Private Chef, Writer & Podcaster
Vanity is a funny thing. You think you’ve outgrown it until sarcoidosis hands you tubing, batteries, and a mirror you didn’t ask for. Looking back from 2026, I can tell you this: the hardest prescriptions aren’t the pills. They’re the ones that make you visible—and force you to decide what staying alive is worth.
You know that moment when the doctor confidently hands you a prescription like it’s a golden ticket back to Normal Person Land—no questions, no footnotes, just “take this twice a day forever” and try not to die in the meantime? Yeah. In my early sarcoidosis era (back when I was younger, more trusting, and still believed “the system” had my back), I learned the hard way that the danger isn’t always the pill… sometimes it’s what you’re sipping while you swallow it. And the culprit was sitting in my fridge, looking innocent and delicious.
In the middle of managing sarcoidosis and all the glamorous paperwork life insists on assigning, I keep circling back to one voice I can still hear clearly: my mother’s—suddenly brighter, younger, almost mischievous—when an old name resurfaced after decades. It started as a phone call and ended up becoming one of those stories that quietly rearranges your insides… especially when you never get the ending you thought you’d get.
Ever notice how sarcoidosis doesn’t just mess with your lungs (and your whole life), it also turns random medical appointments into surprise personality tests—for you and the staff? One day in a pulmonologist’s office, a not-so-small “cleanliness” request collided with a not-so-gentle attitude… and let’s just say Prednisone Me had opinions.
It was supposed to be a simple late-afternoon date—just my wife, a quiet walk, and a brief illusion of normalcy. But sarcoidosis doesn’t care about intentions, especially when hills, stairs, and pride enter the picture. One New York City afternoon and one very confident staircase delivered a realization I apparently needed nineteen years to accept.