Joe and Aly Lorenzo's Tour For a Cure
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As an English teacher and former aspiring writer, I’ve always said that the hardest thing is to find the words that truly capture the emotions I feel. This couldn’t be any more poignant in my attempts to capture just what I want to say at this present moment.
I don’t think I will ever be able to describe just how much I love this man. I’ll never be able to describe what the past two years have been like. I’ll never be able to describe any of this; all I know is we made a promise to each other, and that promise was to live and to love and to laugh and to do whatever we need to do to find the beauty and the joy that can be found in this world, among all the fears, all the grief, and all the struggle.
Our story begins in 2012. I begrudgingly took up reemployment as a waitress during a time when teaching jobs were rare, and my pockets were empty. My discontent with the status of my professional career translated into my attitude at this new restaurant, one where the stereotypical server dynamic was palpable, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Joe had already been there for a few years, and he was completely enveloped in said server life - any notice I took of him was quickly dispelled by my fierce determination to not fall into the mix...and for awhile, it worked. But like all things, we acclimate to our environments, subconsciously adapting to the patterns that permeate. In an attempt to abandon this unaccompanied austerity, I began to fraternize. I didn’t wish to pledge this fraternity, but their parties were cool.
I knew he loved the boys from Vermont, the band known as Phish, and due to a high school boyfriend’s Phish head best friend, I caught myself a copy of Lawn Boy back when Columbia House sold 12 CD’s for 10 cents. I didn’t quite “get it” then, but Reba and My Sweet One always found their way into the spaces in my mind, and during one unreasonably slow shift at the restaurant, while stacking coffee cups and cleaning sugar caddies, I intentionally sang the all too catchy “Bag it, Tag it…” melody for my ‘My Sweet One’ to notice me.
We went out for what was supposed to be a quick beer, and four hours later, the conversation hadn’t ended, and we both knew we shared something special.
He took me to my first live show in July of 2013, he proposed at the LOCKN’ festival in August of 2016, and on November 25, 2017, I walked down the aisle to ‘With’ from the ‘Curtain’ opener of the “Jimmies Night” - the 8th show of The Baker’s Dozen tour.
Five days after our magical wedding night, Joe was diagnosed with Stage IV Locally Metastatic Colorectal Cancer.
Two years later, after three surgeries, two rounds of chemotherapy and over 50 radiation treatments, the doctors at Memorial Sloan Kettering have determined there’s nothing else they can do, and they say our time is limited.
But they don’t know us. They don’t know what we share. They don’t know what we are capable of doing, and we will not allow their limits to limit us. We will not be defined by this disease, and we will not let it take us down.
I’ve managed to be able to keep my job secure; however, I’m unable to receive compensation on days that I am not in attendance, and those days are many. I have 26 days left to take before my insurance is stripped, and we will be forced to pay for Cobra in order to continue to pay for the pain medications he so desperately needs. We are prepared to do whatever we have to do in order to find the treatment that will give us a future, rich with the love we are so fortunate to share. Our last resort will be to attend a hospital outside of America, one that offers alternative therapies for people battling stage IV cancer. If this is our only option, Cobra won’t matter anyway. At $35,000 for three weeks and $2,000 a month for supplemental medications following our departure, this will not be easy to maintain. We are also looking into other options in the states - one in California and one in Maryland. Neither of these options take insurance - the consultation alone for the one in CA is $1,500 and each treatment is approximately $1,200 - the minimum number of treatments starts at ten.
I’m taking out loans and maxing out credit cards, but we will still need help, and we need to act FAST. This is where you come in.
Some would say we are crazy to put our future in the hands of something we don’t know much about, but what other option do we have? Conventional medicine has failed us, but we will not fail each other.
We refuse to give up, and we remain positive that the treatment that will give us a chance is out there.
We are grateful that you have even taken the time to read our story.
They say our time is limited, but time limits all of us: the sick and the healthy, the weak and the strong. Thank you for giving us some of yours.
I don’t think I will ever be able to describe just how much I love this man. I’ll never be able to describe what the past two years have been like. I’ll never be able to describe any of this; all I know is we made a promise to each other, and that promise was to live and to love and to laugh and to do whatever we need to do to find the beauty and the joy that can be found in this world, among all the fears, all the grief, and all the struggle.
Our story begins in 2012. I begrudgingly took up reemployment as a waitress during a time when teaching jobs were rare, and my pockets were empty. My discontent with the status of my professional career translated into my attitude at this new restaurant, one where the stereotypical server dynamic was palpable, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Joe had already been there for a few years, and he was completely enveloped in said server life - any notice I took of him was quickly dispelled by my fierce determination to not fall into the mix...and for awhile, it worked. But like all things, we acclimate to our environments, subconsciously adapting to the patterns that permeate. In an attempt to abandon this unaccompanied austerity, I began to fraternize. I didn’t wish to pledge this fraternity, but their parties were cool.
I knew he loved the boys from Vermont, the band known as Phish, and due to a high school boyfriend’s Phish head best friend, I caught myself a copy of Lawn Boy back when Columbia House sold 12 CD’s for 10 cents. I didn’t quite “get it” then, but Reba and My Sweet One always found their way into the spaces in my mind, and during one unreasonably slow shift at the restaurant, while stacking coffee cups and cleaning sugar caddies, I intentionally sang the all too catchy “Bag it, Tag it…” melody for my ‘My Sweet One’ to notice me.
We went out for what was supposed to be a quick beer, and four hours later, the conversation hadn’t ended, and we both knew we shared something special.
He took me to my first live show in July of 2013, he proposed at the LOCKN’ festival in August of 2016, and on November 25, 2017, I walked down the aisle to ‘With’ from the ‘Curtain’ opener of the “Jimmies Night” - the 8th show of The Baker’s Dozen tour.
Five days after our magical wedding night, Joe was diagnosed with Stage IV Locally Metastatic Colorectal Cancer.
Two years later, after three surgeries, two rounds of chemotherapy and over 50 radiation treatments, the doctors at Memorial Sloan Kettering have determined there’s nothing else they can do, and they say our time is limited.
But they don’t know us. They don’t know what we share. They don’t know what we are capable of doing, and we will not allow their limits to limit us. We will not be defined by this disease, and we will not let it take us down.
I’ve managed to be able to keep my job secure; however, I’m unable to receive compensation on days that I am not in attendance, and those days are many. I have 26 days left to take before my insurance is stripped, and we will be forced to pay for Cobra in order to continue to pay for the pain medications he so desperately needs. We are prepared to do whatever we have to do in order to find the treatment that will give us a future, rich with the love we are so fortunate to share. Our last resort will be to attend a hospital outside of America, one that offers alternative therapies for people battling stage IV cancer. If this is our only option, Cobra won’t matter anyway. At $35,000 for three weeks and $2,000 a month for supplemental medications following our departure, this will not be easy to maintain. We are also looking into other options in the states - one in California and one in Maryland. Neither of these options take insurance - the consultation alone for the one in CA is $1,500 and each treatment is approximately $1,200 - the minimum number of treatments starts at ten.
I’m taking out loans and maxing out credit cards, but we will still need help, and we need to act FAST. This is where you come in.
Some would say we are crazy to put our future in the hands of something we don’t know much about, but what other option do we have? Conventional medicine has failed us, but we will not fail each other.
We refuse to give up, and we remain positive that the treatment that will give us a chance is out there.
We are grateful that you have even taken the time to read our story.
They say our time is limited, but time limits all of us: the sick and the healthy, the weak and the strong. Thank you for giving us some of yours.
Organizer
Alyson Ilene
Organizer
Long Beach, NY
