The 14-Hour Drive That Saved Me

After two stints at Santa Rosa Memorial Hospital and UCSF Medical Center, I was referred to City of Hope in Duarte, Los Angeles, about 15 minutes south of Pasadena.

By that point, I had already endured several cycles of treatment without reaching remission. City of Hope felt like my last chance — a place with the specialization and clinical trials that could give me another shot at life.

There was no hesitation from my family or me. When my UCSF doctor recommended the move, we said, “yes”, immediately. Whatever it took. But that didn't mean it was easy. I had been staying with my parents in Sonoma County during treatment, and the drive to City of Hope was 8 hours. Not knowing what to expect, we packed our bags and headed south.

Six Months That Changed Everything

To make a long story short, I spent six months in Duarte — 70 of those days in the hospital and the rest at the City of Hope hotel. Between Santa Rosa, UCSF, and City of Hope, I spent a total of 125 days as an inpatient. After receiving my transplant, I had to remain close by the hospital due to my severely compromised immune system and everything that came with it. If I spiked a fever or began experiencing symptoms of graft-versus-host disease (GVHD), I needed to be at the ER immediately.

The week before Thanksgiving, my doctor gave us the news we had been hoping for: I could go home.

But there was a catch.

“I need you back every week,” he said. Weekly blood tests. Weekly GVHD evaluations. Weekly check-ins.

Was I willing to drive back every week?

Flying wasn’t an option given my compromised immune system and limited lung capacity.

At that point, the answer was simple: yes. I just wanted to be home. I hadn’t slept in my own bed in months. The thought of being back in a familiar space sounded like a dream.

The 16-Hour Commitment

So began our new routine.

Every Monday, my mom, sister, and I would drive eight hours south for a 45-minute appointment. The next day, we’d drive eight hours back home. Sixteen hours of driving for a 45-minute appointment.

I was weak. I was in pain. I was often nauseous. The car rides were brutal.

But somewhere along the way, I made a decision.

Instead of putting in headphones or distracting myself with a screen, I chose to be present. If we were going to be locked in a car together for eight hours, I was going to make it count.

We talked — really talked. We cried. We (mostly them) sang songs at the top of our lungs.

In total, we’ve made that drive at least 40 times.

The Unexpected Gift

Looking back, those drives ended up meaning more than I expected.

Of course, some were harder than others. There were days when my body ached and the miles felt endless. But the time never felt wasted. I grew closer to my mom and sister in ways I never would have otherwise. Even my dad joined for some of the drives when he could.

What could have been months of dreaded travel became something else entirely — intentional time together during one of the most difficult seasons of my life.

I’m proud of that choice.

I’m proud that in the middle of exhaustion, fear, and uncertainty, I was able to extract something positive from the experience. Those drives taught me something powerful: meaning doesn’t always come from changing the situation — sometimes it comes from changing how you sit inside it.

Sometimes it’s hidden in the most unexpected places — even on a long stretch of highway.