It began as an insidious cough in March last year.

A tickle in my throat that was occasionally accompanied by a little tightness in my chest.

At first, I put it down to allergies. For as long as I can remember, I've had an annoying sensitivity to pollen that erupts like clockwork in Spring and Fall.

But the cough gradually worsened and started waking me up during the night.

At times, when my wife cooked her signature tomato beef dish at high heat, I would start wheezing from the smoky deliciousness.

Finally, after about five or six weeks, I relented and sought help. Though I knew it was possible, cancer was the last thing on my mind. 

As a professor and primary care doctor at Stanford; I am lucky enough to know many talented physicians and was able to get an appointment with a colleague and friend.

I was prescribed inhalers and antibiotics for what we hoped was a touch of allergy-induced asthma. 

But when the cough was still there three weeks later, the doctor ordered a chest X-ray, which showed a large white area obscuring almost four inches of my right lung.

I was stunned. I was just 49 years old, and remember thinking as I stared at the results: 'It can't be cancer! It must be some kind of weird infection or an imaging error.' 

However, a CT scan the same day revealed fluid around my lung and alarmingly enlarged lymph nodes in my chest.

Two days later, a biopsy confirmed our worst suspicion: I had lung cancer.

Not only that, but a PET scan — which detects abnormal cells — showed the cancer was stage four and had spread to my liver, bones and 50 spots in my brain.

It was incurable, and according to statistics, there was a less than one in 10 chance I will survive past five years.

Almost overnight I had become the patient I'd spent years studying.

My colleagues and I had started the Center for Asian Health Research and Education (CARE) at Stanford in 2018 to support research and education around diseases that disproportionately and differently impact Asians and Asian-Americans.

Our number one priority for the past two years has been lung cancer in 'never smokers' - those diagnosed with the disease despite never having picked up a cigarette, like myself.

Smoking is the number one cause of lung cancer, directly responsible for 90 percent of cases, according to the American Lung Association.

But while smoking rates have fallen 70 percent since the 1960s thanks to increased awareness and laws restricting it, lung cancer continues to climb in never smokers.

In fact, around 20 percent of lung cancer patients have never smoked.

Over half of those who are Asian will have a tumor mutation in their epidermal growth factor receptor (EGFR) gene like I have. 

EGFR is a protein on the surface of cells that helps them grow.

But these mutations cause the cells to grow out of control, which can lead to the formation of tumors. 

For reasons we're still understanding, these mutations are most common in nonsmoking Asian populations.

Other than my occasional overindulgence in junk food, I live a healthy life. I have never smoked, rarely drink alcohol, and my vices are limited to binging TV dramas. 

Yet, despite this, I have become a poster child for this terrible disease.

Though there are some blessings.

My diagnosis has helped me become a better advocate for increasing research funding and awareness for America's deadliest cancer.

Lung cancer makes up one in four cancer deaths in the US. Yet it only receives nine percent of the National Institutes of Health's (NIH) cancer funding.

And even though I have taken care of patients with a wide range of cancers for almost 20 years, I now better understand the incredible complexity of the cancer journey itself.

Before my diagnosis I offered sympathy to patients but never truly understood what they were going through. 

Managing and treating the cancer itself is the most important thing to doctors — rather than what patients are feeling while at home, waiting for their next appointment.

But from a patient perspective, the 'medical' part of life, though overwhelming, is only a tiny part of living with cancer. Life is still about family, work, eating, and, ultimately, meaning and purpose.

Since my diagnosis, my understanding of cancer has shifted in two key ways.

First, in the United States, we live in a patchwork system of insurers and healthcare providers.

Getting access to treatment in a timely manner that does not send you into bankruptcy should be the minimum standard of healthcare.

As a physician, I know all too well how messy and stressful the system can be.

I am fortunate to be an insured, English-speaking professional with flexible work, great support from friends and family, and access to transportation and a top-tier medical institution. That has all allowed me to benefit from expeditious and high-quality care.

I received my diagnosis within six days of my first chest X-ray and started treatment within two weeks.

But I'm far from the norm. A study from 2022 showed the average timeline from getting a chest X-ray or CT scan to diagnosis was about 43 days.

Incoming students must understand that my experience should be the rule and not the exception.

The second way my understanding of cancer has shifted comes down to how comforting I have found spiritual support.

I am not, and never have been, a particularly religious person. But as people have learned about my diagnosis, I have had the honor of many friends, family members and even strangers across all religions reach out and offer to pray with me, for me, light a candle, chant or even make offerings to God.

As a scientist, I have no quantitative evidence that prayers and acts of faith can change the course of an illness. But as a human, I believe in the tremendous emotional impact of spiritual support and have certainly felt its benefit.

Fortunately, due to technological advances with targeted therapy and new treatment protocols derived from clinical trials, I am currently doing well.

When I was first diagnosed, I did four cycles every month of two different chemotherapies.

My cancer is not gone and will likely never disappear entirely. But MRI scans now show no evidence of it in my brain, while other tumor areas have either shrunk or remain stable.

I now take a daily chemotherapy pill, and I'll stay on a maintenance dose for the rest of my life.

The data is limited, but my cancer is still considered 'incurable', and my average life expectancy, if my tumors do not grow any further, is around two years.

But for now, I remain grateful for the extra time and high quality of life that have enabled me to continue seeing patients, teaching and living with my family.

I hope by sharing my journey we can improve funding for lung cancer research.

I hope students and physicians will gain a better understanding of cancer patients’ lives.

And I hope that, with increased research and improved patient care, I can continue to thrive.