How I knew I had Lymphoma

Friday, April 24th, 2004, started off like most days. I woke up unrested because, like most nights before, I awoke in a pool of my own sweat in the middle of the night with chills. I still couldn't sleep on my back because I couldn't breathe, and the only way I could find peace was by laying on my stomach. I always sleep like this now. 

One of the many ways that day was different was that I had a Doctor's appointment before work. Luckily my appointment wasn't until 9a. That was at least two hours later than I was used to waking up to drive from Rosemead, CA, to the mid-Wilshire district of Los Angeles.

When I arrived at the doctor's office, I explained that the bronchitis treatments I had been receiving over the past couple of months weren't working. I gave up smoking weeks ago, and nothing seemed to work. He said he was going to send me to have X-Rays on my chest. I jumped in the car and called my boss to let him know.

Symptoms of Lymphoma

My immune system was under attack. Little did I know these were symptoms of lymphoma. Weight loss is another symptom, but I was actually trying to lose weight at the time. I didn't have a lump in my neck which would mean enlarged lymph nodes.

I arrived at Arcadia radiology and waited for what felt like forever. I looked around and felt thankful that I wasn't in the position that some of the folks around me were in. I grabbed a magazine and flipped through the pictures, reading any that caught my attention. 

I finally got called in. The technician told me we would do a chest X-ray and that I would need to stand. They took several of my chest area and then sent me back to the waiting room. I checked my phone and grabbed another magazine. 

Two magazines later, someone called my name. I jumped up and walked over. She handed me an envelope and said, "Your doctor wants you to take these back to him."

I left, and as I walked out into the parking lot, I pulled out the X-Rays and held them up to the sun. I had no idea what I was looking at, but I remember seeing one lung was black and the other half black and white. I still didn't think anything, probably just the congestion I'd been feeling, I thought. I jumped in my '87 Chevy Astro Cargo Van and headed back to the doctors to deliver my X-Rays.

I walked in and told the nurse I was there. I sat down and rechecked my phone. The doctor came out of his office and sat next to me. I gave him the X-Rays, and he held them up to the light and then put them back in and handed me the envelope.

"You have fluid in your lungs. You need to take these to the San Gabriel Hospital E.R., and I'll call ahead. When you get there, check yourself in." He said 

"Is it lung cancer?" I asked.

"No, this isn't lung cancer," he said, reassuring me.

"Just go straight to the hospital, I'll call your mom, don't stop anywhere, 

ok," He made me promise.

Something I haven't made clear yet, this doctor was my doctor since I was an infant. When I: 

• Busted my chin open on a skateboard in 1st grade and then reopened the wound on the playground, and had to have it butterflied shut again
• Cut the tip of my finger off in the bathroom door in 2nd grade
• Caused a blood clot in my elbow after I jumped from the top of the monkey bars and hit on one of the bars on the way down in 3rd grade
• In 4th grade, I only got a piece of crayon stuck in my ear that the nurse at school could assist with.
• Sliced the tip of my finger with a Swiss army knife while trying to open the hole on parachute man in a moving vehicle in the 5th grade

I went to see Dr. Hamdan, this was no different and he is largely responsible for me being alive today. I'm very grateful.

I left, and on the way to the hospital, I called my boss.

"Man, the doctor says I have fluid on my lung and need to go to the hospital," I told him.

"Oh $**t, that's not good," he said

"What do you mean?" I asked, starting to become alarmed. 

"I don't know, just take care of yourself and update me when you can," he said.

I started to tear up, but I pulled it together long enough to call my mom afterward.

"Hi mom, did the doctor call you?" I asked.

"Yes, I'll be there soon, I love you," she said 

"I love you too, mom," I told her.

I arrived at the E.R., and I had no clue walking in that I wouldn't see home for a long, long time.

I walked up to the front counter and gave my name, mentioned my doctor should have called. They asked me to take a seat. 

A few minutes later, a nurse emerged and called me back. They weighed me, took my blood pressure, and asked why I was here. I told the story that I was about to tell multiple doctors for the first time, from the strange early symptoms to the X-Ray that brought me there.

After that, there was a blur of doctors and nurses coming into my room and out. Suddenly, I was transferred to another place. 

After what felt like hours, a doctor emerged. He was dressed like one of the gov officials who were examining E.T., right before he died. I now know he was wearing PPE.

That freaked me out. Why was this doctor dressed like this? He said that he wanted to ask me some questions to help figure out why I had fluid on my lungs. He asked about smoking and drug use and your basic run of the mill health questions. Then he asked if I had been to Bakersfield recently. Apparently, there may or may not have been a T.B. outbreak there around that time. Still not clear why I was asked about Bakersfield, I could only think about one of my favorite bands, Korn. I hadn't seen them in a while. I didn't even think I had been around anyone from the area.

"Ok, good, you'll probably have a few more visitors asking you questions, ok?" he asked.

"Ok. Do you know if my mom is here yet?" I asked

"I think she is, but for everyone's safety, we need to figure what's going on here first, ok?" He asked

"Why? What's happening?" I asked

"You have fluid on your lungs, that's not natural, and we need to find out why. That's why we have you in an isolation room, we need to be sure you're not contagious," the doctor said

"Ok," I said, fighting back the tears.

The thought of being isolated from family and friends terrified me, something that recently in 2020 has been reignited in me. There are some things from my cancer experience that I can't forget. The smell of Purell instantly takes me back to this time in my life. It almost gives me a headache. Hearing stories about Coronavirus patients being separated from their families and dying alone struck a particular chord with me.

Several more doctors did appear, just like the first doctor said they would. All of them had PPE on because, at the time, they thought I may have T.B.

At some point, I heard a knock at the window of my room, I looked over, and I saw my mom. She was teary-eyed, and I could read her lips, she was saying I love you—instant tear maker. I just wanted to hug her. After a few minutes, she waved, blew a kiss, and walked away. My aunt, uncle, and grandma appeared shortly after, they waved at me through the glass, and they were also teary-eyed, and again I just wanted to go out and hug them.

My dad and his wife are next, then my friends appeared. In between, another doctor walked in and told me that they were going to drain my lung.

"How do you do that," I asked stupidly.

"We'll need to stick a needle into your back, between your ribs and then penetrate the lung to draw out fluid," he said

I'm not sure what I said. The next thing I remember was multiple people in my room wearing full PPE and preparing me for the procedure. I heard another tap at the window. My mom and a few others came back. They all knew what was about to go down. There were allowed to watch from the window.

They asked me to sit up and undo my gown. I felt the familiar coolness of alcohol on cotton applied to my back. I made the mistake of looking over and seeing the ginormous needle they were about to use. I felt weak, and from what I remember, the initial needle prick wasn't awful. The doctor skillfully slid the needle between my ribs and penetrated my lung. Surprisingly, that wasn't the painful part.

The doctor said they were in and that they were going to start drawing the fluid. I only felt discomfort at first, then out of nowhere, it felt like the wind was knocked out of me. My hands uncontrollably grasped the tray in front of me as I tried to breathe.

"It's ok, this is normal, you'll be ok," he said

A few seconds later, I caught my breath. It felt like I had just emerged from trying to hold my breath underwater. Tears started to uncontrollably flow out of my eyes.

I looked over at the window, and I could barely see them because my vision was blurred by the tears. I wiped them and tried to refocus on them. I had to be tough for them, I thought, and I was just starting to refocus before my breath was retaken. 

I lost my breath several more times during the procedure. When the doctor was done, he showed me what looked like two 40s of unlabeled brew. He said that was fluid that we just drained and that they were going to run tests on it to figure out what was going on. It left me exhausted, but I was finally able to breathe again. 

Next, they wanted to do a cat scan on me. Afterward, the doctors hooked me up to an EKG. There is a spot near my foot that won't grow hair to this day. I have no explanation except that the hair never had time to regrow, especially with the chemo I was about to go through. 

Another doctor came in and delivered the news that I had a tumor across my chest. He said it was about the size of an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of paper folded in half. The tumor was pushing down on my lungs and causing them to fill with fluid.

At some point, I was transferred to another isolation room outside of the E.R. and checked into the hospital. It was late, and they said they would allow my mom to stay because she had already been around me.

I stayed at San Gabriel Hospital from April 29th to May 5th. Those next 5 days were filled with emotion and wonder. First, I went through multiple blood tests and a T.B. test. At some point, that finally ruled out T.B., and I was able to have visitors. I saw people I hadn't seen in years or people I would usually only see on special occasions or funerals. They also took a look at my blood count and saw that my white blood cells were up.v

After T.B. was ruled out, they said they believe they have narrowed it down to testicular cancer or Lymphoma. I actually prayed for Lymphoma. I was told what a course of action would be on both. Testicular cancer most likely would involve removing my testicle, and then I would have to do chemo. Lymphoma would be rounds of chemo. I was told it was a 50/50 chance of either. I was eager to finally find out, so I knew what I was dealing with. They told me they would do a sonogram on my testicle to find out. They also said they wanted to a biopsy on the tumor, which involved another needle stuck into me, this time my chest.

"When do I get to go home?" I asked

"It's going to be a little time before that can happen," the doctor said

A friend of the family brought in some internet research on both cancers. I read through them, and a Doctor walked in while I was doing that. He asked what I was reading and then asked me to stop once I told him. He said the internet was a great place for information. Still, misinformation and even wrong information was a big concern even back then.

All the tests finally came back, and my prayer had been answered. I was told it was Lymphoblastic Lymphoma. Before this, my doctor had recommended two different places, depending on the outcome. He said if it was testicular cancer, I should go to UCLA or USC medical. Lymphoma, I should go to the City of Hope in Duarte.

When I was a kid, my grandma would come to visit from Oregon. I was always excited when they did. This meant my Grandpa would bring his guitar and play country tunes. He was also a big WWF fan, so we would spend our Sat and Sun watching WWF. I remember visiting the City of Hope when they came, almost every time. I later found out that my great-grandma was also a cancer survivor, and she would visit the City of Hope to follow up.

Now, I was heading there, hoping to be cured. I was transported by ambulance from San Gabriel Hospital to the City of Hope in Duarte. My eyes welled up as we passed the turn to go home. 

They brought me into the waiting room on a stretcher. I was kinda embarrassed; after all, it wasn't like I couldn't walk. 

When I was wheeled into the lobby, I was instantly transported to my childhood when grandma from Oregon would come to visit. Sitting in the waiting room, patiently waiting for my grandma to come back from wherever they took her. My mom helped me fill out all of my paperwork. 

They transferred me to my room, which was 600B. It was a long day; I didn't leave San Gabriel Hospital until 1:00p. I was ready to rest when the doctor responsible for me being here today walked in. She introduced herself to me as Dr. Amrita Krishnan. Dr. Krishnan told me that they would need to confirm the results from the San Gabriel Hospital. She said they were going to perform 2 procedures on me. The first was a bone marrow biopsy to see if cancer had spread to my bones. Then they would give me a temporary catheter. 

"Whoa, why do I need a catheter?" I asked concerned

"It's a catheter that is inserted into your main artery. This way, we don't have to poke you so much, and we can deliver your medicine and draw blood from there," she replied.

"Oh, ok. I thought." I stopped. "Ya know," I said

"No, not there." She said. "I'm going to need you to flip over on your stomach so we can do the bone marrow biopsy." she continued.

A bone marrow biopsy is a procedure to collect and analyze bone marrow. Doctors use it to tell if your bone marrow is healthy and making average amounts of blood cells.

I flipped on my stomach. The doctor gave me a local, so the pain wouldn't be so bad. It didn't help entirely. I only felt pressure at first. She pushed a giant needle inside my lower back and said she was ready to draw the marrow after some more time.

I don't know a better way to describe this. When she started to draw the bone marrow, I felt a pain that I've never felt before in my life. It felt like my entire existence was being sucked out my bottom side. It felt like I was going to lose control of my bowels. I yelled out, "It feels like you're sucking my life out my [explitive removed]." I didn't know that this procedure was one that I would need to repeat multiple times. After the first time, I was drugged and even knocked before it happened.

The following video is a raw, unedited video of a bone marrow biopsy being performed on me. It's kinda long, and you'll probably want to skip around. I'll update this later to include notable timestamps.

Soon after, another team came in to prepare me for my catheter. The worst part of this procedure was when I was told what could go wrong. Basically, if the surgeon missed, he could penetrate the lung, causing it to collapse. Luckily, that went off without collapse, and they started me on pre-medicine for chemo treatment. This all happened between 2pm and 6pm on May 5th. I was exhausted by the end of it.

May 6th started early again, nurses coming in, giving me meds, and taking blood pressure. The doctor came in and informed me today I would have a Lumbar Puncture, also known as a Spinal Tap, or as I refer to it, Spineshank. Spineshank was a band that I was a massive fan of.

A Lumbar puncture is a surgical procedure in which a needle is inserted into the spinal canal, most commonly for diagnostic tests to gather cerebrospinal fluid. The primary explanation for a lumbar puncture is to help diagnose central nervous system disorders, including the brain and spine.

My first lumbar puncture wasn't all that bad. The person doing the procedure was a pro. They didn't all go so smoothly, though. I had to have multiple lumbar punctures over my treatment. One time, the guy must have been a rookie and stuck the needle in and out of my spine numerous times because he kept missing. At one point, my legs went numb, and I shouted at him. He eventually called someone else who was able to handle the job. That happened a few more times, too, numbness in my legs because the needle hit a nerve.

On the night of May 6th, I was given my first chemo. I was given a shot of Ativan before receiving it. I was terrified about the chemo. I didn't know what to expect, and most of all, I didn't want to lose my hair. I remember the Ativan kicked in, and my spirits went from low to high. Until the nurse walked in with the first dose. I was feeling loopy from the Ativan, but I remember looking up at her. She smiled and then injected the chemo into my IV. Before I knew it, I had tears in my eyes. It wasn't from the chemo, I was just overwhelmed with everything that had happened, and I had no idea what I was in for.

On May 7th, I was told both the bone marrow and spinal tap came back negative. That basically meant that my cancer hadn't spread to the bone marrow, and it hadn't spread to my spinal fluid. I was relieved. They already considered it Stage 4 because of the fluid in my lungs, and I felt it was a good sign that it wasn't spreading more. That night, I received another dose of chemo, but again, they hit me with Ativan. This time, I rode the snake to the lake. The fear that consumed me the first time was long gone now.

On May 8th, I faced another fear. Going bald. A very close family friend basically cut my hair all throughout high school. I wouldn't let anyone else touch it. She came down to the hospital and shaved my head for me so that the hair loss would be more gradual. I didn't want to do this. 

In addition to all that, the side effects of the chemo were kicking in. Nausea, vomiting, and I was sensitive to smells. The shampoo I was using was giving me a headache. I couldn't eat either, not from a loss of appetite yet, but my taste buds also went. 

I remember my aunt and cousin came to visit me that day. This cousin I looked to for hope. I remembered when she was a kid, she had Leukemia. She struggled, survived, and was my hope that I would win my own battle.

They brought me In-N-Out to cheer me up. I took a huge bite, and there was no flavor. It was just mush in my mouth. I grabbed the large Dr.Pepper they brought me, and I took a big drink. It tasted metallic, I was heartbroken. I couldn't drink Dr. Pepper for years after. It was definitely psychological, but I eventually got past it last year.

Between May 9th and May 13th, it was the same day after day. The only thing that changed on May 14th was that it was my 22nd birthday. I was super bummed because I was supposed to go to Vegas. The City of Hope joked that they had a gift for me on my birthday. They were going to remove my temporary catheter and give me the one I would use for my treatment duration. Yippe! That morning I was prepared for surgery.

They rolled me into the prep room, and after a short while, I met the anesthesiologist. He asked me if I had ever been to Hawaii. 

"No, I've always wanted to go!" I said.

"Great, I'm about to give you a Mai Thai. Are you ready?" He asked

"Sure," I said chuckling.

"Here we go, off to Hawaii," is the last thing I remember hearing before feeling immediately intoxicated. I'm a happy drunk, and I joked with my visitors while waiting for the next steps. I remember being rolled into the operating room. I listened to the doctors chattering, and then one leaned over my head and said. "We'll see ya soon!" right before I blacked out.

I remember when I started to come to. I could hear a nurse saying. "Breath!, Breath!, Breath!". 

She sounded like she was in the distance. I must be in the recovery room, I thought. 

"Breath!, Breath!, Breath!" I heard a nurse say again. 

Poor person, I thought. I could hear audible gasping like someone was having trouble catching their breath. It was loud.

Then I heard her say. "Breath Mr. Regalado, in through your nose and out through your mouth." 

Wait, what? Was she talking to me? I forced my eyes open, and I was gasping for air. I tried to focus on where I heard the nurse's voice. When my eyes started to focus, I could see she was moving around paperwork, not really looking at me. Her tone was not very concerned. She kinda sounded bored. 

"In through your nose and out through your mouth," she repeated.

Maybe it was seeing that she didn't seem so concerned, or I was finally executing her instructions. Slowly I started to catch my breath.

"Good, good." She said

I guess this is something that sometimes happens after going under. I don't really know. No one was concerned, and we moved on.

They finally got me back to my room, where I slept most of the day. I woke up in the early evening to a surprise party! Lots of family and friends had come to celebrate with me. The only problem was, I was nauseous. Sad news for me, I had buffalo wings that I was looking forward to from B.J.'s waiting, and I didn't feel like it. I tossed my cookies at my party, had to go back to the room so I could get composure. I was able to rejoin the party until I threw up again. Finally, it was decided that groups would come into my room to see me. It was my party, and I didn't cry, even though I wanted to.

I would spend the next 5 days there, and each day was similar—lots of nausea, vomiting, and no appetite. On May 19th, the doctor arrived with the best news I'd heard in a long time. I was going home. After 20 long days, I was finally going to be able to sleep in my own bed. It would only be temporary, though, as I would have to go back for another 3 sessions of chemo. 

For the next few months, I would spend about 2 weeks at the City of Hope. Then I would be released for a few weeks. In between, we had parties and multiple visitors. During that time there were many PET scans and CT Scans

After the last treatment in the series, my family and I went to Universal Studios. Probably my favorite theme park since I was a kid. I figured if I was gonna die, I wanted to see the Clock Tower one more time. Against my doctor's recommendations, I also rode the Mummy ride, which was new.

Before my bone marrow transplant, the doctors said I could save my sperm, but the chemo may have already taken its toll. Up until that point, I had always said I never wanted kids. Why would I bring someone so innocent into this cruel world? I decided to try to freeze some of my sperm, but they told me they found nothing dead and nothing alive when I went to have it tested. 

Months later, when I held my new niece for the first time after all my treatment, I realized what it meant. I wasn't going to be able to have kids, and I wasn't sure how I felt about it. I balled my eyes out.

Celebrity Encounters

Believe it or not, during this time, I had my fair share of celebrity encounters. Sean William Scott, Lance Armstrong, and Mark Thompson.

Shawn William Scott

I was in between hospital stays and was waiting for blood to be drawn at the City of Hope. I was in a hurry to get out because I knew that we were going to my favorite spot to eat after this was all over. Fu Shings in Pasadena, where I would get my Kung Pao Chicken on. 

I was about 3/4 of the way through a Golden Girls episode before they called my name. I stood up, and from the spot I was sitting, I could see the side entrance. The doors opened, and Steve Stifler, aka Shawn William Scott comes walking through the door. 

The nurse was standing there waiting for me, but I was frozen. I looked over at my mom and said, that's Shawn William Scott from American Pie! "You need to get inside to your appointment," she said. I was sad to have missed the opportunity to meet him. Apparently, he was there to see his mom, who was going through her own treatment. As soon as I turned my back, my mom chased him down, jumped in an elevator with him, and got this for me.

Lance Armstrong

I didn't meet Lance Armstrong either. After my bone marrow, an event was kicking off at the City of Hope. Lance was bicycling across the country. "Tour de Hope" I believe it was called. I wonder if he juiced up before that too? He spoke at the event, and I was able to grab this pic of him.

Mark Thompson

I actually got to meet Mark Thompson. He sounds just as you expect him to, and he was extremely polite. He even posed for a pic with me in-between shooting takes for the news that night.

Bone Marrow Transplant

After the 4 sessions were complete. It was time for my bone marrow transplant. They were going to do radiation on me too. But, when I was doing testing to prepare, they found that my heart wasn't pumping 100%, so they decided against it and to go straight to the bone marrow. When I first heard about the bone marrow transplant, I thought they would take a bone out of my body and transplant it someplace else. 

What they actually did was collect my stem cells. I was hooked up to this machine, and the machine would take my blood, shake out the stem cells, and then replace the blood back into my body. I had to do this a few times, I got to lay there and watch movies, so I didn't mind it so much. I'm sure Mark Ruffalo helped charm some stem cells out of me because I remember watching 13 going on 30 during one session.

On September 4th, I came the closest I have ever come to death. I was given chemo called VP16. Shortly after, I got very sick. Lots of vomiting, and then my blood pressure started to drop, and I had a fever of over 101.9. The nurses were coming back every 30 minutes to check on me. I could see my mom talking to them, then coming back looking very concerned. She told me what was happening, the medical staff was worried that my blood pressure had dropped so low and that my vitals were also dropping. 

I looked at her and said. "This isn't the end, mom."

Slowly overnight, my vitals started to improve, and I escaped the danger zone.

The next day, I was told that they wouldn't let me go home if I wasn't active and wasn't eating. Eating would be challenging. Despite me looking like Shreks albino's brother, I lost my appetite. In between the last session and the bone marrow, I lived it up. I was on so many medications and steroids. Mix the two and a passion for doing all and eating all the things I wanted before this, and you get Shreks albino brother.

I got myself up to start walking. I was hooked up to IV's, walking around the BMT unit. On one of my laps, I saw a young kid. He was bald, just like me. He was also hooked up to many IV bags, and I felt so sad when I saw him. Here I was feeling sorry for myself because I was expected to move, and this little kid had a smile on his face, walking down the hall.

As I passed more rooms, I saw more very young kids and infants. All were going through the same thing I was. If I had to pinpoint it, this was the day I lost any faith I had left. Maybe it was just the straw that broke the camels back in hindsight.

I lived long enough to sin. I could come up with multiple reasons why I should be suffering. These innocent kids, though, no way. 

Over the years, people of faith have tried to argue with me that we're given these challenges by God, and while we don't know the reason, there is one.

To me, that just meant that if God exists, then he enjoys playing with us. It's that old sense of humor you hear about, I guess. What do I know? I'm just a lucky guy who survived cancer.

3 days later, on September 8th, 2004, at 10:42a, I received my stem cells back. They hooked up the bags of stem cells to my IV. I was told I should get some hard candy to suck on while getting the stem cells back because some patients reported strange tastes when they got their stem cells back.

I can't speak for anyone else, but my stem cells tasted like Clamato, and I hate Clamato. I started upchucking as soon as the taste hit my mouth. The watermelon Jolly Rancher I had been sucking on did nothing to stop it the taste from flooding my mouth.

I was sick off and on all day. Still, I was happy because this meant it was all almost over. The doctors even expected me to be moving. More importantly, they wanted to see that I was eating and holding down food. I set a goal to be released on September 20th. I only missed it by 2 days and on September 22nd. I was finally released from the City of Hope.



For the first few months, I visited the City of Hope weekly for a checkup. Weekly turned to monthly, and monthly turned to yearly.

A strong support system

I can't stress this enough, if you know someone who's sick and are on the fence about reaching out to them, stop. Get in touch. You have no idea what it meant to have so much support behind me.

During one of my blood transfusions, I met a nurse. She really reminded me of my 10th grade English teacher. She must have seen in my face that I was having a bad day. She struck up a convo and asked me what was wrong. I really don't remember what I said. It didn't matter all that much anyway. I was probably just feeling sorry for myself. 

My 10th grade teacher doing an interview for a project I was working on.

I'll never forget her words, though. She told me that she knew, right now, it didn't feel like it, but one day this would all feel like it was a bad dream. With time, she said I would get over my feelings, and most of what I experienced would be forgotten. She said she knew and promised because she was a cancer survivor herself. 

It gave me hope, and if you're reading this now going through something similar, I hope it helps you too. Stay strong.

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave your thoughts below.