If you’re reading this while going through treatment — or loving someone who is — you might know the feeling; it’s 3:00 a.m., and sleep won’t come. Your body aches, your brain won’t stop, and everything feels upside down. Maybe you’ve just been diagnosed. Maybe you’re somewhere in the middle, numb from the repetition. Maybe you’re scared in a way that’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t felt it.
That was me. I was diagnosed with diffuse large B-cell lymphoma (DLBCL), an aggressive B-cell lymphoma, during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic. In the middle of a locked-down world, I suddenly had a new and very personal crisis to manage. It was quiet. Isolating. And terrifying.
To keep my head above water, I turned to music — something I’ve always loved but never fully committed to. I’d had this oddball idea years earlier: an album where each song is written from the perspective of a different 1980s movie character, filled with Easter eggs and direct quotes for the listener to guess who it is. It was meant to be a fun gimmick. I never thought I’d actually make it.
But cancer — and quarantine — gave me the time, the urgency, and strangely, the permission to try.
So I wrote. I recorded. I mixed and layered and looped tracks in my basement between infusions and appointments. I did it when I couldn’t sleep. I did it when the steroids kicked in. I did it when I felt too sick to think, because focusing on something creative was the only thing that made me feel human.
The Senary became my lifeline. I watched all my favorite 80s movies again and wrote every lyric myself. I played every single note on every instrument you hear. I sang it, tracked it, and engineered it entirely alone in my basement studio while my immune system was wrecked and Blood Cancer United was sending alerts saying one in three cancer patients were dying from COVID. I couldn’t have visitors. I couldn’t hold hands with my wife, my kids, my mom, or my dad during treatment. I was on my own.
So I made something that kept me company.
The album is one continuous hour of music, touching nearly every genre, filled with warmth, chaos, and character. It has flaws — my fingers literally couldn’t press the guitar strings correctly on some days, but I kept going. I fought to make something beautiful out of something ugly. And somehow, it worked.
The strange part is . . . I miss it. I miss the clarity. I miss the way cancer forced me to speak intentionally with my loved ones, to be fully present, to see the world in slow motion. I don’t want the illness back, but I do wish we could all remember more often how beautiful this ride is, how much there is to see, to hear, to love. Please don’t take your tribe for granted.
I’ve now been in remission for nearly four years. And I can say with all my heart, the fight is worth it. Every step. Every appointment. Every conversation that cracked me open. If you’re in it now, keep going. If you can, make something. Say something. Write it down. Sing it out. Be loud, or soft, or messy, but stay present.
And if you need a distraction — something to carry you out of your body and into a stranger’s musical brain for an hour — The Senary is out there waiting. I made it for myself, but I’d be honored if it helped you, too.
Put on headphones. Go somewhere weird. Think of something other than your troubles for a while. You’ve earned that kind of escape.
Paulie
diffuse large B-cell lymphoma (DLBCL)
