Koa has cancer.

I’ve rewritten that sentence a hundred times, like the wording will soften it. It doesn’t.

Since 2023, our life has slowly reorganized around this. Not in a dramatic, announcement way. In the quiet way. The kind that looks like “we’re fine” from the outside and feels like triage on the inside.

We’ve been carrying this for a long time. Me, my fiancé, both our families. We’ve done everything we can to keep up. To keep him comfortable. To keep our footing.

This is not our first bill.

This is the phase where treatment becomes aggressive.

Koa’s oncology team in San Diego has mapped out a treatment plan that includes a multi-session radiation protocol, alongside chemotherapy and ongoing monitoring. Radiation isn’t “just treatment.” It’s planning scans under full anesthesia.

Precision mapping.

Repeat sessions that often require anesthesia too. Then chemo. Then bloodwork to make sure his body can handle it. Then the reality nobody likes to say out loud: cancer care isn’t predictable. Complications can show up fast.

So we’re raising funds to do two things:

1) Execute Koa’s treatment plan the right way. This includes: diagnostic staging and planning scans, the full radiation protocol (multiple sessions), chemotherapy and required monitoring, supportive meds and follow-ups.

2) Build a safety net so we never face the “financial cliff.”

I need to be blunt here: I am trying to eliminate the possibility of forced euthanasia because the money ran out. If a complication is treatable, I want to treat it. Not debate it. And yes, we’re including something people don’t always understand until they’ve lived it: Koa needs a stable recovery environment.

Chemo and radiation aren’t “drop him off and go back to life.”

This requires monitoring, sanitation, temperature control, medication timing, and hands-on care. My apartment is his recovery room. My time is part of the treatment plan.

He cannot heal without stability.

He cannot fight cancer from chaos.

I hate asking for money.

Deeply.

Generationally.

Personally.

My nervous system would rather do literally anything else.

But I love him more than I hate asking.

Koa is not just “a dog.” He’s my shadow. My heart. My spirit animal in living, breathing form. The one who has been steady for me through seasons I don’t even have clean words for. He’s the kind of presence that makes a home feel like a home. And I’m trying to keep him here.

He’s still trying to be the one taking care of me. While he’s the one sick.

So the least I can do is match his energy, in all ways.

If you donate, thank you. You’re directly funding treatment, monitoring, and the runway we need to keep going without falling off a cliff.

If you can’t donate, sharing helps more than you think. I’m not ignoring you, I’m just low-capacity right now. I’ll keep this updated so you can follow along. I’ll post updates as we go (with private info redacted): milestones, progress, and what your support is making possible.

Transparency over theatrics.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring about him. We’re fighting for comfort. For stability. For time.

And we're not done fighting for Koa.