Angela Wright said:Jane, please accept my deepest condolences. Given how far along things were when he was diagnosed, he fought an incredible battle to hold on for four years. That’s truly impressive. You should be proud to have had a father like him. May he rest in peace.
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Thanks for saying that. It was a hell of a fight.
I've gone through all the medical records from my father's final days in the hospital. That issue with his stomach definitely wasn't an ulcer. It was malignant. In the end, Dr. Belev couldn't even determine if it was a metastasis or a primary cancer. So, it’s possible stomach cancer was what actually got him. What I know for sure is that he had metastases in the peritoneum, under the aorta, in his lungs, bladder, and pelvis. By the time the disease was detected, the cancer was simply unstoppable. But thanks to my father's sheer will to live, and especially the magic hands of Dr. Kocman, who performed those incredible surgeries on him, we were gifted an extra four years.
My father passed away this past Wednesday. He fought colon cancer for four long years. By the time they caught it, it was already too late to cure. Despite that, he stayed pretty fit during those four years; he could walk several miles a day, though he didn't tolerate the cancer pain at all. He went through several major surgeries over that period—recovery was brutal, but within a month, he’d be back on his feet and handling his daily routine just fine. Things took a turn for the worse in February of this year when he developed a stomach ulcer. He nearly bled out. He lost a massive amount of weight. After they operated on the ulcer, there was a brief window where he bounced back, regained some weight, and was active again—driving, grocery shopping, the whole bit. But then the rash appeared all over his body. I knew right then things were turning south. Following the rash, early in April, the severe nausea kicked in. It started with heavy diarrhea, followed by constant vomiting. He had a short hospital stay, then spent a few days getting IV fluids at home from the local clinic. That helped for a bit; the vomiting stopped and the nausea eased up. On the surface, he looked okay, but he told me it was there, even if it wasn't debilitating. Then, after a few days, the violent vomiting returned. Another hospitalization. He actually felt much better in the hospital, started eating again, and they sent him home. But the second he got back, the vomiting started again, and two days later, he was back in the hospital. He couldn't eat anything at all. They had to keep him on IV nutrition. He wasn't in pain, though. He stayed in the hospital until the end. We spoke just the day before he passed; it was obvious he was rushing through the conversation because talking was becoming a struggle. That was the first time during this entire illness that he seemed disoriented. He actually called me to give me someone's phone number—someone I hadn't even asked for. My mother had been looking for that number. He got confused and thought he needed to give it to me. Yes, he had a long, grueling battle, but his story might offer some hope to those who receive a late cancer diagnosis. It doesn't have to mean an immediate sentence to agony and being bedridden. Aside from his final few weeks in the hospital, my father remained mobile, stayed pain-free, and until that stomach ulcer hit, he still had plenty of strength. He was always strong, and he stayed that way until the very end.
silentpanther32 said:Palliative patients are entitled to 120 minutes of home health care. Generally, when things get really bad, a visiting nurse can come by five times a week. They can also set up an IV drip and stay with the patient while it's running. Just to be clear, IVs are administered based on a medical professional's assessment if there's dehydration or if the patient can't take fluids orally. An IV isn't some miracle cure that "revives" a patient; it’s strictly for hydration (unless glucose is involved).
There are palliative teams in Chicago (just like other parts of the US—there are currently 22 active ones). Their job is symptom management: adjusting and titrating painkillers, easing nausea and vomiting, advising families on nutrition, changing urinary catheters for men, and setting up subcutaneous infusions. Those subcutaneous drips run for about 8 hours, and the family is trained on how to manage them—since it doesn't go into a vein, there's no risk of major complications, so you don't need a nurse standing over the patient the whole time.
In Chicago, you have teams through local health centers. If you aren't sure which district you fall under, check their websites and look up your street on the visiting nurse lists. For instance, if the local health district covers your street, their mobile palliative team can visit you. You don't need a formal referral to get a palliative team involved; just call the number and coordinate a visit with them.
Thanks, we'll definitely need this info eventually. Just not yet, not today. 😊
He was going to Merkur every single day for his IV. In Samobor, they probably can't do it through the port he has near his collarbone. His blood pressure was down to 80 over 60. Klnac and I managed to make it here for the holidays. Psychologically, that gave him a boost. His blood pressure improved, his appetite is great, and he's not vomiting or having diarrhea... He’s even climbing the stairs to the 4th floor on his own. Of course, he looks like a skeleton. But hey, he's fighting.
We're waiting for his Lonsurf to get approved. I haven't read anything great about that drug. Supposedly, it's only marginally better than a placebo. If anyone has experience with it, please let me know.
He headed to the hospital the night before last and finally made it home yesterday. They pumped him full of five different IV drips, which actually helped enough for him to get some sleep last night. But now, the vomiting is back and he can't keep anything down. He says he’ll have to head back to the ER again.
How long can they actually keep him at the hospital on an IV? It clearly helps him, but it feels like since there isn't a real cure, they just don't have much interest in keeping him around.
Angela Wright said:Who knows? That's just how this disease works. Everything is breaking down; both his kidneys and liver are starting to fail. That double vision could be anything from brain metastases to an electrolyte imbalance. At this point, the only thing that matters is keeping him hydrated and making sure he isn't in pain. In the terminal phase, comfort is the gold standard. Most of the time, it doesn't last long. Make the most of the time you have left with him and just hold onto some peace. Be his rock—tell him everything is going to be okay. Honestly, that’s what matters most, and it means the world to them. Hang in there.
Unfortunately, there’s just no way I can be there by his side. I live in a different country, and between work and having two little kids at home, I don't exactly have the luxury of taking a bunch of time off.
They're driving him to the hospital tonight. He's throwing up green bile. He was finally starting to gain some weight back, his appetite was actually decent, and he seemed to be getting his strength back. Then, out of nowhere, this happens...
My dad is in the terminal stage of colon cancer. It’s not even the large intestine; he’s only got a few centimeters of small intestine left. For three days straight, he's been dealing with this brutal, non-stop diarrhea. He dropped a few pounds overnight, his vision is getting blurry, and he's feeling incredibly weak. His doctor just handed him some anti-diarrheal meds and sent him home. What can we actually do here? Is this diarrhea ever going to let up? And why is this happening all of a sudden now?
My dad spent two days vomiting blood. He’s been struggling to bounce back at all since his last round of chemo; the nausea is constant and he's just dropping weight. He finally saw a doctor yesterday. Turns out he had a stomach ulcer we didn't even know about, and now they're debating whether or not to go through with surgery.
Maybe there’s some comfort in faith for believers... But honestly, you live with the constant awareness that you and everyone you love are eventually going to die. We celebrate birthdays, but they’re really just milestones on the road to the grave. If I were inclined to believe in the supernatural, I’d say we’re already living in hell.
My dad is being hospitalized tomorrow. He needs IV fluids. I just don't get why they can't find a way to settle his stomach. He’s been vomiting non-stop for six days now. Today, he managed to eat two slices of orange.
I check in here every once in a while... sometimes with good news, sometimes bad. Right now, it’s bad. My dad is fighting colon cancer, which was diagnosed back in the summer of 2015. At first, they gave him just a few months. It’s been over three years since then. He had some really great moments. Aside from about a month following his surgery, he was always active and kept a positive attitude. He went through five surgeries—they removed everything they could from his abdomen and had to cauterize things twice. He also went through several rounds of chemo. They didn't work, but he handled them incredibly well. The surgeries were what kept him going, even though his heart actually stopped for a moment during the last one. Now, the cancer has spread too much for surgery. His lungs are compromised. He just finished his fifth round of chemo, and he has never struggled this much. He’s vomiting constantly and can't keep anything down. He’s lost weight to the point of being near anorexia. Looking back, I realize how good everything actually was. He truly had wonderful periods. There was even a time, before his stoma was fully dealt with, when he could carry his granddaughter. He used to walk miles upon miles—more than I ever could. He’d pick up groceries for the house and help out with all the chores... But now, it’s just brutal. I’m afraid things won't get better. But then again, why shouldn't I hope?
Angela Wright said:Try Dermazin ointment. Honestly, anything with silver ions speeds up the healing process. Regarding the catheter—is the issue that he can't hold it, or is nothing coming out at all?
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Thanks for the tip, we'll give it a shot. 🙂
They pulled the catheter out,🎉 but the real struggle was that he had zero sensation and would just leak a few drops every couple of hours. And
Michelle Cook83 said:Dana Martin87, is the wound still oozing anything or is it dry now? Regarding the catheter, there's a chance some nerves near the bladder might have been nicked during surgery, which would mean a longer recovery period. It’s crucial to change the catheter regularly and drink plenty of fluids; maybe take a urinary tract supplement too, since having a catheter increases the risk of a UTI.
Man, I honestly don't know, I'll have to ask him. He goes in for dressing changes regularly. As for the catheter—great news, they finally pulled it out! 👍
My dad just went through another major surgery—one of those massive ones involving organ removal and reconstruction. This time they had to resect part of his liver. He’s recovering okay, but there's a catch. It's been two months since the procedure, and he still can't pee without using a catheter. Dealing with both a stoma and a catheter at the same time is a total nightmare. On top of that, the donor site on his leg where they took the skin graft is healing incredibly slowly. Has anyone dealt with catheter issues like this, or does anyone have any advice on how to speed up wound healing?
Dad is headed in for another surgery. That makes four in just two years. The main goal is to fix up his liver, and then they'll just clean out whatever else they find while they're in there. He hasn't been on chemo for 15 months now.
Angela Wright said:Glad he finally made it to the "cooking" stage. Honestly, if he had actually pulled it off, I bet Vedran would’ve found some way to call us out on it anyway.
Yeah, maybe his doctors could have stepped up sooner? Either way, the guy was in pain for three whole days.
It’s been a while since I posted. Back in the summer of 2015, my dad was diagnosed with colon cancer. He had two massive tumors, and things were in bad shape—they'd likely been growing for about ten years, and his blood work was a disaster. It turned into an emergency surgery to remove the tumors and part of his colon. He went through 17-18 rounds of Chemo, split into two protocols. Nothing worked. By the spring of 2016, we found out the cancer had spread to his abdomen and lungs. Another major surgery in the fall of 2016. They had to "cook" the metastases and remove his colon, spleen, and part of his pancreas. Recovery was long and brutal. The last CT scan showed some spots in the fatty tissue near his navel. He just had outpatient surgery for that a few days ago.
Basically, we aren't exactly thrilled. We know there isn't a permanent cure, but he’s hanging in there incredibly well. He’s walking, staying active, and isn't in pain. We're just praying he holds out as long as possible.
My Dad went under the knife on Monday. He’s still stuck in the ICU. Sometimes the news is better, sometimes it's worse—honestly, right now, it feels like a daily battle. They have him on pills for circulation because his blood pressure is bottoming out. The anesthesiologist basically admitted they messed up with the chemo; apparently, they shouldn't have pushed for two different protocols when it was obvious neither was doing anything. The chemo trashed his heart and vessels, and that’s what's stalling his recovery. It’s the third day and they finally started feeding him, which felt like a win. But at this point, nobody can give us any certain answers...
Dad was told he’s heading into surgery now, and starting in January, he’ll be moved onto a new drug protocol because neither the Folfox nor the Folfiri plus Avastin regimens did the trick. He actually handled those heavy-duty chemo rounds like a champ, but unfortunately, the cancer cells handled them even better. Right now, he feels great. He’s constantly on the move—carrying my 35-pound daughter around, helping Mom with everything at home, doing the dishes, running errands, even traveling abroad... He isn't in pain, except for occasional sharp stabs under his Ribs where two more tumors have popped up. The worst part is the lung metastases, so I honestly don't know how much sense this surgery makes, but the doctors suggested it, and Dad feels like he has nothing left to lose, so there's no point overthinking it. He’s already made it through one beautiful year, even though the initial prognosis was only a month or two. I really want to connect with someone whose loved one (or they themselves) went through a procedure like this, just so we can prepare for what comes after. The doctor warned us the surgery would be brutal, lasting 10 to 12 hours, with a grueling recovery ahead. What I really need to know is what happens next—will Dad be able to stay as active as he is right now?
I don't really have direct contact with the doctors; I only know what Dad tells me. He didn't even tell me about the lung metastases; I had to sneak a look at the scans myself. He also refuses to let anyone visit him in the hospital after the surgery. After his first operation, only my husband went to drop off some things. He hates having people fuss over his illness or treating him like a patient. Since he’s always been the rock of this family, it’s vital to me that he doesn't end up bedridden for long, but stays active until the very end. Mentally, he just couldn't handle anything else.
Angela Wright said:I’ve been following Vedran from the very start, practically through the entire fight. Looking at this from an outsider's perspective, I guess you could say everyone fights their own battle in their own way. He told me about some guys who had less aggressive cancer, but because the metastases were in the wrong spot, they passed away before he did. Everyone tells their own story, including how they deal with a diagnosis. Honestly, getting to know him a bit better and sharing thoughts, it feels like other life struggles hit him harder than the metastases eventually did. He left feeling a bit bitter, but he was a completely different, mentally tougher person than the guy I first met.
I kept hoping that even though the cancer was caught late, there wouldn't be any metastasis, since I didn't see anything suggesting that in his medical records. Though, admittedly, the last time I looked at his files was at the beginning of the first month. This Avastin news really hit me hard. For a second, I almost wished Dad wasn't so certain about getting better. To him, changing therapy just means: "Okay, it won't be quick or easy like I thought, it'll take more time, but I'm still going to recover." I don't know which is worse—living without hope, or living on false hope... He has this crazy strength in him. He takes the bus to every chemo session alone, and takes the bus back alone. There are tons of germs on those buses, yet he never even catches a cold. Unfortunately, he doesn't have any other choice but the bus. When I visited him during that first month, a few days after chemo, he spent the whole time walking around town with my little one, playing with her, taking her to arcades... And yet, despite all that willpower and strength, there's no hope for a cure. From what I can see, people on his specific therapy and with his diagnosis have a maximum 8% chance of surviving five years. If we were talking about decades, then I’d call that a recovery.