I grew up in a military town in North Carolina. Both of my parents were Marines. My family was not particularly religious; even less so when compared against the backdrop of a small(ish) town in the Bible Belt. Still, I grew up sheltered; I was an only child in an environment firmly under the control of my parents: I wasn’t allowed to learn how to drive, only doing so after I left for college; we lived in the only house on a cul-de-sac surrounded by dense woods; I wasn’t even allowed to play school sports because my mother feared I would be injured. Despite my family being firmly working-class, I wasn’t allowed to get an actual (like proper, above board, pay-check paying) summer job; the one year I did, my parents punished my defiance by refusing to pick me up or drop me off at work—I refused to backdown, and spent that entire summer walking or cycling to and from work out of spite.

When I was junior in high school, I was selected for a summer program that required me to spend six weeks away from home on the opposite side of the state. My parents were both proud that I was accepted, but my mother was apprehensive about letting me attend—one of my teachers finally convinced her by telling her how good it would look on a college application. I loved that summer because I was allowed to do my own laundry and choose what I wanted to eat, among other things.

I started college at Duke University. This was my parents’ choice. While I had applied to two other private schools, my “dream” schools, far away from my hometown, these were both in other states; if I had to go to school in North Carolina, I would have preferred to go to Chapel Hill or NC State, where my friends from high school had gone.

In my sophomore year at Duke, my mother died. While sorting her things, I found acceptance letters and scholarship offers from my two “dream” schools; until that point, through some subterfuge, I had been led to believe that both had rejected me. I also found a marriage certificate and many medical records. My father explained that my mother’s first husband had been killed in an automobile accident; this was why I hadn’t been allowed to drive. He also told me of the many miscarriages they both suffered before I was born, thus explaining their overprotectiveness. Although I was still quietly angry, I had found a new sympathy for my parents.

Once I was certain that my father had things under control, I applied for a passport. Still angry and grieving, I decided to spend some time with my biological grandfather in South America. In retrospect, I was surprised by the number of ideological exiles from the former Eastern Bloc there; in school, after the end of the Cold War, we had been taught that no one actually believed in communism, that party members were just going-along-to-get-along, and that the Second World was just doing it because, “they hate America and our freedoms."

My grandfather introduced me to my then future father-in-law. His daughter asked me out and we were married within a year.

My father-in-law had been an officer of the East German government; after the Wall came down, their family had been left in a state of precarity before he was eventually recruited to a position with the Cuban government. He came to my wife, who also worked for the Cuban government, and me with a list of liberal professions and told us to choose which one I would pursue. He reasoned that even in the event of regime change or a color revolution, doctors, lawyers, and the like would still be employable; this was his method of ensuring stability for his daughter and her family. My wife and I decided that I would pursue medicine and I enrolled at (roughly) Cienfuegos Medical School. I graduated slightly early due to credit from my prior education and some luck. We lived in Havana while I completed my post-graduate training and further education.

Once I was a fully qualified medical doctor, my wife continued her work for the foreign service of the diplomatic corps. Typically, I would be granted a position in a hospital of the city housing the embassy or consulate my wife was posted to.

Occasionally, I would be sent to some crisis area “near” where my wife was posted. I worked very briefly as an Ebola doctor towards the end of the epidemic. In Siberia, I contracted cutaneious anthrax. In Syria, I was mostly relegated to performing triage at a forward hospital, aid station work, and making various reports and recommendations. I was the Institute’s point of contact for field work concerning MERS. In Viet Nam, I treated several patients with cases of what would become known as COVID-19.

My wife eventually got her dream posting to Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam. I was employed at City International Hospital, and our daughter was born. We were the happiest we would be, a true high-water mark. The city was very modern with many cultural outlets; we lived a thoroughly metropolitan life.

My wife died of a ruptured brain aneurysm. Our daughter and I returned to Cuba; less than a year later she died of a congenital heart defect. I was distraught—I existed, not truly present, just going through the motions, for some time afterward. Eventually I returned to the United States. My father died soon after my return and my distress continued.

While I was making arrangements for my father’s estate, I realized that I had lost quite a bit of weight; I had gone from 180 pounds to about 120 and eventually just under 100. After some scans, my first oncologist thought I had end stage (heavily metastasized) cancer, after some biopsies, I was diagnosed with several different stage 1 cancers. I was recommended to an oncologist in the Chicago area, where I moved to.

(While receiving chemotherapy infusions, one of my nurses introduced me to the Chapo podcast and this website.)

I eventually blew my savings seeking treatment. I sold off almost everything of value. I was eventually cured, but found myself homeless, jobless, and in a place that was effectively foreign to me.