In October 2024, I was diagnosed with ALS. The very next year, I became a grandfather for the first time. One of the greatest gifts of my life and the worst news of my life, arriving so close together. The thought of not being around to see my granddaughter grow up was devastating. The lack of viable long-term treatment options made it feel even more hopeless. But here is the thing about hopeless;

It is only true if you stop looking.

Friends and family started noticing changes in my speech around early 2020. Looking back, I was noticing changes too. Balance. Coordination. I passed it off as getting older. By 2023 my strength and mobility were noticeably declining. Over the last few years, I’ve lost about 90% of my speech and strength. Around 80% of my mobility, and forty pounds off my body. ALS robs more than the physical, it took my willingness to be seen as well. I started pulling back from public life. Stopped going places. Stopped showing up. I told myself I could battle this alone. That asking for help was weakness. That fighting in silence showed strength.

I was wrong about all of that.

Traveling to Florida for a treatment, I fell in the airport. It was the first time I had to rely on wheelchair assistance. Once in Florida, I fell walking into a coffee shop. Picking myself up off the floor made me realize: the man who was always the first to help, needs to be ok in asking for help.

A few other things I have learned so far on this journey — that I could not have learned any other way — is this:

Without the unconditional love of my wife Donna — I would not be here.

Without the push from friends and family when I needed it most — I would not be here.

Without people believing in me — asking about me — showing up for me — I would not be here.

There is no shame in admitting I cannot do this by myself.

Asking for help does not mean I am weak.

Allowing others to share in my experience is not embarrassing.

It just means I am loved.

With the help of a close friend who never gave up on me, I received an article on BTT Medical Institute in Aventura, Florida. A team of people who built their entire practice around three words — Reduce Human Suffering. Not a motto. A belief system. You feel it the moment you walk through the door. At BTT, I have met patients who arrived in wheelchairs. Who could not speak. Who after just a few treatments — were walking. Were talking. After my first treatment — my swallowing improved. My strength improved. My circulation improved. My feet — which had been turning purple — stopped turning purple.

Every single measured domain improved.

After one treatment.

I am not done living.

I am not giving up.

I am not giving in to ALS.

I want to be one of a handful of people leading the way for others facing this disease. I want to change the perception of what ALS means. I want to be a beacon of hope for every person who gets this diagnosis and is told — there is nothing to be done.

There is something to be done.

I am doing it.

And, I am asking you to help me keep going.

Treatment is not covered by insurance. Travel, hotel, food, and transportation are not included. The costs are significant. The doctors recommend sequential treatments to maximize results — and every week without treatment is a week the disease does not stop.

Your gift helps cover treatment costs at BTT Medical Institute, travel to and from Aventura, Florida, lodging, meals, and transportation.

Every dollar keeps me in the fight.

Every share puts this in front of someone who needs to find it.

Every word of encouragement reminds me why I am still here.

Thank you for standing by my side.

Thank you for giving me hope.

— Jerry Couch