some days I just wanted to wallow. I wanted to waste away on the couch feeling sorry for myself. But Tom wouldn’t let me. Every day he sent me a new joke. Or an old photo of us rocking out. Or just a dick pic.

A thought crosses my mind. Maybe I died in that cancer center and this is heaven. I step out into the light and noise.

I promise this story will give you a happy ending (grow up).

I didn’t realize how heavy the burden of enduring this in secret had been.

I think the news shook my fans. For years, blink-182 represented indestructible youth. And now the guy they saw on TRL was hooked up to IVs.

don’t think I can do this. I can’t take this treatment.” I was hoping to be coddled, maybe even told I was strong or something. But she wouldn’t give me that. It wasn’t what I needed. I’ll never forget her response. “What are you gonna do? Kill yourself?”

The Red Devil was so toxic that the person administering it had to suit up—gown, face shield, rubber gloves. They couldn’t risk getting a drop on their skin. They warned Skye not to use the same toilet as me for three days afterward, fearing tiny particles might splash up on her. And they were pumping a whole bag of it into me.

The waiting room at the cancer center feels like a Higgins Boat approaching Omaha Beach on D-Day. Everyone nervously glances at one another. We’re all thinking the same thing. How the fuck did we get here? Are we going to die? What the fuck is going on?

The fluids race through your body, killing every fast-growing cell. Your hair, your nails, your muscles, whatever. It doesn’t care. It kills everything in its path.