562 posts shown.
Carol Sanchez2 said:Dear Katya,
I am truly pleased to hear your wonderful news. Please, just keep pressing forward; best of luck to you. Positive updates like this are genuinely welcome—they provide us all with a much-needed sense of hope. kitty thanks
Thank you. Mom sends her regards to everyone and insists we all just keep pushing through. She has always had a penchant for self-deprecating humor, so she was actually joking this morning about being completely lost in life... 🙂 But the most vital thing remains—we continue moving forward with the same level of resolve.
Angela Wright said:Yesterday, they held a formal ceremony to launch operations at Sister of Mercy Hospital👍
A significant step forward for the American healthcare system...
What truly saddens me, however, is the fact that there isn't a single dedicated oncology hospice here in the States. One can only wonder when we might finally see such a necessity fulfilled...
Carol Ramirez said:Fortunately, I am checking in this time with somewhat more positive news.
Mother’s condition is finally stabilizing; we have started her on some herbal teas and some homemade blackberry wine. My primary mission at the moment is simply trying to convince her to go for short walks to regain some strength...
As for my Grandfather, he completed two sessions of internal radiation during his first cycle. The doctors informed him that during the second cycle, they will switch to external beam radiation instead of the current method. He also underwent two laser procedures quite successfully, which managed to stop the bleeding in his lungs... since they presumably cleared the left bronchus to allow airflow again, he is breathing through the left lung once more. Naturally, there is a significant amount of mucus present because he hasn't been able to breathe properly for nearly a month, but he feels much better, sleeps more soundly, and seems far more alert and spirited...🙂 After the radiation is finished, he will return to chemotherapy, but such is the nature of the fight... 🙂
Does anyone have recommendations on how to bolster the immune system between radiation cycles? Is the approach similar to what one would do during chemo?
Sending love :*
Keep pushing forward! I truly hope you continue to share more good news like this!
stormyowl2 said:Regarding blood work results while undergoing chemotherapy, I feel compelled to share my own experience... Of course, since different illnesses require different types of treatment, chemotherapy varies wildly from case to case, but still...
Before my treatment actually began, I happened upon some article suggesting that drinking large amounts of green tea during chemo was highly recommended, specifically to combat declining white blood cell counts and to support bone marrow recovery... So, I began consuming it in such quantities that I felt as though I were practically breathing it through my pores. Yet, throughout the entire duration of my therapy, my blood counts remained remarkably healthy, almost like an infant's...
Just before my final session, I stopped drinking it entirely because even the mere scent of it made me feel nauseous. I went without it for fifteen days. On the day preceding my last treatment, I had my blood work done, and my white blood cell count was at a critical 2.8. A total crisis. I contacted my oncologist, and naturally, they postponed the treatment for seven days, hoping there would be some improvement by then. Immediately, I returned to my tea regimen, consuming four or five cups a day. Two days later, I checked my levels again. My white blood cells had risen to 6.9. One can hardly draw any other conclusion than that it actually works...
That is quite a useful piece of information to have. It seems evident that green tea is effective. My Mother only ever drank herbal mountain tea because she suffered from constipation; she never dared to try anything else... but I shall certainly pass this along to her for the future...
Thank you
stormyowl2 said:Nancy Hernandez43
Do doctors eventually turn into machines? Honestly, I wonder if they just Google all these severe illnesses... I don't know. They deliver news of a serious illness with the exact same facial expression they use for perfectly good test results. It’s as if they’re thinking, "Why are you even celebrating?" and it honestly makes my skin crawl. Don't get me wrong, that was certainly the impression they left on me. Certain emotional shifts on their faces simply aren't visible. Not everyone is like that, of course, but I'd say 99% definitely are. You expect them to offer at least a small, supportive smile, but instead, you get nothing... just a blank stare. That's just how they are.
I completely understand Mother's cold reaction, as I find myself in a very similar situation. Every three months we have follow-up appointments, and the fifteen days leading up to the lab results are filled with pure nerves regarding what might be found. I actually powered through chemotherapy, but in the most literal sense of the phrase. I kept working while undergoing treatment because I refused to take medical leave; staying active gave me strength, yet when I consider the possibility of a relapse and having to endure it all over again, I am not sure how I would cope. That is why I empathize with her reaction. Living life in three-month increments is exhausting... it requires an immense amount of mental fortitude.
I suppose... every profession develops its own mannerisms and standardized ways of interacting with others. I don't hold it against them... I was merely passing along the reaction of my family, since I am currently in 186 miles far away and won't see Mother for another five days.
Mother is much like you—just as you described in your own example—always striving to be productive at every possible opportunity. As for her job... she scaled it back to just a few hours a week, purely to maintain a daily routine so she wouldn't feel lost. What comes next will be a massive relief, however strange that may sound; while visiting the hospital every three weeks is taxing, believe me, it is even harder knowing that every nineteen days you face a 250-mile drive just to spend two or three days in a facility receiving chemotherapy. I suspect that was what wore Mother down the most, because it was quite awkward having Father drive her, especially since she needs to work given our difficult financial situation...
When things were at their worst, she didn't show fear, and I truly hope that resilience stays with her through these upcoming check-ups. In any case, I will provide updates regarding her whenever the time is right...
Warm regards to electricgardener14, and I sincerely hope her husband is able to proceed with his chemotherapy. I have experienced firsthand how draining it is to see poor blood counts. There was one occasion where Mother was turned away and couldn't receive her treatment because her neutrophil levels were far too low.
Stay strong, everyone.
crimsonmason44 said:My dear, I am just so incredibly happy for you all!! Miracles really can happen,🙂
That sentiment of yours—"Every day is filled with faith"—is exactly what needs to sustain us through these trials and anxieties...
We haven't met, but I truly cannot express the joy I feel right now upon hearing about your mother's test results, and seeing how everyone on this forum shares such news,🙂
As for my father, the results we received two weeks ago were excellent; his brain scans are clear, there are no metastases, and the issues in his lungs are receding. He is continuing with chemotherapy, with four sessions left to endure. It will likely remain difficult, but together, as a family that has grown even closer because of this illness, we shall prevail!!
I will check back in with more updates. Sending strength to all the fighters,👍 Brave !!
A short while ago, I spoke with my father, hoping he might convince me that the news was actually true. He gave me this sweet little smile, seemingly at a loss for words. I suggested he might simply be exhausted from the entire ordeal—the fight, yesterday’s trip to the clinic... but he insisted that wasn't it. Apparently, it was the doctor's reaction to the news that caught him off guard. My father was hoping to hear, "I am so glad! You have overcome something truly significant," but instead, he heard, "It's fine. We'll see you on February 14th." He remarked that the doctors here in the States can be quite clinical, almost cold, and he felt they lacked the warmth needed to brighten his day. He mentioned that Mother is also acting rather detached—she avoids discussing it and seems puzzled by our excitement, given that she still faces follow-ups every three months. I suppose one could say Mother is being distant because she is behaving like a true American... 🙂 We can only be grateful that they insist on these three-month check-ups to ensure there are no unwelcome surprises. Now, we simply need to move forward into this next chapter—finding ways to live more healthily, moving more, cutting back on smoking, reducing stress, and simply learning to cherish each passing day.
I am so pleased regarding your father; ultimately, the fact that the results are stable is wonderful news to me as well. Four rounds of chemo is no small feat, but I am certain you will navigate them with plenty of faith.
As for the routine Mother has established, she takes a spoonful of olive oil on an empty stomach every morning, eats at least one banana a day, drinks nothing but bottled water at room temperature, and makes her own fresh fruit and vegetable juices whenever she feels like it. Her only supplement is a native propolis to support her immunity, and I believe she uses Nexus. She has been taking Nexus throughout all six rounds of chemotherapy to help manage potential stomach pains.
Just as you wrote... this disease has woven our families together, and regardless of how grueling the illness may be, there is a beautiful sense in knowing you aren't facing it alone. My family has finally learned how to communicate; we have finally found a way to express genuine emotion, proving through countless instances that we are a single, unbreakable link that misfortune cannot sever!
WE KEEP MOVING FORWARD! THE FIGHT CONTINUES... kisses
shadowheron4 said:Dear Katherine, first, I must tell you how incredibly relieved I am for you and your entire family. Thank God there are still instances where everything seems hopeless, only for it to turn out beautifully in the end... let's hope it stays that way. Thank you for sharing this with us; you have provided a sense of renewed hope and a bit of extra courage to us all. Sending love and thanks.👍
I felt compelled to share this, even though it is a heavy realization that I cannot bring this same news to everyone regarding their own loved ones...
Brave !! ...love
Linda Campbell said:I was reading your post from the previous page and I couldn't help but smile; I am truly happy to hear that you are all doing well and that your Mother is recovering... it is a relief when at least one of us experiences something positive, or manages to finally stand tall against such a relentless illness. Truly, it warms my heart. God bless you all.
Regarding the talk of yeast, raisins, and corn kernels during chemotherapy—I actually remember posting about those very things back when my dear Mother was undergoing her treatment. It was suggested to her by a woman from Canada, following the advice of doctors there who were fully aware that neither the hospital nor the patients had the necessary funds for expensive medications... so they simply advised people to utilize whatever might offer support from home. It genuinely helped my Mother. It brings me a certain quiet satisfaction to know that even a small suggestion like that might have aided someone facing such a heavy burden. My best to you all.
I wasn't entirely certain if I had originally read that advice from you, but please believe me when I say you helped us... we are still passing that advice along to this day. My Mother thinks of it every single day... and whenever she feels her strength flagging, she quickly reaches for some yogurt, stirs in the yeast, and adds the raisins—she calls it her "magic cocktail"...
Regrettably, cancer remains a disease with an unpredictable outcome. Today is a beautiful day, filled with wonderful emotions of joy, primarily because of the people who shared in this happiness by reaching out with such lovely news. What matters most is that our faith never wavered, and that we have found a way to pull our little family closer together, learning to appreciate one another more deeply... ensuring nothing can shake our foundation.
By tomorrow morning, the initial rush of happiness will likely settle, replaced perhaps by a sense of disbelief. I won't see Mother for another five days... at which point I shall embrace her, kiss her, and see the reality of it all with my own eyes.
I shall continue to follow this forum faithfully, alongside all of you who have provided me with so much strength and conviction... I hope that one day soon, I too might be able to assist someone else with a meaningful piece of advice.
Stay strong... and move forward Brave !! ...for life is a teacher that instructs us that it is worth being stronger for the sake of our loved ones, pushing onward despite whatever deficiencies may find us.
Angela Wright said:Dear, reading this really moved me to tears, especially today when it feels like my own mother is losing her breath...
...this entire thread is part of my personal battle against this cursed illness, and seeing how those efforts are bearing fruit for your mother gives me hope...
Thank you for sharing this and offering such comfort today; through your words, I feel the grace of God...😘
Thank you for being here for all of us..
I truly have nothing else to say except that both you and your mother are in my thoughts, and I can only hope that strength continues to find you in your struggle.
"We" are turning a new page, and we stand ready to answer every single question that comes our way. Perhaps it is finally time to launch some sort of "real-world" initiative to support families in need.
Keep your faith and continue exactly as you have learned—with steadfastness and courage!
kiss
Angela Wright said:No, she actually just rolled her eyes because she likely assumed we were colleagues... it happened to me quite often at the hospital where people would address me as "colleague," presumably because I am reasonably proficient with medical terminology😍 once a head nurse even tried to lecture me after I called her out for giving my mother the wrong concentration of Mannitol compared to what was written on the chart, despite the fact that I am either in med school or already in my residency😂, though my actual degree is in fashion design😁. It felt more like she was implying I should know better, as if we were simply throwing money down the drain...
I find their arrogance entirely predictable (bless the few exceptions, may God bless them), but I have learned that the best approach is to hold your ground and perhaps even pretend you are a neurosurgeon👍. Generally speaking, that is how I managed to secure exactly what my mother needed while navigating various hospitals...
My father is a civil engineer, yet from day one, he has maintained his own separate logbook and a binder filled with copies of every lab result, specialist opinion, and everything else Mom and the doctors have gone through. It becomes rather comical when he visits a doctor and begins explaining, using highly technical jargon, what is actually required for my mother's care... but the reality remains that you get exactly what you demand of the situation...
Recently, my mother had blood drawn and the nurse made a mistake that damaged the vein. An immediate hematoma formed on her arm, and my father raised his voice, insisting they be more careful and noting that even he wouldn't make such a blunder...🙂
Angela Wright said:Well, there’s a bit of everything out there...🙄 My own experiences have been largely disappointing, particularly when dealing with specialists.
While Aloe is viewed by mainstream medicine as just another supplement, much like native propolis, she was once administered something via injection, which simply prevents it from being categorized as a mere dietary supplement in the eyes of ophthalmology. One can only imagine the fallout when she was acting so erratically regarding the native propolis...
🙄 Before my mother started her first round of chemotherapy, they brought her some Aloe preparations, and she actually showed them to her doctor to get his take. He flatly refused to let her take them, fearing they might interfere with how her body reacted to the chemo. When she pressed him on his reasoning, he explained that the human body functions much like a computer—if you try running too many different antivirus programs at once, they end up crashing into one another...
Everyone seems to have their own little theory...🤷
My dear forum members... especially Ivanicapecatyou,
my family and I have endured a turbulent six months—a period defined by tears, laughter, anxiety, and the heavy reality of what happens when an entire household is forced to confront cancer...
When I first sought out this forum, it was because I found absolutely no support, understanding, or most importantly, practical help within my own circles. To be honest, I am still unsure who has carried a heavier burden through all of this—my mother or the rest of us...🤷 It is truly distressing that psychological support wasn't provided to us, as we are only now realizing the profound impact it had on our mental state. It is equally unsettling how little information one can actually obtain from our healthcare system regarding medications, co-pays, treatment protocols, costs, and similar matters...
On April 27th of this year, Mom was discharged from the hospital to home care with instructions to return for a follow-up in four days once her test results were finalized. Even then, markers and deformed ovarian cells had already been identified. After a month of suffering, biopsies, and indications that ovarian cancer was the culprit, they simply sent her home for recovery?!?!?!? I will never quite wrap my head around that decision...
My father refused to wait for those potential results. He has dealt with cancer multiple times before—he survived twice, his father passed away from lung cancer, my grandmother survived breast cancer, and Mom had previously battled uterine cancer. Within ten days, he made the decision to take her to Aviano to seek specialized care. On the very day the appointment was scheduled, the results were ready. Their staging scale ranges from 1 to 4, subdivided into four parts (a, b, c, d). They diagnosed Mom with stage 3c (with 4d being the highest), and she was on the operating table the very next day. Aware of our precarious financial situation, there was no question that we wanted everything done at this specific facility because they acted immediately. Today, one can only wonder how much longer our local doctors would have waited for that surgery to happen...
The surgery lasted six hours, which felt like the longest day of our lives, followed by days filled with constant dread. Mom couldn't stand or walk, couldn't eat, and couldn't even speak; my father was the only one by her side, as she adamantly refused visits from the rest of us. Despite the shock and the language barrier, Dad managed to navigate things; he bought her a compression garment that eased her pain and helped her find the strength to take a step each day (she still wears it today). I cannot begin to imagine what those first few weeks were like for him. When my brother saw her for the first time, he thought there was no hope left, and unfortunately, she felt that way too. She went into her first round of chemotherapy in fear, yet she emerged from it stronger than ever. Seeing other patients struggling with nausea and agonizing pain while she felt relatively fine gave her a strange sense of resilience. The doctors gave her strict orders on what she could and couldn't do, but she wouldn't be told how to live if she felt up to walking that day. As summer approached, the ocean became our sanctuary. At home, without air conditioning, it was unbearable, especially for someone who was required to stay indoors. We would unwind in the evenings with a swim, and the days seemed to pass quickly. However, after the third chemo session, her blood work began to show troubling signs. We spent twenty-four hours straight moving between different labs; it was exhausting to watch her being poked for the fourth time in a single day. She missed one session, which disrupted her cycle, leading them to adjust her interval from 21 days to 28 days between treatments. It was evident she was weakening, both physically and mentally, though she would never admit it herself...
About a month and a half ago, my father visited me and told me he was sorry, but he felt we were losing the battle because Mom’s condition was deteriorating and she was running out of strength; unfortunately, I felt it too. Those were the days when she could barely manage a coherent sentence. When she told me herself that her aunt had also been diagnosed with ovarian cancer, I felt as though it might break her completely. She went for her fifth chemo and returned worse than ever... physically frail, her face reflecting her misery, even as she denied it. Twenty days ago, she completed her final chemo, and we are left not knowing what to expect. When she arrived back at Aviano, the doctor simply stated that we are facing a six-month struggle to buy her more time...
Today, after six months of searching, they finally found no traces of cancer; all the results came back perfectly clear, and our battle is officially over... I just felt compelled to share this moment with all of you who follow my journey and read what I have to say. My family is still traveling through Aviano, and I am simply counting down the hours until they arrive home so I can call them and hear those words for myself. Honestly, some of your advice and posts were so helpful that I passed them along to my mother, and she wanted to express her own gratitude to you all! When we first faced that terrifying drop in neutrophils and white blood cell counts... I remember reading a suggestion somewhere about yeast and raisins, and today, whenever someone asks how to boost those levels, she immediately replies, "My little girl read about it on an online forum."
I don't know enough about the specifics of treatments or medications to offer any high-quality medical advice here, but once Mom is feeling a bit more herself, I will try to get her active on this forum. In the meantime, we are continuing to take those same "small" steps toward maintaining our health.
Please stay strong and keep believing, no matter how unbelievable it might seem. When I shared this news with a friend earlier today, he asked me, "If anyone had told you a month ago that you would be hearing this today, would you have believed them?"... I simply answered, "My days are defined by faith."
I feel your support every single moment, and THANK YOU ALL!!!
Katja
Karen Fox36 said:Hello,
I haven't posted here in quite a while, as my days have become increasingly consumed by endless obligations. It has finally been confirmed that my mother is facing a Grade IV glioblastoma 😢, but I simply cannot afford the luxury of weeping; I intend to direct every ounce of my strength toward fighting this disease. I find myself in need of a small amount of assistance. We have acquired Iscador injections, specifically the 0.1 and 2 doses, though we have yet to begin administration because the instructions are written in German, and my proficiency is limited to English🙄 Could anyone perhaps offer some guidance on how to administer these to her?? I would be immensely grateful. On a side note, my aunt is arriving from the UK soon, and she will be bringing a large assortment of supplements she sourced from various pharmacies there—things like pineapple root extracts, shark cartilage, CoQ10, certain oils, and so on
Please, do not even attempt to search for time to grieve... instead, find the time to cultivate strength and courage, acting with the bravery you know you possess.
I am unable to offer specific advice regarding the injections. I recall how much my father struggled with them... my mother dealt with significant bruising during the initial stages...
Stay strong, kisses
Angela Wright said:Because life itself is born from suffering. Existence, by its very nature, is an exercise in pain. We are forced into a constant struggle, enduring hardship just to sustain ourselves. We have to force ourselves through school when we lack motivation, or drag ourselves to work while sick... starting with those tiny, mundane inconveniences. We stub our toes and bleed. Human beings are fragile, sensitive creatures prone to all manner of aches. Yet, we have been granted the capacity to adapt and rise above it all. Suffering isn't inherently negative, because it serves as our catalyst for growth; it elevates our intellect and provides enlightenment. Out of suffering, something good can emerge. A mother endures the agony of childbirth, but once the child is born, that joy momentarily eclipsse and diminishes the memory of the pain...
Suffering is an inescapable part of the human condition, and every individual’s grief is the most profound to them, regardless of how much more others might seem to be struggling. It is futile to ask "why must we suffer," for it is woven into the fabric of existence—an answer we are still searching for...
I stumbled upon this on a forum late last night:
Do you remember exactly what you were doing at the precise moment you were told a loved one was gone? You likely know quite clearly. You probably even recall the trivial, insignificant details of that frozen moment in time—whether the sun was shining or if it was raining, perhaps a sock had slipped down inside your shoe, or a certain song was playing on the radio that you will never forget, or even the fact that the scent of freshly popped popcorn at a movie theater will never trigger a happy memory again...
Indeed, my friends. We have all experienced this; it is merely the way we choose to process it and carry on. For a human being, the death of a loved one is arguably the greatest trauma one can face, a wound that does not fade with time, but rather something we simply learn to live alongside...
Personally, I shall never forget the exact hour and minute I learned that my beloved and deeply missed sister-in-law was no longer with us. It wasn't just the overwhelming wave of sorrow that suffocates you in that instant; the circumstances of her passing were exceptionally cruel. She didn't succumb to a terminal illness that forces you to contemplate mortality, nor was it a sudden car accident... unfortunately, she was murdered at only twenty-five years old by the senseless, selfish hand of an ex-boyfriend who could not handle a breakup, taking her life with a gunshot in a local shopping mall.
The first question that inevitably echoes through your mind amidst the shock and disbelief is the unavoidable one: WHY? And that "WHY" haunts you relentlessly, creeping in when you least expect it, accompanied by that familiar, sickening ache as you find yourself asking for the thousandth time: God, why?...
You replay the film in your head over and over, wondering if there was something you could have said, done, or altered to prevent it—thinking that if you had just tried harder or been less preoccupied with your own life, this wouldn't have happened... when the harsh reality is that you likely could have changed nothing at all...
It takes a long time to reach that realization. Before then, you cycle through denial, numbness, a temporary retreat into old habits, and burying yourself in work just to keep the thoughts at bay. And then, the grief arrives... not the initial, frantic, hysterical kind, but something more persistent and insidious. You must mourn the loss of a loved one fully if you ever hope to function again...
There is no recipe. There is no magic formula, no specific number of tears to shed, no particular set of words or memories to recite that will suddenly make the weight lift from your heart. There are no masses to attend, no prayers to mutter, no candles to light or flowers to buy that will simply allow you to let go...
So, what is actually left for us then? It is quite simple—love remains.
Once you have stripped away all those superficial layers of grief, and once enough time has passed for you to finally be ready, nothing remains but pure, raw, unadulterated LOVE.
Perhaps "the energy of love" is a more fitting description—an essence you simply cannot bury or incinerate along with the body, because it stays with you forever. You will find that you still see it and feel it five, ten, or even twenty years down the line, as it refuses to respect our human limitations of time. Whether you are a person of faith or not, it ultimately amounts to the same thing: you loved this person, and now they are gone. Eventually, you reach a state where you can recount your shared memories with a smile rather than a sob, feeling blessed for having experienced them at all instead of merely mourning the loss. And sometimes, just occasionally, when you find yourself alone and close your eyes, you might feel as though that loved one is almost physically present beside you, brushing away your tears with an invisible hand and whispering... I will always be here because I love you.
In the school of suffering, one learns the greatest wisdom. (Aeschylus)
Angela Wright said:Dear, you truly are strong. Everything you are feeling right now is perfectly valid, healthy, and natural. This grief you're experiencing is a necessary process; you are likely approaching its peak, after which things will steadily improve... Life simply moves forward, carrying us through these waves, and eventually, you will find the strength to let your father truly rest within you. He will live on in your memories until you meet again.
Allow yourself to let this sorrow pour out. It will bring you a profound sense of peace, and eventually, you will look back on your father with a smile. Try to reflect on the quality of the life he led, rather than merely its duration. For me, this perspective brings great solace and helps me accept my mother's illness more easily. She had a beautiful life, filled with the love of family and friends, full of joy, and she was never forced to walk through her grief alone. I have started shifting my mindset from asking "why her?" to wondering "why not her?"... she was a human being, and such things simply happen to people. If it hadn't been her, perhaps it would have been another woman with a small child and no family support or love. You know, I actually discovered God's mercy through these very moments. We all have to leave this world eventually...
My grandmother raised me until I was six. I only saw my parents every other weekend because they were working in New York City while I stayed with my grandparents on Main St. My grandmother was like a second mother to me, and I would travel to be with her every chance I got during school breaks. She passed away practically in my arms. It was difficult to process at the time, but everything unfolded much like I described above. There are many times when I recall an old anecdote about those we've lost and find myself laughing...
Truly, is it possible for the departed to make us laugh?😉
😘 take care
What a beautifully written sentiment. You are so sincere, and I admire your ability to express yourself so clearly.
I was also raised by my grandmother because my parents were always working. I don't regret it one bit, as the person I am today is entirely due to her influence. My grandmother has been battling Alzheimer's for seven years now, and it is incredibly difficult to watch her struggle, knowing none of us can truly help her... However, when we all manage to gather—which, unfortunately, is rare—we still find ways to joke with her, and even though she may not understand us, she still smiles.
It happens quite regularly that after a funeral, the family gathers and trades stories about the deceased. Laughter erupts, almost as if it's our way of fighting back against excessive mourning. When my grandfather passed away... there was so much laughter because we kept remembering all his wild plans and the ways he fulfilled them, which truly completed our lives... my grandmother began to weep, asking how we could possibly laugh and saying she just wanted one day of peace.
And I am glad to hear there are others who view life as a school—one where we walk through with as few tears as possible, gaining lessons and finding joy in each passing day.
I realized I forgot to mention in a previous post how glad I am that you managed to catch a little sunshine over the weekend and clear your head... because everyone needs that from time to time!
Hang in there!
To all the fighters—let's keep moving forward! Stay persistent, stay firm, and find enough strength to smile every single day... even when we have no idea what tomorrow holds!
kiss
Michael Hayes3 said:Hello, everyone.
I stumbled upon this forum quite by accident and decided to register, hoping to share some personal experiences that might prove useful to others... My late father battled two different types of cancer—I assume you are all aware there are roughly three main varieties—and unfortunately, he ultimately succumbed to lung cancer, which was a third type entirely unrelated to the first two
meaning they were not metastases from his previous struggles.
He managed to overcome the first two through surgery alone, without the need for radiation or chemotherapy (the first being bladder cancer and the second involving the large intestine), but when it came to the third, neither chemo nor radiation offered any relief. It is true that there were brief periods where he seemed to improve slightly, but...
I am uncertain if anyone here has heard of Professor Spartak Hadjiev from Bulgaria and
his HD 88 treatment www.spartakhadjiev.com.
It may be worth looking into; following my father's colon surgery, I actually traveled to Bulgaria specifically to purchase that medication, as I had previously heard whispers regarding its efficacy.
The surgeon at the new hospital who operated on my father mentioned to me that several of his patients are currently using that specific treatment and report feeling quite well, suggesting it has a positive impact.
One physician at the tumor institute in Washington, D.C., when I inquired whether she had any knowledge of this treatment, dismissed it outright as nonsense, arguing that mainstream medicine cannot classify something as a cure if only two or three patients out of fifteen have been successfully treated...
Can you imagine such a narrow mindset?!!!
Regrettably, my father did not fall into that small percentage of those cured, though to be perfectly honest, he failed to strictly follow the medical instructions provided to him—he continued smoking until his very last day, but then again...
Perhaps you should also consider herbalists, as a nurse I spoke with near Jordanovac swore to me that a patient, whom the doctors had already written off, returned for a check-up after six months with incredibly positive results, despite clinical expectations that she would have passed away long ago.
I have the contact information for that herbalist, so if anyone is interested, please reach out to me privately.
Best regards to all, and stay strong.
I am truly sorry to hear about your father's passing...
Cancer is such a deceptive disease that one can never truly know what to expect. Every patient is an individual case, and it is worth fighting in every possible way.
We are currently treating my mother with modern medical treatments, and we are seeing good progress for now. We haven't felt the need to turn to herbal remedies yet, but if that necessity arises, we will certainly reach out to you.
Regards, kiss
Elizabeth Collins60 said:Greetings to all the warriors out there...
I want to offer my sincere gratitude for the compassion I find here; I read your words with a heavy heart, feeling as though I am standing right beside you through it all, but my recent workload has been so relentless that... I find myself fleeing from the grief and the pain that grips me, which feels increasingly unbearable with each passing day... that initial surge of adrenaline has faded, and while we somehow managed to endure those early stages, it is becoming harder and harder to cope now, and I cannot say if this progression is normal... it is as if I am only just beginning to truly grasp his absence, and... I catch myself mid-sentence, intending to tell him something, only to be met with... that sudden, crushing realization... that he is never coming back... and the words simply fail me when I try to accept he is gone... and then there is that senseless question of why it had to be him... I never once asked that during his illness, nor did I waste any energy on such thoughts... but now, I feel a simmering anger at why he had to fall ill and why he had to leave us behind... there are no words in the English language sufficient to describe this state of being... I feel as though I may never truly accept the reality of his departure, which is why, as you can see, I struggle even to utter the word "died"...
Thank you all for existing, and to those who initiated this space... I find myself sharing my most intimate reflections with you... it feels as though you are the only ones who truly understand... to the rest of the world, I maintain a facade of strength... everyone remarks on how well I am handling everything... yet, in truth, I spend my days drowning in tears and waking up amidst them...
One might consider themselves a strong person if they choose to hide their tears from society... I understand the internal fracturing that occurs when one is alone and that supposed strength momentarily fails... these questions are perfectly natural, as is the growing sense of disbelief... losing someone so close creates a void so vast it defies description... It will take a significant amount of time before you can reconcile with the fact that this was meant to be... for it seems his path was written in the stars, and no soul or circumstance could ever fill the space he occupied in your heart and mind. You will always carry HIM as a guiding light through your life...
Time will eventually pass, and there will come a morning where you wake with a smile, because you will finally be ready to begin the day with the thought: I had a father who loved me, and whom I continue to love. Remain steadfast, and be kind to others and to yourself... kiss
Angela Wright said:I finally made it back last night. The weather was actually quite lovely and warm—so much so that we didn't even bother with jackets and spent most of our time walking around in short sleeves under the sun. We only caught a bit of a chill on that first day...
My dad really stepped up. He managed to find some freelance work through a former nursing supervisor ($13 hours), which helps out people who need an extra hand from time to time; she’s such a sweetheart, and we actually met her before my mom fell ill because she used to care for my dad's late aunt. Now that the aunt is moving into an assisted living facility, she stopped by to check on us and help my mom with bathing, changing, and getting her settled into bed...
He even managed to clear out those cluttered closets full of old clothes. If Mom were feeling any better, she probably would have given him a rare compliment, as she isn't exactly known for handing out praise like that😍
All in all, a very successful trip...👍
It truly is remarkable how we can find strength in ourselves precisely when we believe we have none left. I am honestly surprised by how well Dad is managing everything with Mom. He is handling all the tasks he used to resist, and he does it without a single complaint. It is just unconditional love... hang in there! sending love
briskbison27 said:There really isn't any cause for alarm regarding values that sit so close to the margin they might as well be considered mere laboratory fluctuations. An ALP of 62 when the standard range is 64 to 153 is quite frankly a normal result...
Since she has managed to push through this far so successfully, Mom now needs everyone's help to overcome the fear of what has passed and what is yet to come. That would be the best course of action for her...
Keeping my fingers crossed for you 👍!
Thank you truly for such sincere and resilient words. We are scheduled to receive a professional opinion from the doctor tomorrow morning. The only real fear is that in five days, Mom will find herself back in the hospital undergoing more tests. Still, I am certain we will navigate that too...
We have been by her side around the clock, providing support, assisting her... and that is exactly how it ought to be. Unfortunately, being with her has taught me just how deceptive appearances can be. Ten days ago, when I was last home, she seemed on the verge of breaking—stunned and utterly exhausted. Over the phone, her absence and fear were palpable; she could barely even speak. Today, she seems mentally stronger, making an effort to converse, though the issue is that she mentions her pain and potential complications less and less. While she worries about how much longer she must endure all of this, we naturally worry as well: what is she keeping from us? Our struggle continues... thank you.
Carol Ramirez said:I found this incredibly helpful PDF document that outlines various lab tests alongside their standard reference ranges...
It was quite a relief for me when I found myself struggling to decipher what specific markers actually meant or what should be considered a normal result.
:*
Thank you so much! I just downloaded it... I think I'll print it out for my father so he can try to make sense of things himself. We sent the results over to a specialist for an opinion, but since we won't hear anything until Monday, I'm left digging through the internet trying to find some clarity on my own.
Take care,