Everything All at Once
Science calls it neuroinflammation. I call it divine static.
Monday starts my fourth and final round of arsenic.
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.
A sense of agency is terrific! So is "Riley doesn’t care about any of that. She knows I smell like IV drips and peanut butter and that I keep showing up." ❤️