My Story

For more than 20 years, I worked as a Home Health Physical Therapist Assistant, helping people regain strength, mobility, and dignity during some of the hardest moments of their lives. I spent my career lifting others up — literally and figuratively — and I was proud of the work I did. I never imagined I’d one day be the one needing help.

When the pandemic hit, we were told we were essential employees. We kept working while the world shut down. We were told it was “okay” to reuse PPE, even though our training had always taught us the opposite. We did what we had to do to keep patients safe. But when my health collapsed and I could no longer make money for the company, I was quietly pushed aside. No follow‑up call. No “How are you doing?” No concern. Just replaced.

Around that same time, I began struggling to breathe. Every doctor visit ended the same way: “It’s asthma. Use your inhaler.”

I trusted the system. I trusted the diagnosis. I kept pushing through.

But it wasn’t asthma.

It was Legionnaires’ disease, a severe bacterial infection that went undiagnosed for two years while I was repeatedly treated for asthma I never had. During that time, I was given repeated overdoses of bronchodilators and massive amounts of steroids. When my symptoms worsened, instead of being heard, I was questioned about being “on drugs,” even though the medications causing the reactions were the ones I had been given in the hospital.

What followed were multiple long hospital stays, each one ending with the same dismissive instructions:

“Come back if it doesn’t go away. Follow up with your primary care.”

I’d go home, get worse, and end up right back in the hospital. Nothing was being fixed. Nothing was being connected. At one point, I even coded in the hospital, and still the underlying issues were missed.

The emotional toll was heavy. I was exhausted, frustrated, and emotionally defeated. Through all of it, my wife — my best friend and my strongest support — stood by me as our lives were being turned upside down.

I also battled with my faith. I struggled to understand why the Lord was putting me through so much — the misdiagnoses, the setbacks, the fear, the losses. I asked questions I never thought I’d ask.

Then came another blow. After a lifetime of paying into Social Security, I was told I didn’t qualify for disability because I could supposedly “sit down and fold silverware.” After decades of physical work, service, and contribution, that was the explanation I was given.

Meanwhile, my health continued to unravel. I began throwing blood clots to my lungs, and that’s when I learned I have a genetic clotting disorder called Factor V Leiden — something that explained years of unexplained symptoms but had never been caught.

The medical bills piled up. The debt grew. And eventually, I had to make one of the hardest decisions of my life:

I sold the home I had lived in for 30 years just to stay afloat. Today, I’m living in a fifth‑wheel camper, trying to rebuild stability while facing a new battle: kidney cancer.

Along the way, I was told I had colon cancer based on a PET scan. I went through test after test — including three colonoscopies — only to be told later that it must have been a “bad report.” A year passed before the truth finally surfaced: the cancer wasn’t in my colon at all. It was renal cell carcinoma, sitting in the same area that had been flagged before.

I even have the imaging showing the mass in my right kidney — the moment everything finally made sense after years of confusion and misdiagnosis.

Through all of this, the emotional strain was immense. Years of medical trauma, long hospital stays, and being dismissed by specialists left me with severe depression and PTSD. At one point, I was prescribed a medication for what I was told was asthma — a medication with a black‑box warning I was never informed about. It affected me in ways I didn’t expect, and I found myself struggling with frightening thoughts I had never experienced before. My primary care provider reassured me that what I was feeling wasn’t a personal failing — it was a reaction to a medication I should have been warned about.

The turning point came when my primary care provider finally referred me to Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville — the first place that truly dug into my case. Mayo didn’t dismiss me. They didn’t send me home with vague instructions. They investigated, connected the dots, and found the issues others had missed. They became my saving grace.

And even with everything I’ve been through, I’m still moving forward.

I’m learning my options. I’m asking questions. I’m advocating for myself the same way I spent my career advocating for my patients.

After a lifetime of lifting others up, I’ve had to learn the same lesson for myself:

Be your own best advocate.

How Your Support Helps

Your support will help me with:

Basic living stability while I undergo treatment

Medical travel and appointments

Out‑of‑pocket medical costs

Medications and follow‑up care

Rebuilding after losing my home of 30 years

Every donation — no matter the size — helps me keep fighting.

Thank You

Thank you for reading my story, for sharing it, and for helping me keep going.

Your kindness means more than you know.