Angela Wright, Linda Campbell, Nusa, Ines, and all the other women who have been more than just friends to me over this past half year—thank you for everything. I was just looking back through our history and realized that while I’ve been caught up in the chaos of a funeral these last few days, others here have also, unfortunately, lost their loved ones. Angela, please accept my deepest condolences; I tip my hat to you for everything you did for my mother. To everyone else facing loss right now, my heart goes out to you too. Your support has meant the world to me these past few months—honestly, it was my only real refuge. I’ve drifted away from my usual circle of friends, though perhaps that isn't entirely their fault, but mine. Everything about them just seemed to grate on my nerves—maybe I was even harboring a bit of envy seeing them happy and healthy, who knows? You were the only ones I truly trusted, the ones I could actually pour my heart out to. I plan to keep following the battles being fought by the heroes on this forum and their families. I truly believe the sheer amount of courage and strength found here serves as a reminder that our own daily, lesser struggles are much easier to face. Sending big hugs to everyone—may love guide your way. Diana
My husband—after six months of relentless pain, suffering, and sheer terror—closed his eyes for the last time on November 18th. I couldn't help him; nobody could. This illness... it moved with such a terrifying speed, always staying one step ahead of us, no matter what we did. Honestly, I don't even know what I'm feeling right now. It’s a strange mix—a sort of numbness, a sense of total helplessness, and then this sudden, sharp surge of anger toward God, and toward myself, for not being able to find a way to save him. And he wanted to live so badly. Even when he became immobile, when he couldn't move his arms or legs at all, that spark, that will to live, never left his eyes. Sometimes I get this crushing feeling that I gave up before he did—that I should have fought harder, tried one more thing, held on just a little longer. That I let him go too easily. It is so incredibly hard, and I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that final conscious look in his eyes. It felt as though all the sadness in the world was concentrated in that single gaze. Does it always have to be this difficult?! Diana
Greetings to everyone, My wife’s recent blood work came back with some concerningly high GGT levels—we're talking north of 500. Given that her other blood markers seem fine—aside from slightly elevated platelets, which is its own little headache—is she still a candidate for chemotherapy? I'm trying to wrap my head around what this specific reading actually points toward... and if there is any realistic way to bring those GGT numbers back down into a normal range. electricgardener14
vividowl10 said:My dad passed away on October 20th—after six months of an absolutely relentless fight.
The only thing keeping me grounded is knowing he drifted off like an angel, and that he stayed on his feet until almost the very end.
I feel completely hollow right now—one minute I'm totally disoriented and angry, and the next I'm composed, feeling a sense of relief that he didn't have to suffer and that he fought until the finish line. It’s just... constant waves of everything.
I really want to reach out to everyone here who offered advice when I needed it most; I can't thank you enough.
A special hug to the "old guard" too.
Honestly, I feel like I could write a textbook on prostate cancer and bone metastasis at this point—so if anyone ever needs advice or just a little guidance, I'll be right here.
Best, Ines
Dear Ines, please accept my deepest condolences. I know things feel impossibly heavy right now—the hardest they will ever be—but time does eventually dull the edges of grief. The pain will subside, leaving you with those beautiful memories of your father. On a personal note, reading that he passed without suffering brought me a small measure of peace. I truly hope God shows mercy to my husband as well. Stay strong and keep your head up. Best, electricgardener14
Hello everyone, My husband is finally being discharged tomorrow after wrapping up his fourth round of chemo. Honestly, looking at him is heartbreaking—his blood work is a total disaster, and he’s just... pale, weak, and completely drained. I’m reaching out because I could use any and all advice you might have on how to help stabilize his blood counts. Also, if you have tips for managing his digestion, please share them; he’s struggling immensely with regularity. It seems like all those prescribed medications are just backing everything up. Hang in there, everyone, electricgardener14
Elizabeth Collins60 said:My dear friends, I am completely out of the loop... unfortunately, yet another soul has lost their battle with this cruel disease—my father passed away on Sunday, October 21st, at 1:30 PM. The tears just won't stop flowing, even though my mind still refuses to grasp the reality that he’s gone and I won't see him again. When I think of him, I don't picture him lying helpless in a hospital bed; instead, my mind drifts back to those moments when we'd wander through town in his wheelchair, just enjoying our coffee together. We share so many memories, so many beautiful moments—it feels as if he truly lives on within me... though every passing day makes it harder and harder. Still, I regret nothing. I gave everything I had, staying by his side until the very end, and now I am there for my mother, day and night. He was special—we had such a unique bond—and I was always, always his little snowflake...
Dear Elizabeth, I am so deeply sorry for your loss. Perhaps there is some small comfort in knowing that your father knew exactly how much you loved him and how much you needed him. My own father left me suddenly from a heart attack—that was sixteen years ago now. So much was left unsaid between us; I had so many things I wanted to tell him, so many things to explain, but it was simply too late. We were robbed of the chance for a proper goodbye. That is why, nowadays, I find myself constantly telling my ailing husband how much I love him and how much he means to me. Because, in my estimation, to love and to be loved is perhaps the greatest thing a human being can achieve in this life. electricgardener14
Greetings to everyone, I haven’t posted in quite some time—mostly because I thought I was simply counting down my husband's final days. His condition is dire; he barely eats and spends his time lying there, completely immobile. That metastasis on his shoulder has swollen into this massive, protruding lump. He endures such excruciating pain, yet when they give him Dolantin, he just drifts into a stupor, and when he finally opens his eyes, he’s merely babbling nonsense. On Sunday, his doctor administered Zomet, and today marks his fourth round of chemotherapy. I feel my strength—and his faith—slowly draining away. It all feels like we are just prolonging the agony, and I honestly don't know how to fight for each new day when those days are spent either in sheer torment or sleeping in a cramped little hospital room. I haven't even brought the children to see him lately; he doesn't want them to witness him in this much pain. I actually pleaded with his oncologist to consider radiation for that shoulder, but he responded with such chilling indifference—suggesting instead that we simply increase the dosage of his Durogesic patch, claiming radiation isn't indicated. Is there a physician present here who can explain from a clinical perspective why radiation wouldn't be indicated for a tumor that looks as though it might burst right through his skin? And what exactly does "palliative radiation" entail in a case like this? Have they simply given up on him? This is a waking nightmare—one I don't even dare wish to end, because the end means only one thing: I will be left without the man I love. electricgardener14
Hello everyone, First off, Jane, I wanted to send my deepest condolences regarding your brother—I am truly sorry for your loss. Now, back to the reality of fighting for our own—those who aren't exactly healthy, but are still here with us, our dearest ones. My husband’s doctor suggested it might be wise to start him on Microsoft medication—supposedly it comes in 4 mg vials and is administered via IV. She claims it’s effective for bone metastases. I did a little digging online and found mentions of it being covered under standard insurance, yet the doctor insists that isn't the case and claims a single vial costs $567, especially since he’ll likely need one every week at the start. At least, that’s her take—though she also admitted she hasn't actually prescribed this specific drug to anyone yet. So, I’m asking you all—if anyone has any experience with this medication, or knows anything about the actual cost, whether here or abroad, please let me know as soon as possible. Stay strong, everyone. Diana
It looks like my husband might finally be transitioning from the hospital to home care next week—a small victory, I suppose. He’s battling lung cancer. I find myself wondering if we should consider rehoming our dog. Is there any chance that being around him could actually cause harm? I would truly appreciate hearing from anyone who has navigated something similar. On another note, my husband absolutely adores our pup; he keeps dreaming about finally getting back out for those long walks together once he's home—even though, as things stand, he can barely move at all.
Angela Wright said:Oh, please—forget all that talk about Voltaren. Honestly, I think it’s completely pointless to obsess over those side effects when she’s in this much pain and the medication actually provides relief. What is she going to get, cancer?🙄 I don't know much about the radiation concerns, but I suppose there might be some truth to what people say. Mom is doing terribly. Lately, I've been haunted by this constant, intrusive thought—this fear that I'll wake up in the morning to find her gone in her bed. I just wish... I wish she could pass while we're right there beside her.
I understand why you feel that way—truly, I do—and I wish it could be that simple, but even if it isn't, the bond between you two is something that lasts forever. Take care of yourself, electricgardener14
Angela Wright said:Ah, neighbors... naturally, there are always those who feed on the suffering and heartache of others—it’s a mindset I simply cannot wrap my head around. It was more or less the same situation for me; everyone was calling to get the latest updates, from acquaintances to close friends and even dear family, yet once the news became yesterday's headlines, they all vanished behind a sort of emotional filter phase. Dajana, as absurd as it may sound, I truly hope you can find some semblance of meaning within your own pain and suffering—perhaps even a sense of peace—because that is the only way to move forward with any sanity left. What is the current status? Is he still enduring the pain, or is what he received enough to keep him stable for now? Where is he—in Washington, D.C., or San Diego? Stay strong and brave, just as you have been so far.😘
He’s in San Diego right now at the hospital, having just finished his third round of chemo. The pain hasn't let up; because of the bone metastases, he can't even sit up in bed, let alone walk. Everything is moving at such an exhausting, frantic pace. Just this past May, we were hiking up Marjan—well, climbing through the brush—and he was scaling those rocks without even breaking a sweat, while I was practically crawling to the summit. And now, look at him. Sometimes it feels like he's playing a joke on me—you know, like he's saying, "Stop acting, get out of that bed, and let's go grab a coffee." They are trying to wean him off the Voltaren he takes alongside the Palladon, but do you happen to know why? Is Voltaren really that harmful? It seems to be the only thing that actually touches the pain; everything else just puts him to sleep while the agony persists. They are planning to do radiation on his spine next week—some people mentioned that radiation helped them get back on their feet, so we are clinging to that hope. How is your mother doing? Best,
I’ve been sitting here reflecting on what you said, Angela Wright, and my mind keeps rewinding—four months back, to the exact moment my husband was diagnosed with cancer. Suddenly, I was drowning in this tidal wave of phone calls from everyone under the sun, people I knew and people I barely recognized, all wanting a status update on his health. Even out on the street, neighbors I’d only ever exchanged a polite nod with would corner me just to dig for details about the illness—as if it were nothing more than fresh fodder for their next neighborhood gossip circle. It was terrifying. I hadn't even processed the reality of the situation myself—I didn't even know what steps to take—yet everyone else expected me to spend my entire day fielding their inquiries and providing play-by-play updates. So, I made a choice—a clean break. I simply stopped answering the phone. I know, I know—I hurt some genuine friends in the process, but I felt this desperate, primal need to withdraw, to just shut the world out and be left alone. Now, I am slowly drifting back into society; the true friends have finally sorted themselves out, realizing exactly what I’ve been through—and what I am still enduring. But the cold truth remains: aside from popping in here on this forum, I haven't spoken to a soul about his illness, or how I’m actually holding up—my fears, my nightmares, none of it. I just can't bring myself to open up to anyone. It all hurts far too much, and internally, I feel like a ticking time bomb. Damn this disease... damn it all to hell. electricgardener14
Angela Wright said:Honey, how is your husband doing?
Thanks for asking, Angela Wright, things aren't too bad at the moment—though "not bad" is a relative term in this situation. He just finished his second round of chemo and is moving on to radiation, but the pelvic pain is becoming quite an issue; he can't sit, let alone walk, which is just exhausting to witness. Do you happen to have any insight on whether targeting those specific areas with radiation helps ease the discomfort? Aside from that, the pain is somewhat manageable. We've been relying on Voltaren and Durogesic patches, which seem to be doing the trick, but his doctor is suggesting we find an alternative to the Voltaren—apparently, it’s not ideal for long-term use. Any suggestions? Honestly, right now, Voltaren is our lifeline—it keeps the pain down and helps stabilize his temperature, which seems to be perpetually running a low-grade fever. I'm not even sure what's causing that constant simmer; I wonder if it's just a symptom of the underlying illness itself. Anyway, how is your mother doing? Is she feeling any better? Best, electricgardener14
Diana dear , please accept my most sincere condolences. Your mother was an incredibly fortunate woman—truly—to have had you by her side as a daughter. You did absolutely everything within your power; you followed every prescription and exhausted every medical option available to you, but that damn disease was simply more powerful than any of us. She has found her peace now, and while I know it feels impossible, you eventually have to find a way to return to your own life and move forward. Try to be as strong as she was, and please, take care of yourself. electricgardener14
Here is a brief update on how things have progressed in our situation. Following the sheer panic from my sister’s husband—who was by his side during those unbearable moments of agony—and my own frantic, unanswered calls from Miami, where I was desperately reaching out to every possible specialist, oncologist, and neurologist in Washington, D.C., including the American Pain Society, we finally managed to get the attention of the lead hospital anesthesiologist. He began meticulously titrating the morphine dosage to the exact threshold required to suppress the pain, and, naturally, after a short while, he succeeded. It isn't necessarily that the staff at the hospital aren't doing their jobs; rather, it is a question of basic human empathy—the willingness for someone to actually stop, look at a man writhing and weeping in pain, acknowledge the crisis, and then attempt to resolve it. That is precisely why I lost my composure—though, frankly, what else could I do? If it hadn't been for his sister being right there, and if I hadn't spent my time turning heaven and earth from Miami to find help, I don't know where we would be. It makes me wonder about all those other people lying there, alone in their suffering, simply waiting for the sluggish gears of our healthcare system to grind into motion so that someone might actually take charge of their care. And, as one of the forum members pointed out quite well—those of us fighting for a loved one's life while witnessing their suffering firsthand don't always have much patience for the "difficult" lives of our medical professionals. electricgardener14
Greetings, I was wondering if anyone here has come across any information regarding Dr. Stakić from Mexico—specifically concerning his purported cancer treatment involving stem cell therapy. I’m looking for some clarity; I’d much rather have the facts now than waste my time and energy chasing after someone who might just be running a scam. Any insight would be greatly appreciated. electricgardener14
Now he’s gone and developed a fever of 100.4—just sitting there, sleeping and whimpering through his dreams. Someone is going to pay dearly for this, I swear to God...
The attending physician just informed me five minutes ago—quite bluntly, I might add—that they aren't authorized to administer any more morphine. Honestly, I’m at a complete loss here... I have no idea who to even approach about this. Please, if anyone knows how to navigate this bureaucracy, I need help.
This is a direct plea for help. My husband is in absolute agony—he’s suffering from bone pain due to lung cancer metastasis. He is currently staying at the Mayo Clinic following surgery to remove a brain metastasis, and while they administered a Severus tablet at 2:00 PM, by 5:00 PM he was already doubled over in pain. They refuse to offer anything else—they just insist on waiting until 6:00 PM to give him another Severus, which clearly isn't cutting it. He is weeping from the pain; it's heartbreaking to watch him—it's at the point where he just wants to throw himself out the window. To make matters worse, there isn't a single doctor on the floor right now. It's the middle of the night. Is it actually possible that we are still living in the 17th century? It feels like nobody can help us. We are here in Miami, and we don't have any kind of connection in Washington, D.C. Can anyone please help us!!!!! electricgardener14