IN THE SPRING OF 2019 I learned that what I thought was a persistent throat infection was actually a tumor on the base of my tongue. I would need radiation and chemotherapy. I would need to put my nomad life on hiatus. Maybe permanently.

I had long wondered what I would do if I were ever in a situation like this. Would I want to go through treatment only to extend my life a little longer? Or would I decline treatment and accept my life was over? I believed I had made peace with the abstract idea of death, but now here it was in the room with me. I chose treatment. That was the first thing this experience taught me about myself. I would rather fight.

The second thing I learned was that my extremely independent self could ask others for help without my self-worth evaporating. I needed transportation from Tucson to Los Angeles. I needed a place to stay during the weeks of treatment at UCLA. I would need rides to and from daily treatments. I would need meals prepared for me. I asked friends and they came through. Willingly. That also taught me my friends actually do like me, not just tolerate me. I surrendered to their kindness.

I learned I was stronger than I thought. I had to force myself to eat despite the pain, messed up tastebuds (everything tasted nasty) and lack of saliva. I could force myself to get up, bathe, dress, and walk around even though I just wanted to sleep. I was a tough dude. Surprise!

But the biggest thing cancer taught me was that I really love living in my van. I had spent months back in the land of running hot water, flush toilets, electricity, climate control, full kitchens, cable TV and free wifi, but I couldn’t wait to get back on the road. Driving out of LA, opposite of morning commute traffic, out to the desert, felt absolutely wonderful — even more wonderful than learning the day before that the latest scans and bloodwork showed I was free of cancer. I was in my home, rolling back to my true life. My best life. The life I would go through hell for.