The “What If” Game and the Man Who Didn’t Know He Was Sick Yet

Every so often, I find myself drifting back to the year 2002—a year where I was forty, working full-time as a chef, and feeling like my body was conducting a quiet rebellion. I’d get winded walking across a room, feel crushing exhaustion after doing nothing remarkable, and experience chest tightness that made me pause mid-task. You know—the kind of symptoms that should set off alarms. But every time I went to a doctor, the response was a dismissive shrug and some variation of, “You’re fine. Probably stress. Maybe anxiety.”

If I had a dollar for every “It’s all in your head,” I’d own beachfront property in four time zones.

The wild part is that back then, I believed them. I was forty—still relatively young, still trusting the system, still assuming that any persistent physical misery had to be something I caused. Working too much. Not drinking enough water. Not sleeping enough. Maybe I needed vitamins. Maybe I needed therapy. Maybe I needed to stop being dramatic.

Now, from the vantage point of someone who eventually learned he had sarcoidosis—a disease so unknown in 2006 that I had to explain it to the doctors who were supposed to treat me—I look back at that forty-year-old version of myself with a kind of painful tenderness. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t overwhelmed by life. He was sick. But he had no name for it. No diagnosis. No validation. Just a body begging for attention and professionals insisting it was all imagination.

And that’s when my “what if” era began.

What if I pushed harder?

What if I demanded better answers?

What if I had trusted my own instincts sooner?

In 2002, I didn’t know that my chest pain wasn’t anxiety.

I didn’t know the crushing fatigue wasn’t lack of sleep.

I didn’t know the shortness of breath wasn’t “deconditioning.”

I didn’t know that something far more serious was brewing, undetected.

There’s a unique kind of loneliness that comes from being forty, responsible, hardworking, and steadily unraveling while every doctor insists you’re fine. And I remember that feeling vividly—the sense of knowing something was wrong while also feeling ridiculous for even thinking it. The sense that maybe everyone else was right and I was the problem.

If only I could sit with that version of me now, I’d pour him a cup of strong coffee, look him dead in the eye, and say, Trust yourself. You’re not imagining this. And you’re not done fighting.

But of course, we don’t get do-overs.

We get perspective—years later, when the dust settles and the truth catches up.

And looking back, I can now see how life was already nudging me, even then. Not gently, mind you—life rarely does gentle nudging. More like a shove. Or a series of shoves. But they pushed me onto a path that would eventually lead to answers, even if those answers came four years late and with diagnoses that carried more gravitas than anyone wants at forty-plus.

The funny thing is, the older version of me—this version—can see the map that 2002-me couldn’t. I can see that even if I had pushed harder, demanded more tests, or found a more attentive doctor, I might still have ended up in the same place eventually. Different timing, different route, but likely the same destination. Life has a way of dragging you toward your truths, even when you’re kicking and screaming and collecting dismissive medical opinions like baseball cards.

And it’s strange, but the “what if” game feels different now. When you finally understand what was happening inside your body back then, the game starts to feel less like regret and more like a conversation with your past self. I find myself saying things like:

“What if someone had believed you?”

“What if you’d known the word sarcoidosis before 2006?”

“What if the right doctor had walked into the room sooner?”

Sure, the details might’ve shifted. Maybe I would have avoided some fear, some confusion, some moments of wondering if I truly was losing my mind. Maybe the timeline would’ve changed. But I honestly believe I still would’ve ended up here—cooking, writing, living a life packed with love, humor, stubbornness, dogs, marriage, chronic illness, and sheer determination.

Because the truth is: the destination didn’t change. Only the road did.

And somewhere between 2002 and now, I learned the most painfully important lesson of all—that your body doesn’t whisper for no reason. When something’s wrong, you feel it. And when the experts try to talk you out of your own reality, you have every right to listen to yourself anyway.

Today, the “what now” matters more to me than the “what if.”

“What if” is a loop.

“What now” is a direction.

“What now” is where healing, understanding, and acceptance live.

“What now” is me choosing to trust the version of myself who knew something was wrong long before anyone else did.

So yes, I sometimes visit 2002-me in my head. I sit with him, feel his exhaustion, remember his frustration, and give him credit for surviving a chapter he didn’t have the language for. Then I get up, walk back into the life that unfolded from all those unanswered questions, and remind myself that the road—messy, jagged, and winding as it was—still led me home.

If you’ve ever been the person who knew something was wrong but couldn’t get anyone to believe you, I hope you’ll share your story or subscribe. Trust me: you’re not imagining it, and you’re definitely not walking that road alone.