My wife has blood cancer — Polycythemia Vera (PV). Say it out loud and it sounds like something you’d land on during Medical Jeopardy.

Somewhere between “Boerhaave Syndrome” and “Zollinger-Ellison.”

Except this isn’t trivia-night material — it’s ugly, chronic, and merciless.

PV is a marrow mutiny. The bone marrow goes rogue, pumping out red blood cells until the blood is less circulation and more sludge.

The risks read like a horror show: clots, strokes, heart attacks — and a ten percent chance of “leveling up” into leukemia, as if cancer came with its own cursed video-game upgrade.

There’s no cure. Not now. Not soon.

Just an endless circuit of labs, phlebotomies that drain the color out of her face, medications stacked like unpaid bills, and waiting rooms that always smell like antiseptic and resignation.

And then, the strange twist: her Factor XI deficiency. Normally a curse, but here — possibly a crooked blessing. It’s preventing this from being “really bad,” for now. A dented umbrella in a hurricane. Not salvation, but maybe a buffer against PV’s worst.

Then there’s me.

I live with Ehlers–Danlos Syndrome (EDS). Translation: my connective tissue is a factory recall. Joints slip out like loose screws, muscles seize like an old car engine, and I’ve logged more ER visits than frequent flyer miles.

But here’s the kicker: collagen isn’t just some background scaffolding. It’s everywhere. Not producing enough collagen screws up everything. Your joints, sure — but also your circulatory system, your cells, even your brain.

Yeah, that means your mental health takes hits too.

Anxiety, brain fog, depression — all part of the funhouse package.

It’s like the disease looked at the body and said, “Which department should we mess with?” and then checked the box that said “All of the above.”

When I was younger, I imagined dying as something louder, scarier, cinematic. Dramatic exits.

Music swelling.

Last words that tied the story together.

Turns out dying is sneakier, slower, and far less poetic. It’s scary, yes, but not every minute of every day.

The pain takes up more real estate than the fear.

After fifty years of this nonsense, concern isn’t occasional. It’s permanent.

Here’s the strange math of chronic illness:

Those rare mornings when my joints don’t scream. The weeks where I can take morning walks and the air feels “just right.” The days where I’m not overheating, collapsing, or wobbling like a bad carnival ride.

They’re not miracles — but they feel like it. A pain-free day isn’t “normal.” It’s awesome.

After half a century of this, you stop chasing perfection and start treasuring the ordinary.

Living with PV and EDS doesn’t just mean surviving today. It means planning for tomorrow — and the next crisis.

I already live at the doctor’s office. Regular checkups, specialists, chart reviews, adjustments. Preparing for the future isn’t hypothetical; it’s the present tense.

It’s not paranoia. It’s strategy.

The future is already here — disguised as yet another appointment.

This is what endurance looks like:

Not cinematic. Not headline-worthy. Just the relentless, ordinary fight.

Spend your energy where it compounds.

Not on internet noise. Not on petty fights. Not on proving you’re right to strangers who won’t remember your name tomorrow.

But on the people who will still be in the room when the music fades.

On the small rituals that actually hold the walls up: laughter, presence, showing up.

Here’s the truth no one wants to admit: you don’t get a medal for being right on the internet.

All you get is a smaller grave, dug by the weight of grudges you never set down.

There will be time enough to be loud when there’s no body left to worry about. For now, the loudest sound I need is silence — silence that heals, silence that lets me sleep, silence that makes room to forgive and be forgiven.

So yes, I’m scared.

I’m angry. I’m resentful. But I’m also trying — stubbornly, unevenly, imperfectly — to be better. Not for the audience. Not for applause. Not for vindication. For the people who will still be in the room when the music fades.

And maybe that’s why the circus outside feels so absurd.

Everyone wants to argue. Everyone wants to be right.

Politics has become a blood sport.

Comment sections are coliseums.

Cable news is basically pro wrestling without the fun costumes.

Everyone’s clawing for the hollow trophy of “I told you so” while the house is burning down around them.

I get it — the rush of proving your point feels good for a moment.

But all it buys you is less peace, less time, and less room for the people who actually matter.

If illness has taught me anything, it’s this: being right isn’t the prize.

Being here is.