Posts by cosmicviper76

velvetfalcon44 said:http://www.cancer.org/docroot/CRI/co..._staged_50.asp

Thanks

I could really use some insight here.
A colleague of mine just had surgery to remove a mole, and the pathology report came back reading
Dg: MELANOMA T2a (superficial spreading type)

Does anyone know what stage we're actually looking at here?
Thanks in advance.

Sam Murphy33 said:Oh man, thank you so much for getting back to me. The surgery is over, but they weren't able to get the whole tumor out—it had already spread to the small intestine... You’ve given me a little glimmer of hope, though. She came to the ward today and she's currently on an IV drip; looks like she might be under some sedation, but I spent nearly three hours by her side and I'm heading back again tonight. Thank you truly, once again.

You'll see things start to look up. When my dad went through his surgery, he was skin and bones—he couldn't even manage a single bite of watermelon, and honestly, we were terrified.
Now, the guy can polish off a whole roasted chicken.🙂
Just stay by her side as much as you can. Having that mental strength is absolutely vital in moments like this... it made all the difference for my dad, and it actually helped him bounce back physically afterward, too...
Both you and your mom are in my thoughts.
kisses

Sam Murphy33 said:Oh my god, dear... this is just heartbreaking..
I spent the entire morning at the hospital today; my mom had surgery. It’s colon cancer with several metastases in the liver. They’ve fitted her with a bag—the primary tumor is external now—but what about those metastases? Can radiation and chemotherapy actually wipe them out? Does anyone here have any experience with this?

My dad went through surgery for colon cancer with multiple liver metastases just a year ago.
He completed 12 cycles of chemo and he’s doing great... he eats, drives his car, does a little work, and lives a totally normal life.......
Throughout those 12 rounds of chemo, there wasn't even a single change in his liver; nothing grew, nothing shrank, everything just stayed exactly as it was a year ago.
The doctors gave him such grim prognoses that if things had gone by their book, he wouldn't be alive today, and I certainly wouldn't be sitting here telling you how he's back behind the wheel.
I always hold onto the idea that only God decides when the candle burns out.
Hang in there.
If there is anything at all I can do to help, I'm right here.
kisses

casualrider21 said:My angel is gone😢🙂 😢🙂🙂🙂🙂
The pain and the grief... they're just too much. They've completely broken me.

He was strong and so incredibly lucid until the very last second. The nurses called me from the hospital because he was calling out for me. I ran there like a madwoman. Even through all the physical agony and the struggle, his only thought was how to make things easier for me—he didn't give a second thought to himself. He managed to say everything he needed to say. And then, right at the end, he told me he wasn't in pain. My hero.
That night destroyed me.

I used to hope that, in time, finding comfort in words and memories would help.
But right now, none of that matters.

I am profoundly, deeply sad.😢🙂

Casualrider21, I am truly, deeply sorry for your loss.
Hang in there.

shadowmason6 said:Unfortunately, I’m going to share some sad news from the For a New Day Association page, posted just a few days ago. It might not be my place to repost this, and maybe it doesn't strictly belong in this thread, but I wasn't sure where else to go... I felt that since slyseal28 has always been right there by our side through her own struggle, it's only right that we support her too—even if it's just through our thoughts and prayers.

"At 4:40 today, we lost our dear friend Zoran Golubović, one of the founders of our association. Zoran fought his own long battle against sarcoma, proving himself an incredible fighter who refused to back down until the very end. We will remember him for his unique character—always ready with a joke even in the darkest moments—and as one of the most vocal advocates for the rights of patients battling malignant diseases. He passed away brave and proud, and that is exactly how we will remember him. He departed at home, surrounded by his loved ones, just as he wished. He didn't even know it was coming; he simply fell asleep. See you later, Zoki..."

slyseal28, I honestly don't know what smart thing to say... I am so incredibly sorry. I truly hope you find the strength to keep fighting and to continue supporting everyone else in this battle... despite everything.

Here is another link to provide context for those who might not be aware.
It also mentions that the funeral service will be this Thursday...

My deepest condolences, slyseal28... you're in my thoughts.

jadetinker42 said:Just dropping in to let everyone know that another "match" ended today...😢😢😢

Osteosarcoma vs. Youth: 1-0😢

And she was only 26 years old....😢

My heart truly goes out to her family.

slyseal28 said:If you or someone close to you is currently battling colorectal cancer, please pay close attention if Avastin is ever mentioned as a treatment option. Here’s the kicker: Avastin isn't classified as one of those high-cost outpatient drugs that insurance struggles to cover; instead, it's on the hospital's formulary. In theory, that means the hospital picks up the tab. However, we're seeing cases where patients are being denied this specific medication simply because the hospital's internal budget is stretched too thin.

The administration tells patients the drug is "unavailable"... which is a complete crock. It’s not that the medicine doesn't exist; it's that the hospital can't justify the line item in their budget right now. If you've been told you can't access Avastin due to "shortages," please reach out.

My dad is fighting colorectal cancer with liver metastases and hasn't been given Avastin—is there anything we can actually do about this?

wanderingharbor61 said:My mom lost her fight with melanoma yesterday... she just stopped breathing, went out like a candle once the flame runs dry...🙂

I am so incredibly sorry for your loss. Please hang in there.

Lisa White54 said:Given the emotional rollercoaster we’ve all been riding, things are looking significantly brighter now. The most important thing is that the cancer is gone, and my husband has finally found some peace of mind, too. My love, my optimism, and my faith in a fresh start are what keep me from sinking. We’ve endured so much, and honestly, it’s finally time to celebrate. Tomorrow, I’m baking a cake and putting together a big celebratory dinner for our little squad of four warriors: my husband, our son, our daughter, and myself. This period fighting the disease was a season of both falling flat on our faces and pulling ourselves back up... a time when it felt like there was nobody else in the world but us. But we won.
I hope everyone gets news this good. I want every single one of you to win. You have to realize that you are capable, that you are stronger than any diagnosis. Keep fighting, everyone—fight for tomorrow, and then fight for the day after that...
Sending love to you all.

This is just beautiful to read; it really gives us hope for a better future
kisses!

Amy Hayes28 said:My father has passed away for good.😢
thanks Ivanica and everyone who reached out to lend a hand during our time of grief.

Sending my deepest, most sincere condolences to you and your family. Hang in there.

Dear Dina!
You’ll be in our hearts forever.
Thank you for all that optimism you poured into us.

If you ask me, you should definitely look into requesting sedation for your colonoscopy.
It’s not the same experience for everyone, but let’s be honest—it can be pretty brutal if you aren't numbed up.
My dad had to go through one, and he was in quite a bit of pain. Now, I have to factor in that he’s dealing with colon cancer, which probably made things significantly more uncomfortable, but from what I’ve gathered, even for people without those complications, it can still be a real ordeal. So, please, do yourself a favor and advocate for some pain management.
Wishing you the absolute best with everything.

slyrider11 said:My mother passed away five days ago... the doctors made the right call.
It’s a small mercy that she didn't have to endure intense pain.
I want to thank everyone for your kind words and support. Unfortunately, her cancer had progressed much too far, leaving her almost no time to fight, even though she was a true warrior throughout her entire life.
So, to everyone currently in the ring fighting this thing: I wish you all the luck and strength in the world. Please, beat this monster—not just for yourselves and your loved ones, but for those who weren't granted the chance to fight.

My deepest, most sincere condolences.

Grace Fowler said:Hey there, lovely ladies!!
I’m currently stuck in this phase of "tense anticipation." As Friday creeps closer, I feel like my brain is just a swirling kaleidoscope of every possible emotion...
And honestly, this seasonal depression is turning me into such a melancholy mess; I’m actually starting to bore myself with how much I’m moping around... 😕
I’ve decided that Wednesday and Thursday are going to be my "treat myself" days. I'm planning to enjoy some delicious, decadent food while I can, because I know those "villains" (and by villains, I mean the hospital cooks😠🙂) are going to shove me right back onto a forced diet once I'm settled... though, let's be real, I'll probably sneak a few treats into my purse just in case... 😍
I’m sure most of you are riding a similar emotional rollercoaster during these pre-holiday days... BUT WE KEEP GOING, LADIES... WE HAVE TO.
There is still so much work left for us to tackle...
I’ll check back in one more time before I head off to the hospital...
Warmly, yours, Grace👍

You're in my thoughts.
Sending big hugs!

brightgardener8 said:My dear friends,
Over these last 20 months spent on this forum, it has been incredibly heavy reading through posts about your loved ones passing away. I truly understood that ache because I knew, deep down, that my own turn was coming.
My mother passed away yesterday. 🙂
She had been suffering for far too long, so, in a strange and difficult way, there is a sense of relief that her struggle is finally over.
I truly hope she is somewhere peaceful now.

Life just won't feel the same without her.

I am sending strength to all of you as you navigate your own toughest battles.

My deepest condolences to you all.

slyrider11 said:Hi everyone.
I’m honestly just relieved to have stumbled upon this corner of the internet. I feel like I’ve been taking hit after hit for weeks now, and frankly, my hope is running bone-dry.
My mother has been diagnosed with stage IV stomach cancer. The tumor isn't just palpable; it’s massive—you can actually see the impact. They attempted a bypass surgery to allow her to at least take in some food and fluids, but the procedure was a disaster because the reality on the operating table was far worse than their scans suggested. The entire abdominal cavity is compromised. The tumor has metastasized aggressively and is invasive—it's almost like a fungal growth, if that makes sense, which I think is an even more sinister way for it to behave.
The prognosis is grim. They’re telling us it’s the final stage and time is incredibly short. People who know her—colleagues at the hospital who understand the clinical reality—have told me that my only real prayer now is that she doesn't suffer too long. It’s the kindest thing I can ask for, because, quite simply, we arrived much too late.
She knows. She’s fully aware of the situation, and trying to maintain a facade of "everything will be fine" feels impossible and dishonest. She hasn't fully processed it yet, and neither have I, nor anyone else for that matter.
I went looking for a second opinion, hoping for a miracle, but the specialists at the major research hospital told me there’s nothing left they can do. Back then, I was holding onto the desperate hope that they could just excise the whole thing, but according to the latest imaging, it’s progressed way too far for any surgical intervention.
I had actually made my peace with the idea of the bypass; I was hoping that once she regained some strength from the chemo, she might squeeze out a few more years... and she was hoping for that, too. Then came the shock. Even the bypass isn't an option. The stomach tissue is essentially like concrete; everything is so heavily involved that there isn't a single millimeter of healthy space left to work with. There is no medical path forward except for palliative care and a merciful end. It’s devastating.
She’s in the hospital now, incredibly frail because she hasn't been able to eat for months, and lately, she can't even keep down water without vomiting. She’s faced dangerous dehydration several times and is constantly thirsty.
It looks like she’ll be coming home soon. I honestly don't know if I have the emotional stamina to try and feed her—or myself—any more false hope. This time, there’s no foundation to build it on, and she’s just too young for this.

Sweetheart, please just give your mom all the love and attention you possibly can. That is what matters most right now. Just be there by her side. We are all here for you, and our thoughts are constantly with her.
big hug

Diana, hang in there
you're in my thoughts

Lisa White54 said:My husband fell ill nearly four years ago. It was bronchial and tracheal cancer—a tumor roughly the size of an adult man's hand. He was choking on blood, coughing up bright red streaks. It all happened so abruptly. One minute everything is fine, and the next, he’s in a general hospital for ten days before being rushed to a specialist facility in a Small town in the Midwest. He went through chemo and radiation, and frankly, it was brutal. But he endured it all and he won. Or so we thought. For a while, the scans were clear. There was no sign of the tumor. He was doing well. We completely overhauled our lifestyle and restructured our entire world around his recovery. I truly believed we had beaten cancer once and for all.
But we haven't. This setback feels like being thrown right back to square one. For a few days, I just couldn't pull myself together. It was this overwhelming wave of disappointment, grief, and pure fury. However, I am finding my footing again. I am ready to step back into the ring for what comes tomorrow. I am not throwing in the towel. We are waiting to start the next phase of treatment, followed by home care. Once he’s back home, things will feel much more manageable.

I am so glad to see you standing tall and ready to fight again!
If you stay strong, it will give him the courage he needs to do the same.
Sending you my very best wishes and strength!

wiredcrane32 said:Hi everyone!

I’m checking in because I want to share some good news and offer a bit of hope to anyone currently battling an illness or watching a loved one go through it. I first started lurking on this forum around April, right when we found out my dad had a throat tumor. Honestly, I didn't have the strength to write anything back then; it felt like my entire world was collapsing. I was scouring these boards looking for a specific supplement, some kind of alternative path to recovery. It all started with this tiny little lump on the right side of his face more than a year ago. He absolutely refused to see a doctor—he’s one of those classic, stubborn types who thinks he’s invincible. He never gets sick, never complains about pain; he’s basically the definition of a "tough guy." We were all losing our minds trying to convince him to get checked out, but he wouldn't budge. That is, until the lump grew large enough 😉 to actually deform his face. At that point, he couldn't eat or breathe properly, and he plummeted from 185 lbs down to just 108 lbs. Finally, seeing the reality of it, he went to the doctor. The test results were nothing short of catastrophic. Chemotherapy wasn't even on the table because the tumor had wrapped itself around a major artery, and the doctors were terrified that treatment might cause it to rupture. Eventually, they just sort of gave up on him—they scheduled him for radiation, but not for two months! We were frantic. It was painfully obvious they had written him off; they weren't giving him even the slightest chance at a recovery. After a lot of pleading and tears from me, my sister, and my mom at the Mayo Clinic, they finally agreed to move his radiation up by a month. And I will never, ever forget what the doctor said to my mother. He looked her in the eye and said, "Look, I'll give him the most aggressive therapy possible, but even that isn't going to help him." It was absolutely chilling. To make a long story short, he underwent radiation from June 16th to August 8th. This past Tuesday, September 12th, the final results came back. (And yes, for the last two weeks, they kept sending him over to the specialized imaging center because they couldn't quite decipher the scans—apparently, they have much better equipment there.) Well, there is nothing left. The tumor is gone. The metastases have retreated. My dad... he doesn't have a tumor anymore! The doctor was visibly shaken; he kept re-examining him and staring at the scans, unable to believe his own eyes that the tumor could vanish in such a short window. In the end, the doctor reached out and shook my dad's hand, and I swear I saw tears in the man's eyes. And honestly, can you blame him? They had already written him off for dead. So, I suppose this falls into one of those "miracle" categories. I just wanted to tell you all: don't lose hope. You truly cannot afford to stop believing in a recovery. I have much more to say later, but for now, 🙂 just hang in there. Stay strong, stay positive (which, let's be honest, is the hardest part), and keep believing that healing is possible. 🙂

Reading a post like this is so wonderful; it provides such a sense of optimism and injects real hope into the community.
I am so incredibly happy for your dad.