In June of 2013, my wife and I were awakened by a phone call. Her mother, whose health had been failing, was dying. We needed to come to the hospital immediately.

What followed was an emotional and stressful morning—especially for my wife, but also for me. I had never seen someone die before. I didn’t know how that would feel for me. More important, I didn’t know how it would feel for my wife and son, and whether I would be able to put my own feelings aside and be there for them.

It was a lot, but we got through it.

When we returned home, Roxy, Blitz and Kal-El met us at the door. Their happy faces lightened the moment.

I made sure my wife was okay and I went downstairs to process my own experience. On the way, I stopped in the bathroom.

I felt an odd pressure as I was trying to pee. Nothing was coming out. That lasted a couple seconds before something gave way. There was no pain, so I continued about my business.

I got to my office and sat down for a minute.

“That wasn’t normal,” I thought.

Then I felt the need to return to the bathroom. This time, I started to go and there was blood—a lot of blood.

I waited a few minutes. It didn’t stop. I went upstairs to my wife.

“I know this is the worst possible time for this, but I need to go to the emergency room.”

Ten years earlier, I started my own business. For the first time in my life, health insurance became an issue. I was fortunate that my employers previously provided health insurance. I never had to worry about it.

I chose the same plan I had with my most recent employer. It was expensive, but I knew it would provide everything I needed.

Every year, the cost of that plan went up. By the time 2013 rolled around, it was my family’s largest expense—more than the mortgage and car payments combined. So I looked into other options.

I called an insurance broker for help. His response was disturbing.

“I can find coverage for your wife and children,” he said. “But I don’t have anything for you.”

When he took my medical history, I told him of my melanoma diagnosis in 2000.

“You will not be able to find an individual insurance plan with a pre-existing cancer diagnosis,” he said.

“But it was 13 years ago. It was cured with surgery. No chemo. No radiation. No recurrence.” I responded.

He said it didn’t matter. But he added that, in a few months, the Affordable Care Act would go into effect. The Act didn’t allow insurers to deny coverage for pre-existing conditions.

I purchased the good policies for my wife and children. For me, since I had no pressing issues, I purchased a policy to get through the next few months. It had an extremely high deductible and covered almost nothing except catastrophic care.

Three months later, I’m in the emergency room peeing blood.

There was a long wait in the emergency room and nobody seemed too concerned about my problem. I was back and forth to the bathroom several times, getting more upset with each trip. At one point, I asked for a specimen cup and brought a sample back to the nurse. I was sure if she saw what was happening, she would understand the urgency. Nope.

When I finally did see a doctor, he examined me, ran some tests and determined there was nothing life threatening going on. The bleeding slowed considerably. I was sent home and told to follow up with a urologist.

I followed up and paid for the visit out of pocket. By then, the bleeding had stopped completely. He told me the only way to determine the cause was to perform a procedure that would cost thousands of dollars.

He didn’t express a great sense of urgency. Since the problem had stopped, I didn’t do anything, hoping it could wait until I had good insurance again.

Unlike last time, there is no neat lesson—no message to seize the day. Just the reality of how the system works.

I was treated in 2000 for melanoma. There was no recurrence. Thirteen years had passed. And still, I couldn’t get coverage.

I was told there was nothing available for me. Not something expensive. Nothing.

When I finally was able to buy insurance, the cost kept rising and the coverage kept shrinking. I’m paying four times as much today as I was in 2013 for less coverage.

And once again there’s the possibility of being shut out entirely.

We need a system where our lives matter—where our loved ones’ lives matter.

Because a week after my surgery, I was awakened by another phone call.

It was Alex. She was in excruciating pain.

“Dad, I need your help…”

And it started again.

Dakota and I are participating in a fundraiser this month to help the American Cancer Society take a bite out of cancer. We’re sharing a photo each day throughout the month.

If you’d like to follow along, you can do that here.

And if you’d like to contribute to the cause, you can do that here.