When I moved into my NYC loft he was the first roommate I ever met. He came to my room and introduced himself. I found out he was only a year older than me and born and raised in SF. A Niner fan who grew up watching the A’s during their heyday. I guess its common when it comes to 80’s babies. I know a few of those.

I followed him from Chinatown to Brooklyn when he bought this condo. It was an easy decision to join him, I had no doubts. He is the longest roomie I’ve ever had.

He encourages me to date the fuck out of NY. He loves it when I have some kind of story including a man and a rooftop, cab ride or dance floor. He gives me advice and perspective when I ask for it, which is constantly.

He knocks on my door when shit is happening regarding baseball and I need to pay attention. Sometimes I beat him to the punch and he can hear the announcers blasting from my iPad. “Ok. I just wanted to make sure you were watching.”

He’s always catching me drunk, in some humorous state in which all I require is food and my bed. Last night he hovered above me for two seconds cause I was waiting for my food to be delivered at 3:30 am and I fell asleep. “Kateeeeeeee…. I knew you’d pass out. HAHA. Your food is on the kitchen table. I also left you a pickle.”

This morning he told us he had cancer.

No one has ever personally told me they have cancer. I didn’t know how the fuck to react. I was silent, just reading his face.

Is he fucking serious? Cancer?

Cancer?

He told us it was hodgkin's lymphoma, that he was stage 2 and they gave him a very promising diagnosis and he would be starting chemotherapy next week.

Fuck. Cancer.

I had a thousand questions and experienced a thousand emotions. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t want to make the delivery of the news any shittier than it already was. I still want to cry. Fucking cancer.

Thankfully he has a positive outlook and good statistics on his side, so I’ll bank on that.

So we need good thoughts over here. Only good thoughts.