It is hard to put into words what it feels like when your body is fighting for its life, but your mind never gets to rest because the people you love depend on you to survive.

Asking for financial help is one of the hardest, most humbling things I have ever had to do. We have always prided ourselves on finding a way to push through, on stretching every dollar and carrying our own burdens. Swallowing your pride and laying your family's struggles out for the world to see makes you feel entirely exposed and vulnerable. But pride cannot save my life, and it cannot protect my husband. The reality is, we have reached the end of our own strength.

My name is Traci, and I am writing this for our family's survival.

Ten years ago, in 2016, my journey with lymphoma began at the University of Alabama at Birmingham (UAB). Over the last decade, I have fought through treatments, remissions, and relapses. Now, the cancer has returned, this time in the bone. This will be my third time stepping into the ring for treatment. My oncologist here in Florida recently told me that my case has moved beyond what local facilities can offer—I need to be back at a major research university hospital. On October 9th, I return to UAB in Birmingham to see if they can accept my case and guide me through what lies ahead.

If this were just about my own fight, I would bear it quietly. But my husband, Larry, needs me.

Larry lives with an immune deficiency and vascular dementia. Because of his condition, he requires constant attention, structure, and patience. We are both on fixed disability incomes, and since 2016, we have lived under my mother’s roof because we simply couldn’t afford to maintain a home of our own. My mother has been an angel, helping me look after Larry, but she has endured four surgeries of her own this past year and her physical strength is limited.

My deepest, quietest fear every day isn't just what the cancer is doing to my body—it's what will happen to Larry if my body gives out. Who will guide him through the confusion of dementia? Who will anchor his world? My prayer is that one day we can have a stable, peaceful home where Larry can have the room and the dedicated caregiver support he needs to live with dignity and safety.

If UAB accepts me for treatment, our family must relocate back to Alabama immediately. But looking at our finances right now feels like standing at the base of an impossible mountain.

After our monthly bills and critical medications are paid, there is nothing left. Years of trying for a bone marrow transplant, emergency hospitalizations, and specialized care have completely drained us and left us buried under past debts. When we look at moving, we are completely paralyzed:

 Moving Expenses ($5,000): Between my failing energy and my mother’s recent surgeries, neither of us can lift furniture or pack boxes alone. We need physical help to make the move possible.

 Securing Housing Near UAB ($8,400): Covering roughly 6 months of rent (averaging $1,400/month) while getting established so we aren't stranded mid-treatment.

 Outstanding Emergency & Medical Costs ($5,800+): Including $4,000 in ambulance bills from critical events, $1,800 currently owed for Larry’s specialized infusions (which hit his $3,900 out-of-pocket maximum every single year), and monthly copays running ~$300.

 Vehicle & Family Debts ($16,000): My mother drained her own resources to loan us $10,000 for truck repairs and transportation so we could make doctor visits, on top of $6,000 in credit card balances used for survival during prior transplant attempts.

All told, we are facing nearly $35,000 in relocation costs, immediate medical obligations, and survival debts.

I can’t even imagine what it feels like to close my eyes at night and actually sleep. I don't know what it’s like to walk into a clinic or a procedure without performing mental gymnastics over every penny, or without having to beg the billing office for another grace period just to receive care.

I just want to heal. I want to fight this third round of lymphoma with everything I have left, without the crushing terror that seeking life-saving treatment will leave my husband homeless or without care.

If you are able to donate, no matter how small, please know that every dollar goes directly toward giving us a safe place to live near UAB, keeping Larry cared for, and allowing me to walk into the hospital focused on survival instead of survival costs. If you cannot give financially, sharing our story or keeping our family in your prayers means more to us than words can ever say.

Thank you for seeing us, for caring for Larry and me, and for helping us find our way back home.

With all my heart,

Traci & Larry