in the hills, and freedom from every minor inconvenience, including, and this part felt very personal, lumbar punctures. I woke up irritated that the universe hadn’t held up its part of the bargain. I’ve paid my dues. Good karma should be accruing interest by now.

Instead, I had a full itinerary:

My third bone marrow aspiration and biopsy, an IR lumbar puncture with chemo, and the last hurrah, central venous catheter removal with port. If this were my graduation ceremony, the dress code would be hospital socks and intentional vulnerability.

Getting… De-Ported

I’m aware “deported” isn’t the softest word in the current political climate. But in oncology? It’s the word you wait for. It means you’re exiting the nation you never asked to live in, Cancerland, and returning home with your passport stamped “negative.”

The port didn’t glide out with a polite tug. It dug in. It acted like it had squatter’s rights. The doc gave me the obligatory “you’ll feel some pressure,” which is a medical phrase meaning prepare yourself, we’re about to violate several laws of physics.

Then he pulled. Nothing. He followed it up with, “This is just giving you a little hug,” and if I hadn’t been slightly sedated, I would’ve asked whether I’d accidentally wandered into the children’s hospital. Because whatever that port was doing, it wasn’t hugging me. He adjusted the angle, braced a little more, and pulled again. Still nothing. At this point, we were both too committed to quit, and the pain meds were… let’s say not calibrated for a device this emotionally attached to me. There was burning, there was pressure, and there was one particular yank where I genuinely wondered if he was trying to extract my sternum as a bonus.

When it finally tore free, it felt less like a medical procedure and more like evicting an angry tenant. But once it was out, the silence was unreal. No tug. No line.

No plastic port announcing itself through my shirt.

For the first time in a year, I wasn’t connected to anything but my own breath.

Just like that, I was de-ported.

The Procedure Tour (For Those Who Enjoy Discomfort)

The IR suite was cold enough to store meat, which immediately felt rude.

They positioned me into my usual stance “facedown a$$-up” a setup I hadn’t experienced since 2 Live Crew made it a cultural directive. Not exactly the posture of dignity, but it gets the job done. On the third marrow aspiration, you’d think I’d be stoic.

Nope.

That familiar pressure… pop… pull still hit like someone was vacuuming the secrets out of my bones. The biopsy followed, a mix of pressure and indignation.

The lumbar puncture was next, delivering chemo directly into my spinal fluid, as if my nervous system hadn’t already submitted its resignation.

Goodbyes I Didn’t Want to Say

Finishing treatment is a victory, but it’s also a kind of grief. These nurses saw me wrecked, nauseated, scared, sarcastic, stubborn, and trying too hard to be brave. And they always met me with kindness. Leaving them felt like leaving the only people who spoke the language of this last year.

You don’t expect to get attached to the people who stab you for a living.

The Thaw

Now a month out, something strange is happening. Life is thawing, even in winter. My body feels like it’s waking up after a long freeze, a hand here, a feeling there, a part of myself I thought I might not get back. My people showed up.

Friends I hadn’t heard from in years.

Coworkers covering shifts.

Meals were dropped off at my door.

Messages that landed on the right day at the right hour.

How could I not be grateful?

I cried, I raged, I broke down, I rebuilt.

And somehow, gratitude keeps sneaking in through the cracks.

And Now… the Return

As I re-enter my life, the timing feels almost scripted.

The charity jiu-jitsu tournament isn’t just happening; I’m stepping onto the mat for it with purpose. A round fought for the people who kept me here.

No Quarter is growing up, moving from an idea to a full-fledged publication. The podcast is rebooting, coming back louder and cleaner than before.

There are new projects, new stories, and new fights worth training for. Not because cancer gifted me some enlightened “perspective,” But because surviving stripped away every excuse I had left.

And since I’m already back in the fight:

I’m raising $2,000 for Tap Cancer Out.
If you train, roll with me.
If you can support, sponsor me.

If you’re in my corner from the sidelines, that counts too. Every dollar helps choke out the thing that tried to take me off the mat.

I’m de-ported now.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m walking back into my own life without permission slips, tubes, or conditions.

No quarter.
~Tyler

The triage nurse was on the phone when I arrived. Her voice was soft but steady, the kind of tone you use when someone’s already made up their mind. Later, she told me about the man on the other end. I’d crossed paths with him before, a quiet guy who’d been fighting for ten years. That morning, he’d decided it was time to go home.

Not giving up. Just done. He told me something once, early on, that I still carry:

“You don’t have to beat cancer to live better than before.”

I thought about that as I sat in the chair. About what it means to finish something. About what it means to stop. When I rang the bell that day, it wasn’t the sound of victory.

It was release.

Outside this week, the Beaver Moon was rising.

Gold and full, hanging low in the cold Utah sky like the world itself was marking the moment. The old trappers called it the moon of preparation, the season when beavers seal their dens for winter. A time for closure. For shelter. For gathering what’s worth keeping and letting the rest go.

I couldn’t have written a better metaphor if I tried.

The last four infusions were at the Park City clinic. Each one felt like crossing off a line on a calendar you’ve been staring at too long. The nurses reminded me how close I was. I hugged every single one of them when we were done.

Friday, November 7. My last day. They’d decorated the room. Balloons, paper fans, the kind of fanfare that makes you realize people actually cared. My daughter Cozette came with me. She sat in the corner, scrolling her phone, glancing up now and then to check on me. When it was over, she hugged me and said, “You did it, Dad.”

I didn’t cry. But I wanted to.

After, a coworker who’d pushed me to see the doctor in the first place took me to lunch. We didn’t talk about cancer. We talked about work, about life, about everything except the thing we’d just finished. Later that afternoon, my team surprised me on our usual Friday call. They stopped the meeting to celebrate, not just the milestone, but the fact that I’d kept showing up through all of it.

It felt strange, being celebrated.

Like the muscles for that part of my soul had atrophied. Somewhere along the way, I learned to survive more easily than I learned to let joy land. Maybe that’s the quiet curriculum of this whole journey: learning to pause long enough to let gratitude settle in the body, not just the brain.

Friday night was a celebration by fire.

After eight months of poison and prayer, I joined a few of my jiu-jitsu brothers for a pig roast. We were prepping for the fall belt test the next day, and someone had the brilliant idea to roast a whole pig overnight. Smoke curled into the cold air. Laughter echoed off the mountains. Old stories got retold with new details.

At one point, standing around the smoker, someone said it looked like a scene out of Lord of the Flies.

They weren’t wrong.

A bunch of sleep-deprived grapplers circling a roasted pig, basting it like it was our ticket into Valhalla. The smell of smoke and fat and charred skin. The sacred that has nothing to do with churches and everything to do with showing up for each other.

This was the most sacred thing I’d done all week.

Saturday, I watched the belt tests. Saw people push through nerves and exhaustion, faces red, breathing hard, refusing to quit. It reminded me of the same fight I’d just finished in a different ring.

Then, unexpectedly, the Professor called me up and awarded me my second stripe on my blue belt.

I hadn’t been the strongest version of myself this year. I’d missed classes. Showed up foggy. Moved slower than I wanted to. But I’d been faithful to the process. I kept coming back. And sometimes, that’s enough.

I felt that stripe click into place like a benediction.

Not for what I’d done. But for what I’d refused to quit.

Sunday night ended with a family steak dinner hosted by some of my favorite people and loudest cheerleaders. The Beaver Moon was still full when I drove home, lighting the mountains like a lantern.

I don’t know how to celebrate myself. I can build, lead, and survive. But celebration feels foreign, like trying to speak a language I never learned. Maybe that’s why this season had to happen. To teach me how to stay in the moment long enough to recognize that I made it.

Now that the drugs are wearing off, I can feel my body trying to remember what “normal” feels like.

My memory’s still foggy, like tuning an old radio, but it’s coming back in pieces. And my gut, my second brain, is asking for a whole new level of care. It’s funny how the place we digest life is also where we store so much of what we’ve endured.

Maybe healing there is the next practice. Less arsenic. More blueberries.

Monday marks the beginning of whatever comes next—no more infusions. No more schedules pinned to blood counts. Just the slow, awkward return to everyday life. The mind will take time to catch up to what the body has survived.

But I carry the lessons.

That joy can thrive in sterile rooms.

That courage wears scrubs.

That strength sometimes looks like sitting quietly in a chair, with an IV in your chest, refusing to flinch.

I don’t know where No Quarter goes from here. Maybe forward. Maybe inward. But I know this: the fight changes you. And maybe the point was never to win. It was to learn how to live without holding anything back.

No quarter given.

No quarter needed.

Just life.

~Tyler

P.S. — I’m Tapping In

Quick reminder: I’m fighting (literally) to raise money for cancer-related charities through Tap Cancer Out.

If you train, sign up to roll.
If you can support and sponsor me here.
If you’re cheering from the sidelines, that counts too.

My goal is $2,000; every dollar helps choke out the thing that tried to take me off the mat.

No quarter. No excuses. Just one more round.

Subscribe now

Arsenic and ATRA back in the bloodstream, the nerves pulled tight like a guitar string tuned past pitch. I’m wired. Irritable. Raw.

Then everything stops.

October 10th. I had to put Maybe down.

Our twelve-year-old Yorkie, named after the Arrested Development character because we thought I thought I was clever in 2013. She’d been with us through everything: moves, divorce, lazy Sundays. Slept on or as close to your face as you could possibly tolerate.

She taught me about love. The kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t posture, doesn’t need you to be better than you are. The kind that just shows up.

My kids were on their way home from Mexico.

Cancer doesn’t pause for grief. You’re supposed to just hold it together.

I didn’t.

The next day, I took my son, my oldest daughter, and her friend to get coffee. I’d already grabbed something and didn’t like it, so I swung through Dutch Bros. I ordered, waited, then held out the old cup.

“Could you toss this for me?”

The girl smiled. “Sorry, we can’t take anything back through the window.”

Something in me snapped.

“You have no problem taking my dirty money through the window!!”

Then I poured it out right there, in front of her, in front of my kids, in front of whatever part of me was still trying to be decent.

Steam rose. Silence. Then the poor kid whispered, “This is wild.”

She wasn’t wrong.

It wasn’t righteous anger. It was chemical warfare in a paper cup. It was humiliating. It was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, except Hyde was hopped up on retinoic acid at peak concentration.

At my next appointment, I asked for more Ativan. Lorazepam. The benzodiazepine that had been the only thing keeping my nervous system from full revolt. I might’ve referenced “Valium Mommy” one too many times. My nurse gave me the kind of look that means we need to talk. She sent me to the social worker.

So I sat down with a stranger and told her the Dutch Bros story. Not because I was proud of it. Because I needed someone to know that I wasn’t okay, that I knew I wasn’t okay. I knew better, but my body was a chemistry experiment I couldn’t control.

She didn’t flinch. Just nodded and said, “Let’s talk to your doctor about adjusting your ATRA.”

They cut my dose from 100mg to 50 mg per day. It helped.

A mercy through a meltdown.

Meanwhile, Riley has been adjusting well. The new dog. The chaos dog.

Turns out my joke about her being part Belgian Malinois wasn’t a joke. DNA came back: forty-four percent Malinois, twenty-seven Golden Retriever, with a dash of Husky and Malamute for flavor.

She isn’t a comfort dog. She’s a drill sergeant. A cuddle champion, she bites my butt out of bed and drags me outside because feelings aren’t the mission. Movement is.

Maybe taught me love. Riley’s teaching me discipline.

Right now, I need both.

Between treatments, I finished The Count of Monte Cristo. My jiu-jitsu buddy was reading, so we compared notes. Edmond Dantès starts as a man, becomes a ghost, then something like a saint. I underlined the same passage he did:

“There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another. Only a man who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, Morrel, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of living.”

Before cancer, I thought I knew what hard was. I’d trained jiu-jitsu with cracked ribs, meal-prepped like a monk, kept my head down and my goals in sight. But this is a different kind of hard. The kind that doesn’t yield to effort or control. The kind that demands surrender.

The comparison between who I was and who I am now is brutal.

But Dantès is right, you don’t get to appreciate the light without the dark. You don’t get joy without intimacy with grief.

I’ve felt what it is to die, not physically, but emotionally, spiritually.

Pieces of me dissolved under the weight of chemicals and loss. And somehow, that stripping away made the small things holy.

I’m off ATRA now. The fog is thinning. My brain feels like it’s coming back online.

I still lose my temper sometimes. I still scare myself.

But I come back faster. I repair. That’s the work my kids are watching. Not a perfect man, but a man who returns.

No Quarter.

~Tyler

I’m Tapping In

I’m fighting literally to raise money for cancer-related charities through Tap Cancer Out on February 28th, one year since diagnosis.

If you train, sign up to roll.

If you can support, sponsor me here

If you’re cheering from the sidelines, that counts too.

Goal: $2,000. Every dollar helps choke out the thing that tried to take me off the mat.

And as much as I’d love to tell you I’m gliding through this like some monk-bodied stoic, the truth is closer to this:

I can feel everything, all at once.

Every cell in my body seems to have a group chat, and no one knows how to mute notifications. That’s the thing no one tells you about All-Trans Retinoic Acid (ATRA): it’s not just a cancer drug. It’s empathy training for your entire nervous system.

Compared to something like Accutane, the skin-clearing cousin people take in college, my dose is… well, if Accutane is a cup of coffee, ATRA is a triple-double espresso hooked to an IV drip.

I’m in the deep-end program, swimming with biochemistry sharks.

And when I say “off,” what I really mean is: I’m off the daily arsenic drip. But the ATRA net is still going strong, catching every neuron, mood, and dream that tries to escape.

Leaky Brain Anyone?

Here’s the nerdy part: I’ve been geeking out on what’s happening inside my head. ATRA doesn’t stop at blood. It crosses the blood–brain barrier (BBB), a microscopic force field meant to protect the brain from chaos. Once it’s through, it starts flipping genetic light switches.

It binds to retinoic acid receptors (RARs) and retinoid X receptors (RXRs), the master keys for gene expression in neurons and glial cells. Those keys unlock all sorts of mood, focus, and sleep systems: neurotransmitter signaling (especially GABA and dopamine), synaptic plasticity, and stress regulation.

That sounds cool, in theory, until you realize that shifting those dials too far can scramble the mix.

When ATRA destabilizes the GABA–glutamate balance, you get this “wired but tired” cocktail: heightened anxiety, sensory overload, sleep disruption, and a kind of restless electricity humming just beneath the skin.

It’s signal saturation. It’s like your blood-brain barrier turned into a leaky speaker, every thought and sensation amplified, reverberating, impossible to tune out. And the kicker? This “leaky brain” state means your body’s doing the messy repair work in real time.

I’ve learned that recovery isn’t passive; it’s participatory. The brain wants to heal, but you must give it reasons to trust you again. So I’ve been moving daily, even walking Riley through the cold morning air or sneaking in a few light rolls at the gym. Movement pumps oxygen and growth factors back into circulation, feeding the neurons running a biochemical marathon. I’m trying to eat cleaner, real food, anti-inflammatory stuff like greens, turmeric, berries, and olive oil. I’ve added omega-3s, magnesium glycinate, and a B-complex to help rebuild myelin and steady my neurotransmitters.

Primarily, though, I’m protecting my sleep like it’s sacred. The blood-brain barrier is most substantial when you’re deep in REM, and lately I’ve realized that rest is just as medicinal as any pill. On the quieter side, I’m doing breath work and meditation, retraining my body to recognize safety instead of adrenaline. None of it’s fancy. It’s just structure, rhythm, and repetition, the small habits that remind my nervous system that it can stop bracing for impact.

Riley: My roommate has a record

Meet Riley, my newest training partner, emotional support chaos agent, and part-time life coach.

She’s between eight and ten months old, likely a German Shepherd–Malinois mix ( DNA test pending), which means she’s equal parts philosopher, athlete, and unlicensed security consultant. She was found wandering behind the Heber Walmart and spent nearly a month in County Lock-Up (a.k.a. the shelter) doing hard time for the crime of being unwanted.

I saw her mugshot on Facebook, her head tilted, her eyes defiant, and before I knew it, I was filling out paperwork and plotting her jailbreak. Upon meeting her, it didn’t hurt that she immediately suggled Cozy (“clever girl”). Now she’s home, running recon on everything in the neighborhood and teaching me that healing sometimes comes with muddy paws.

The Malinois part of her lineage explains a lot. This breed guards presidents, leaps out of helicopters, and works with special forces dogs bred to save the day, whether you asked for it or not. The Shepherd side brings loyalty, intelligence, and just enough empathy to make you feel judged when you skip leg day. The combination? A Malingator half genius, half chaos, all heart.

She drags me outside when I’d rather overthink, keeps pace when my energy’s gone, and sits beside me when the world feels too loud. She’s not here to comfort me but to train me to move, breathe, and live.

People like to say, “Who rescued who?”

I think in our case, it’s mutual. She needed a home. I needed a reason to keep showing up. She’s sweet, stubborn, and more intelligent than I deserve, and together we’re figuring out that grace doesn’t always look gentle. Sometimes it seems like a dog covered in mud and a man trying to keep up.

Back on the Mats (Don’t Tell My Doctors)

Yes, I’m back on the mats.
Ye,s I’m rolling complete contact.
And n,o my doctors don’t know.

They’d prefer I stay wrapped in bubble wrap until my next round of labs. But jiu-jitsu gives me something that medicine can’t: a sense of agency. When I’m training, I’m not “the patient.” I’m just a man, breathing, sweating, and learning where my edges are again.

I’ll compete on February 28th at the Tap Cancer Out BJJ Open, one year since my diagnosis.

The symbolism’s perfect: same fight, different arena.

What Healing Feels Like

Healing isn’t a straight line. It’s an oscillation between exhaustion and awe. My nerves buzz like crossed wires, my muscles negotiate new contracts, and my moods fluctuate between monk and maniac.

But I’ve learned that progress doesn’t feel peaceful; it feels alive. It hums, aches, and reminds you that you’re still here. Riley doesn’t care about any of that. She knows I smell like IV drips and peanut butter and that I keep showing up.

And maybe that’s the only recovery metric that matters: consistency, not perfection.

So here’s to round four, the final boss.
To leaky brains and loyal dogs.
To the noise of healing and the quiet that follows.

No quarter.
~Tyler

P.S. — I’m Tapping In

Quick reminder: I’m fighting (literally) to raise money for cancer-related charities through Tap Cancer Out.

If you train, sign up to roll.
If you can support and sponsor me here.
If you’re cheering from the sidelines, that counts too.

My goal is $2,000; every dollar helps choke out the thing that tried to take me off the mat.

No quarter. No excuses. Just one more round.

Leave a comment

Well… the PML-RARα fusion gene didn’t even bother to show up.

We’ll still finish out the last five weeks of treatment, but at this point it’s just to make sure the fusion gene is dead dead. Not “mostly dead.” APL will receive no quarter.

Of course, there’s still a lot of work ahead. I want my body back—cardio, muscle mass, and energy have all been ransacked over these last eight months. But now the road is finally about rebuilding, not just surviving.

And part of that rebuilding is bigger than me. I’ve signed up to compete in a jiu-jitsu tournament on February 28th, almost one year to the day I was diagnosed. I’ll be fighting (literally) to raise money for cancer-related charities through Tap Cancer Out.

• If you train, sign up to roll. Raise $250, and your entry is free

• If you want to support, sponsor me here.

• If you’re cheering from the side, hell yes, that counts too. Attend the event live for the possibility of seeing me get beaten up. Every bit helps.

Because this isn’t just a tournament.

It’s a declaration: I’m still here. I’m still fighting.

No Quarter,
~Tyler

We were supposed to take this trip months ago, before leukemia decided to crash the party and flip the board. But here we are: late summer, 20+ hours chasing red rock horizons and some overdue family magic. Me, the kids, the desert, and the Bronco loaded like a pioneer wagon, minus the disintary.

This wasn’t just any road trip. This was reclaiming. The kids and I loaded up and followed the route we’d mapped out back when life still felt under some control.

First stop: Moab and Canyonlands

Moab never disappoints. It’s still the gritty love child of Mars and REI, where tourists are looking for hiking, biking, or 4-wheel drive trails, and the others are looking for their spiritual awakening and that river!!

Canyonlands Island in the Sky and The Needles districts, narrated by the surprisingly charming GPS guide from GuideAlong. Imagine a sarcastic history teacher who moonlights as your emotionally attuned co-pilot if you've never used it.

The Grand Viewpoint was closed for road construction (because nothing says “you are small and insignificant” like staring into a 2,000-foot canyon and a traffic barricade. But we still caught sunrise at Mesa Arch. The sun lit up the arch like it was dipped in molten gold. For a few minutes, everyone went quiet—even the teenager.

Then we headed to the Upheaval Dome, either a collapsed salt bubble or the smoking crater of an ancient asteroid.

I’m team asteroid.

Probably the same one that gave the dinosaurs a permanent timeout. Makes more sense than salt just deciding to implode one day. You don’t get a name like Upheaval Dome from table seasoning. That’s extinction-level energy.

We stood there, staring into this warped bowl of rock, and you couldn’t help but wonder what else got rearranged when that thing hit; geology, history, maybe even time itself. I love places like this. They remind you how little we know. Most of what we’re standing on is mystery and myth, layered in sandstone.

We made our way down to the Needles District, where the landscape feels like nature got a little tipsy on sacramental wine and started stacking red rock cathedrals for fun.

Southern Utah’s got this wild, mystical energy. For a particular kind of settler, especially those from the "pioneer stock," it was more than just survival. It was sacred scavenger hunting. Treasure maps, buried gold, and “prairie magic” weren’t fringe ideas. They were practically canon. Take a Blanding good o'boy saint, put them near a ruin, and you’ve got a 50/50 chance they’ll start talking about Moroni’s cave, the Lost Rhoades Mine, or that time a vision led someone to Spanish treasure sealed behind a mystical rockfall. This isn’t just folklore; it’s baked into our history. Early Mormon settlers genuinely believed in sacred geography. Some saw these lands as holding remnants of Book of Mormon civilizations. Others believed the Native American ruins were linked to Lamanite ancestors, and that God had tucked away ancient relics and records in the hills for the faithful to find.

Even the Blanding artifact raid wasn’t just about looting; it was part of a long pattern of treating ancient Indigenous sites as both sacred and somehow up for grabs. Whether it was spiritual inheritance or just old-fashioned frontier greed, the lines were blurry. And often ignored.

Some even argue that Taylor Sheridan borrowed (or outright lifted) from the story of Dugout Ranch for his original Yellowstone series. Suppose you spent time in these parts, where fact and folklore swap places like dance partners. And just as we were steeped in all this myth and memory, we stumbled across Woodenshoe Arch, shaped like an actual wooden shoe. Proof that even in a land carved by wind, water, and apocalypse-level patience, there’s still space for the weird and whimsical.

Cortez and Mesa Verde

From Moab, we crossed into Colorado and rolled through Cortez, a town that feels forever caught between the old world and a gas station burrito. But it’s the gateway to one of the most powerful places I’ve ever stood: Mesa Verde.

You don’t just visit Mesa Verde. You witness it.

The cliff dwellings here aren’t quaint. They’re defiant. Tucked into canyon walls with surgical precision, these stone villages are acts of engineering, artistry, and absolute resilience. And when you’re standing there, staring at what the Ancestral Puebloans built over 700 years ago, you don’t just feel small, you feel humbled.

These weren’t just homes.

They were declarations:

We were here. We adapted. We endured.

We took the Balcony House tour, which involves climbing 32 feet by ladder and ducking through ancient doorways. It’s the kind of tour that strips away modern comfort and reminds you how soft we’ve become. Our guide was brilliant, layering the archaeological facts with Indigenous oral histories and respectfully reminding us that these weren’t ruins to be gawked at but living stories we’re lucky to glimpse.

At one viewpoint on the mesa, we could see nearly 100 miles in every direction, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico all stretched out under a sky so wide it felt like you could fall into it. We stopped there for a picnic, in the shade, looking out over the Four Corners and the marvels of the First Nations, eating sandwiches in the same cliffs where families once passed stories through generations, and carved life out of stone and drought. Bob Dillon would croon “Past the Aztec ruins and the ghosts of our people”.

It” struck me how much we flatten Indigenous narratives in school. We talk about “ancient peoples” as if they vanished. This was some abandoned civilization that was swallowed by time, but wasn’t moved. They adapted. Their descendants are still here. Still enduring and still telling stories.

Places like this pull something out of you—something older than grief, but just as heavy.

You start thinking about your cliff dwellings, the pieces of your life you’ve carved into stone, the homes you’ve lost, the quiet resilience it takes to survive what doesn't make it into the history books.

Mesa Verde isn’t a monument to what's. It’s a reminder of what remains.

Durango

We pulled into Durango late in the day, and _I felt an old part of me wake up. It's to explain, but you know the feeling if you've returned to a place that holds your childhood in its dirt. Durango isn’t just a town for me, it’s my story map.

Nick and I used to run wild here. Main Street was our kingdom. The mountains were our escape hatch. We’d peer into the trees like we belonged there, feral, free, and full of whatever magic only kids can see.

We visited the land where my grandmother spent her final years—six acres of quiet. You can still feel her presence as the wind moves through the pines. Her ashes rest there now, alongside the love and labor she poured into that patch of earth with her late husband. It’s sacred. It's und.

Being there brought back more than memories; it brought back a version of me I hadn’t felthadn'twhile—one that wasn’t surviwasn'tne who knew how to belong to a place.

We traveled the Million Dollar Highway, 12,000 feet up and over mountain passes that make your ears pop and your existential crisis flare just enough to feel alive again. (For my Utah readers: imagine driving up and over Mount Timpanogos.

We stopped in Ouray, Colorado. A magical, too-perfect mountain town that feels like a Wes Anderson fever dream. Had a late breakfast. Breathed it in. I half expected someone to slide me a napkin that said Who is John Galt? and offer me a seat at the resistance table.

Ants, Grief, and AI

Somewhere in that long stretch of silence between mountain towns, I remembered a weird little story:

You can trap an ant by drawing a circle around it on paper. That’s it—NTha’s. No threat. Just a line. And yet, the ant will stay inside it, convinced it can’t leave. Can’t, doesn’t, doesn't know. I’ve been wondering if I’ve done the right thing.

Divorce. The loss of Nick. Cancer.

Each one drew a circle around me, limiting how much I let myself hope, trust, or feel joy without immediately bracing for the next hit. I didn’t mean to get stuck there. But I've been pacing those loops like I forgot I had legs.

Lately, though, I’ve been struggling with it. Not to fix it. Not to decode it.

But maybe I should stop drawing the circle again whenever life gives me space to move.

AI keeps teaching me things, too.

Most people think AI spits out answers. But what it’s doing is learning constantly. It takes feedback. It recognizes patterns. It gets better with more context and more straightforward prompts.

Sound familiar? We do that, too. We loop until something forces us to adapt.

We repeat the same emotional code until it stops working or until someone, something, pain, or grace, helps us see a new way through.

We get better when we start asking better questions. AI doesn’t evolve the input changes. Neither do we. If you don’t like what I give you, odds are you didn’t prompt. The same goes for life. The same goes for relationships. The quality of your outputs, peace, progress, and connection depend on the quality of your inputs.

Try this:

Instead of asking, Why won’t they change? Ask, How won't show?

Instead of, Why does this hurt so much? Ask, What is this pain trying to teach me?

Instead of, Why do I always end up here? Ask, What am I still not seeing?

Because maybe the goal isn’t to control the outcome, but rather to write a prompt. One that invites clarity. One that invites growth. One that doesn’t keep you walking doesn't let you.

I’m Tapping In

Quick but important reminder:

I’ve signed up to compete in a jiu-jitsu tournament on February 28th, almost one year to the day I was diagnosed.

I’ll be fighting (literally) to raise money for cancer-related charities through Tap Cancer Out.

If you train, roll.
If you want to support, sponsor me here.
If you’re cheering from the side, you're? Hell yes. That counts too. Every bit helps.

Because this isn’t just a tournament.

It’s a disn'tation: I’m still herIt's’m still fightinI'mI’m not drawiI'many more damn cirI'ms._

No quarter.
—Tyler

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I played a round of golf at Wasatch Mountain, which is basically Utah’s love letter to golf. It’s been around since t…

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It’s a strange place to be half done, but nowhere near finished. There’s no ribbon, no triumphant horn section. Just another drip bag, another round of nausea, and a body that’s trying to remember what normal even means.

This cycle’s been rough. Nausea has…

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Discipline and consistency aren’t new concepts for me. I’ve rolled into jiu-jitsu…

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I’ve entered a strange liminal phase of recovery—where the chemo fog has mostly lifted, my body is trying to remember how to be a body, and I’m just vibing. And by vibing, I mean napping in weird places and googling things I forgot five minutes ago.

Intermission: The Snack is Not the Problem (and Neither Is the Silence)

The other night, around 2 a.m., I got out of bed and stood in the kitchen—half awake, thoroughly disoriented, and emotionally negotiating with a stale bag of pita chips. I wasn’t hungry. I was… craving something. Something warm, and close, and human.

And here’s where I get honest: recovery is lonely.

Not the kind of loneliness that family or friends can fix. I’ve got people. I’ve got check-ins, well-meaning texts, freezer meals, and appointment rides. But a specific kind of absence hits when you don’t have a partner—someone who is in it with you, in the small, sweaty, 2 a.m. ways.

Not a caretaker. Not a therapist. A person.

It’s a paradox: I wouldn’t want to be in a non-functional relationship right now. I’ve lived that story. I know what it costs. And yet, there’s still a kind of ache that comes from not having someone to lean into at the end of a long day of doing nothing except trying to heal.

Someone to watch you doze off mid-sentence, witness the quiet spiral that comes with test results, or sit next to you while you peel an orange and try not to cry for no reason. Family shows up and I’m grateful, but it’s not the same. You can’t lean your whole emotional bodyweight on someone who’s also juggling their grief and fear for you.

In all seriousness, this slow week is a gift even if it comes wrapped in fatigue, brain fog, and a side of medical anxiety. Nothing happening means the meds are doing their job, the blood is rebuilding, and the demon cells are hopefully packing up their knives and leaving my bone marrow.

So I’ll take the stillness. I’ll take the naps. I’ll take the weird dreams. Progress doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare, sometimes it just shows up with a quiet “keep going.”

And if you’re also in a phase of slow healing, an understated life skill is in joying where you are without rushing to what’s next.

No quarter given. None expected.

Thanks for checking in.
~ Tyler

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Good news first:

Complete morphologic remission. Translation: Under the microscope, my bone marrow is clean. No cancer cells crashing the party. No rogue agents planning a comeback tour. It's a huge milestone—the kind that deserves a toast, if only the drink options were less… lethal.

The bad news?

We're not done. Remission isn't the finish line; it's just halftime. The plan is to hammer anything that even thinks about staging a comeback. This means more arsenic, hospital chairs, and many more jokes that toe the line between funny and "Are you okay?"

Outpatient life hit me with a reality check. I’m out of practice being tethered to an IV. So when I got up to go to the bathroom you know I nearly ripped the damn thing out. It turns out that the pump is still very much attached to the wall.

Outpatient > Hospital? Not Exactly.

In the hospital, everything you need is five feet away. Pain? They got meds. Nausea? More meds. Can’t sleep? Something that rhymes with "dilated dreams."

But outpatient? You're on your own, cowboy.

You still feel like crap, but now you also have to figure out dosing schedules, side effect triage, and how not to panic when your body feels like it’s losing a war. It’s like being discharged from a battleship with a Nerf gun.

Cocktail Corner: Chemotherapy Edition

Let’s revisit the menu.

• Arsenic Trioxide: my current poison. Nausea, fatigue, and QT prolongation (a condition where the heart takes longer than usual to recharge between beats). Feels like a low-budget horror film in your bloodstream.

• Cisplatin: nausea, hearing loss, and kidney failure. It's like doing shots of battery acid.

• Ifosfamide: hallucinations, bloody urine, and something charmingly called encephalopathy. Yay!

• Doxorubicin: nicknamed "The Red Devil." Sounds fun, right? Heart damage, immune suppression, and vein irritation. It’s a real party.

Compared to those? Arsenic’s the gentleman's chemo. Deadly, but refined.

Med Management: Now Featuring 4:20

I’m currently juggling 10 medications. Ten. For nausea, sleep, pain, anxiety, and whatever else shows up to the afterparty.

So I’m seriously considering medical cannabis to replace at least three or four of them. Should I ditch the zombie pill shuffle for something natural and effective?

I may officially become 4:20-friendly. It might be time to add a little green to the fight.

The Vibe Check

Outpatient means no safety net. You’re managing everything on your own while also trying to act like a person. Most people around me are doing their best, but it's obvious the struggle is real.

Me? I'm hanging in. Still cracking jokes and still treating this like a weird endurance event where sarcasm is a survival skill.

Remission is a milestone, but not a finish line.

This is still a fight. Every day I show up, pump attached, humor intact, body aching, but spirit steady—I'm winning.

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No quarter given. None expected.

Thanks for checking in.
~ Tyler

On paper, I’m “off treatment.”

In my head? I’m already bracing for round two.

Because while I’ve loved the time off being home, sleeping in my own bed, not sweating through another hospital gown I want to make damn sure this APL is gone. Nuked. Exorcised. Erased from the fine print of my bone marrow.

To help with that, I had a little procedure this week to install a port-a-shiny, subdermal VIP entrance for my chemo. It’s cleaner, safer, and let’s be honest, way more cyberpunk.

Being home has also given me time to go down a few rabbit holes, exploring alternative and natural cancer treatments. In the last few years, we’ve watched a full-blown war unfold over what counts as “health.”

Mask fights in grocery stores.
Anti-vaxxers vs. pro-vaxxers like it’s the blood feud of our time.
And in the middle of it all?
Millions of people are just trying to feel better, however they define that.

Enter the Conflict: The Trap of Extremes

On one side: the scientific materialists: lab-coat loyalists who believe that if it can’t be measured, quantified, and published, it doesn’t exist.

On the other hand, the natural health crusaders who insist that your thoughts created your illness and that kale juice is the cure.

Both camps claim the moral high ground.

Both offer “truth.”

And both can make people like me, living in the vulnerable, mortal, gray area, feel like heretics, no matter what we choose.

Because here’s the thing: If I reject chemo, I’m reckless. If I reject supplements, I’m closed-minded. If I believe in both, I’m suddenly “confused.”

But maybe this isn’t confusion. Maybe it’s complexity.

I’ve read You Can Heal Your Life. I’ve underlined the passages. I’ve repeated the affirmations.

I do believe that my thoughts can influence healing.

But here’s the shadow side of that belief:

If the cancer doesn’t go away… is that on me?
Was I not positive enough?
Did I not forgive fast enough?
Did I not “do the work”?

It’s a seductive promise with a cruel edge:

You made yourself sick. And now you’re failing to heal.

That’s not healing. That’s shame shrouded in sage.

As the chemical fog clears from my system, I’m noticing what helps me feel human again—and surprise, it’s not in any textbook.

It’s in watching my kids laugh without realizing how much I’ve missed it. It’s in the sauna, reading something that has nothing to do with cancer. It’s in watching the dog nap like nothing bad could ever happen again.

I’m grateful for science. I’m curious about what science can’t measure.

Here’s What I Know:

My port is real.
My fear is real.
My hope is real.

And whatever gets me one step closer to remission, whether it’s chemo or cold plunges, is welcome at the table.

What about you?

What has helped you heal, even if it wouldn’t pass a clinical trial?

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Given no quarter to APL
~Tyler

At first, I rolled my eyes—because let’s be honest: if you’ve spent time in a hospital gown, hooked up to IVs, battling cancer, “privilege” is not the word that comes to mind. Words like unfair, exhausting, or terrifying? Sure. But privilege?

Then I sat with it. And something shifted.

Because adversity isn’t just about the pain. It’s about the invitation.

The invitation to meet yourself in the fire. To discover a version of you that doesn’t show up when life is easy. To confront the parts of you that only get revealed when comfort is stripped away.

Before APL, I thought I knew who I was. But this diagnosis brought me to my knees—physically, emotionally, spiritually. It burns away ego, the illusion of control, the distractions I used to numb myself. And what was left? A raw, honest version of me I’d never met before.

There’s a strange freedom in that.

Adversity asked questions of me that nothing else could:

• Who are you when no one is watching?

• What do you believe when hope is uncertain?

• Can you find beauty in the breakdown?

This experience has taught me that suffering, as brutal as it is, can be fertile ground for becoming. For growing deeper roots. For finding humor in the absurd. For seeing people—really seeing them. And maybe most of all, for loving yourself not in spite of your scars but because of them.

APL didn’t just challenge my health. It redefined my relationship with meaning.

So yeah… maybe adversity is a privilege.

A brutal, unwelcome, holy kind of privilege.

I am in week five of this battle; post-discharge, I have a two-week rest from treatments before consolidation begins. Until then, there will be no quarter until APL taps out.

~Tyler

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Over the last 30 days, I’ve had the honor (and, let’s be honest, the medically necessary obligation) of being in your care. And in that time, you all became more than just healthcare providers; you became part of my healing, hope, and sometimes my unofficial stand-up audience.

To Abigale, whose streak of dedication at the start set the tone for everything that followed, you are the GOAT of Day 1s.

To Lyndsay, Katie, Krysta, Jess, and Becc, you somehow managed to juggle 12-hour shifts, hallway chaos, and beeping IV pumps while still treating me like I was your only patient. You brought professionalism, humor, and a uniquely comforting blend of tough love and genuine skill that I won’t forget. You reminded me that even in a system under pressure, human kindness still leads.

To Darren, Emily, Nina, Kate, Megan, and others whose names I caught mid-nap or in the haze of post-chemo fog, you were the ones who carried the humor, honesty, and professionalism that kept me grounded. You didn’t just take care of the labs and linesyou cared for me. And I felt it.

To the quiet heroes, the small army of aides: Amelia, who was probably in my room more often than I was awake, and Makaila, always a steady presence during the night shift, you kept things running smoothly, even when I was at my most disoriented. All of you showed up without fanfare, but I noticed. I always noticed.

And to everyone else whose names I missed because cancer fog is real, please know I carry your impact with me. Every kind word, every joke, every “you’re doing great” when I wasn’t sure I was… it all added up.

There is something sacred about being cared for when you’re at your most vulnerable. These nurses and aides didn’t just administer meds or check boxes; they held space. They let me cry. They laughed at my dark humor. They asked about my kids. They noticed when I was too quiet and stayed a moment longer when I needed it most.

You don’t always get to choose how your story changes, but sometimes you get lucky with the people who help you turn the page.

From the bottom of my tired, healing, deeply grateful heart, thank you.

Here’s to those who continue the fight, granting cancer no quarter, only compassion and strength to those in your care.

~Tyler

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To the untrained eye, that number might seem small—because it is. But for me, it means my immune system is starting to stir from its medically-induced slumber like a groggy toddler demanding snacks. It’s the first real signal that my bone marrow is rebooting, and my body is maybe ready to rejoin society without the risk of being taken out by a sneeze.

The real highlight, though? Bone Marrow Biopsy #2—a.k.a. the final exam before graduation from Induction High. This test checks for any rogue white blood cells still cosplaying as promyelocytes. If we get an “all clear,” it means we’ve officially kicked those freeloaders out and can move on to the consolidation phase.

What’s consolidation?

Well, it’s basically the extended tour: 8 months of month-on, month-off treatment. Think of it like a really long-distance relationship with chemo. There were lots of breaks and occasional toxicity, but somehow, it still more predictable than my last romantic entanglement.

If all goes well, I’ll be discharged soon. With a clean marrow, a slightly stronger immune system, and maybe—just maybe—the digits of one of these heroic nurses.

Now, before anyone clutches their pearls, let’s be clear: I’ve been nothing but a respectful, neutropenic gentleman. But with this many nurses walking around in scrubs, it’s hard not to develop at least one chemo crush. So naturally, I’ve been workshopping some lines. Some might even make it past security.

Pickup Lines That Might Work on a Nurse (If She’s Sleep-Deprived and Charitable):

1. “I think you dropped something… my white blood cell count—and also my jaw.”

2. “Are you a hematology nurse? Because you’ve been running through my bloodstream all day.”

3. “Is it hot in here, or is that just your bedside manner?”

4. “I may be immunocompromised, but I promise I’m emotionally available.”

5. “You check vitals, right? Because my heart rate just spiked when you walked in.”

Lines That Should Probably Be Confiscated:

1. “Do you do CPR? Because you just took my breath away—and I’m technically not stable.”

2. “Is your name Methotrexate? Because you’re toxic, and yet I keep coming back.”

3. “Hey girl, are you an antiemetic? Because you make me forget how nauseated I am by life.”

4. “I’d offer you a drink, but all I have is saline and regret.”

5. “You, me, and a box of gloves—what could go wrong?”

Let’s be real: this journey hasn’t been easy. There’s bloating, fatigue, awkward gowns, IV pole entanglements, and an entire hospital wing that’s seen me cry, laugh, and get real philosophical at 3 a.m. But there’s also been so much good—friends visiting, texts that made me smile, and nurses who genuinely care (even if they don’t appreciate my A+ flirt game).

What keeps me going isn’t just the promise of remission. It’s knowing I’m not doing this alone. It’s laughter. Connection. Gratitude. And maybe a medically questionable amount of dad jokes.

Here’s to the end of one phase, the beginning of another, and flirting through the fog.

Week 4: Complete. I’ll post the breakout video.

Until then, No Quarter to Tapping out Cancer.
~Tyler

In this week’s video update, I share what it’s like surviving round after round of chemo, why my blood cells are acting like flaky co-workers who don’t show up when you need them, and how a 120-year-old hospital somehow became both a treatment center and my temporary haunted Airbnb.

A Brief and Slightly Dramatic History of LDS Hospital

Let’s talk about this place. LDS Hospital was founded in 1905 by the Relief Society, the women’s organization of the LDS Church. That means this building has been around for everything from the Spanish flu to the moon landing… to now hosting me in a backless gown with an IV pole that squeaks like it’s haunted.

Before it became LDS Hospital, it was actually Deseret Hospital, founded in the 1880s. It shut down due to funding, but the Relief Society brought it back to life like a phoenix made of antiseptic and casseroles. By 1920, it was training nurses and becoming a leader in modern medical care. So yeah—there’s a legacy in these walls. And now there’s me, leaving a legacy of snack wrappers and sarcastic commentary in Room 511.

The Blood Report: What My Body’s Been Up To

You hear a lot of terms in cancer care, but I want to break down the essentials. Here’s what I’m tracking almost daily—and how I’m doing so far:

Platelets (PLT)

Role: Stop bleeding and form clots.
Normal Goal: 150,000–450,000 (hospital wants me at 50K+)
March 11: 16,000
April 1: 137,000
Translation: If I sneezed too hard, I could bruise my soul. We’ve since improved, but every count still feels like betting on a drunk tightrope walker.

RBC – Red Blood Cells
Role: Carry oxygen to tissues.
Normal Range: ~4.7–6.1 million/mcL
March 11: 31.5
April 1: 28.2
Translation: Walking to the bathroom = cardio. Oxygen has become a luxury item.

WBC – White Blood Cells
Role: Fight infection.
Normal Range: 4,500–11,000/mcL
March 11: 14.9
April 1: 1.1
Translation: My immune system was either fighting hard or overreacting like your aunt on Facebook. We’re watching the trend, but high counts often reflect leukemia activity or post-treatment bounce-back.

ANC – Absolute Neutrophil Count
Role: Infection-fighting white cells.
Normal Goal: Above 1.5
March 11: 1.9
April 1: .03
Translation: Neutropenic. Avoiding fresh fruit, raw veggies, and most forms of joy. Under 1.0 means I’ve been on high alert for infection risks. This one is tricky as I needed a complete reset.

Fibrinogen
Role: A key protein that helps form blood clots.
March 11: 78
March 21: 150
Translation: This is actually trending so well that they stopped testing. My body’s figuring out how to clot again, so that’s one less thing to panic about when I bump into a chair.

Blast %
Role: Immature white cells crowding out the good ones.
March 11: 75%
March 19: 1%
Translation: This is the main culprit in Acute Promyelocytic Leukemia. High blasts = bone marrow overrun. Chemo is doing its job to flush these out, which is why we’re keeping a close eye on how fast my marrow starts regenerating the good guys.

Trends, Progress, and What It All Means

Some days, the numbers jump and give us hope. Other days, they stagnate or dip and remind us how fragile this process really is. But here’s what I’ve learned: You can’t just treat the body. You have to treat the spirit too. Which brings me to…

The Soundtrack to Surviving

When you’re stuck in a hospital for weeks on end, you start associating emotions with lab values… and Taylor Swift lyrics. For example:

“Now we’ve got problems / And I don’t think we can solve them…”

— Bad Blood, obviously.

Music has been a lifeline. A form of therapy. It's a way to shake off the anxiety while you wait for numbers to load on a nurse’s iPad. I’ve built a Spotify playlist with all the songs that have helped me breathe deeper, cry better, and smile through IV flushes.

Check out the APL Playlist here:

And I want to hear from you.

What’s your go-to healing anthem?

Drop it in the comments, and I’ll add it to the playlist. It doesn’t matter if it’s Rage Against the Machine or Norah Jones—if it’s gotten you through a hard season, I want it on this soundtrack.

Thanks for being here. For reading. For caring. Every comment, every share, every song—this is what keeps me going.

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More updates to come. Until then…

No Quarter

-Tyler

Two weeks into the ring with this thing, and we’re still standing.

Vitals and numbers are holding steady—thankfully. But my body is deep in the trenches, and I’ve noticed a shift that I can only describe as a kind of ADHD-on-hard-mode. My mind is racing, the focus is elusive, and the inner monkey has taken over the controls.

Enter: Breathwork

I’ve gone back to focused breathing. If you’re feeling scattered—whether you’re in treatment or just in the chaos of life—this is something I recommend:

49 Breaths (Monkey Mind Tamer Edition)

1. Inhale through your nose for 4 counts

2. Hold your breath for 7 counts

3. Exhale slowly through your mouth for 8 counts

Now, here’s where I add my twist:

I do 7 rounds of this, and before each round, I mentally count in multiples of 7 (7, 14, 21, etc.).

If I lose track at any point, I start over.

The goal is to get to 49.

The point? Calm the mind, find your center, and prove you’re the boss of your breath

💩 The Great Stool Caper

Now for something… completely different.

For the past few days, the staff has been on what can only be described as a full-blown scavenger hunt for my stool sample.

The problem is that the meds had me more backed up than the Flinders toilet after chili-mac night. (yeah, a Saturday’s Warrior reference)

But today… today was the day.

When the poor nurse’s aide (who can’t be older than 20) walked in to collect it…

I heard an audible gag.
Movie-level retch.
I can’t say I blame her.

This thing was a specimen.
Michelangelo had the Sistine Chapel. I had that collection cup.

I’m not proud— we now exchange awkward eye contact in the halls.

The nurses and staff have been incredible. Some are constants on my care team, others

pass through for a shift—but nearly all of them have specialized cancer training, and all of them bring humor, warmth, and patience to a place that could quickly feel sterile and cold.

It makes all the difference.

More soon. I’m working on building up stamina, taking rest, and trying not to dropkick my IV pole every time it gets caught in the bathroom doorway.

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No quarter. Tapout Cancer.

–Tyler

I'm rockin’ that 1% blast count—feeling like an underachiever in all the right ways. No blood products are needed on Thursday or Friday, so either I’m leveling up or just getting harder to kill.

In the wild world of APL, I discovered…

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