Posts by Eric Newman75

Jack Diaz4 said:Can you tell me a bit more about how the transportation works and how the association operates?

It’s actually a joint project with Yellow Cab. Basically, drivers who signed up are volunteering their time to drive women who are struggling financially or physically to their chemo and radiation appointments. That was the original setup, but things are shifting a bit now because word has gotten out—so many people know about them. It seems like anyone who can't make it to the hospital on their own reaches out. Ivana Kalogjera is the head of the association; she's super easy to find on Facebook. She's really friendly and down-to-earth, so just reach out and she'll walk you through everything. Good luck! 🙂

Jack Diaz4 said:The radiation is targeting the left side of the neck and starting on the left side of the chest too (my left side), though according to the PET-CT results, specifically speaking, it's the anterior mediastinum and more caudally to the right.

If you haven't already, quit smoking—and I mean at least a month before you start radiotherapy. Smoking and radiation? They just don't mix. Boost your immune system. Eat as much fruit and veg as possible, ideally raw, and grab some B-complex, magnesium, or calcium supplements... you know, the stuff for bone health. Get out there, walk, get some fresh air, exercise. Prepare your body, prepare your mind. You’re going to feel weak; you'll deal with nausea, dizziness, and that burning sensation. Think about your transportation situation ahead of time; you can actually reach out to the Not Alone association, they provide rides for guys too. 😁

As for the therapy itself, it's quick and painless. Before that, you'll go in for "mapping," where the technicians use colored markers on your skin to map out the machine's path. They'll get you positioned comfortably, and you just have to replicate that exact spot when you show up for the first treatment. If those markings rub off in the meantime—whether from showering or just friction—they'll redo them; it has to be incredibly precise. Radiation can be targeted to a specific point, like a lymph node, or it can be local, covering the entire surface of the neck. Since they gave you 15 sessions, I'm guessing this is adjuvant radiation following surgery. If you've already been through the ENT department at KZT, I know what you've endured, so everything after this will feel like a breeze. 🙂

Jack Diaz4 said:Hey everyone following this thread. I'm heading in for radiation soon—they’re doing 15 sessions—so if anyone could share their experience or stories about someone close to them going through radiation, I'd appreciate it. Mainly curious about side effects, how you interact with the staff during treatment, and what the whole process is actually like.

Which part of the body are we talking about? A linear accelerator isn't going to leave you radioactive so that you're a danger to everyone around you, but there are other devices that are surgically implanted which *are* radioactive.

Robin Diaz4 said:Regarding turning down treatment (whether it's radiation or chemo), I honestly don't know what I would do if I were in that position. My father went through chemo; for a while, he handled it pretty well, but then his blood counts just completely tanked to the point where nothing helped anymore. Would things have been different if he'd refused the chemo? We'll never know. All in all, it was the chemo that finally finished him off, not the cancer, which had already metastasized everywhere.

Both chemotherapy and radiation can trigger secondary cancers. Chemo can cause irreversible damage to the heart and liver, and radiation permanently damages whatever organs are caught in the crossfire—anything from the thyroid to the bladder. The mouth and brain are particularly tricky because those areas are so complex and the impact on your quality of life is massive. But look, everyone hopes they can get through it with minimal fallout because every body reacts differently. When you hear about a woman whose heart was damaged by chemo and now she has to live with a pacemaker, hearing that it "only happens once in a million cases" doesn't mean much to her. It happened to *her*. How is she supposed to move forward? Same goes for people who act like losing their hair is the end of the world when they're terrified of chemo. Seriously? It's just hair—it grows back!

There are no rules here. I know a woman who hasn't spoken to her doctor in years—he was a close friend who recommended head and neck radiation. She just can't deal with the aftermath, and honestly, I don't blame her. What's the point of living if every single second is pure agony? That doesn't mean I'm blaming doctors or telling people to skip treatment. I'm trying to understand both sides: those who want to fight through the whole procedure and those who choose to walk away. If you actually have a shot at being cured, don't gamble with your life; listen to the professionals. I'm all for taking risks, but it has to be a rational decision based on science and real-world data, not just fear or listening to old wives' tales about miracle cures. 🙂

Austin Harris71 said:But honestly, I’m still a bit lost... if I have Type Ad, does that mean surgery is a must, or am I off the hook?

"Type Ad tympanogram – this occurs when the peak of the curve exceeds normal values. Essentially, the middle ear structures are overly mobile, showing high compliance with low impedance. This typically happens when the eardrum is extra flexible or perhaps thinned out due to atrophy, or sometimes because of an issue with how the ossicles are aligned, even though middle ear pressure remains normal."

According to the American site WebMD.

Did your doctor even give you a straight answer?

Sarah King25 said:Every three months they do a chest X-ray to monitor how those lesions are doing.
For me, this whole thing feels like waiting for an inevitable crash, and watching him just "ignore" it all is incredibly hard to stomach.

Those are brutal decisions to make, both for the patient and their family. Sooner or later, everyone hits that stage where you have to ask yourself if all this suffering is actually worth it. Take oral cancers, for example—they’re terrifying because they’re dangerous, painful, and physically disfiguring. Living without a tongue or a larynx means you can’t speak, can’t eat, can’t swallow... You’re stuck with a feeding tube where they just syringe food into you. And that’s just the surgery part. Radiating such a sensitive area packed with nerves basically turns your mouth into a graveyard; we're talking tissue and vessel necrosis, constant infections, wounds from burned-out salivary glands, jaw muscles dying off, and bone decay that makes any dental work impossible and life-threatening. How do you even live with that? How?

I turned down the therapy—both types. Chemo is usually adjuvant, while radiation is the primary move here. Even though everyone was against me—doctors, family, everybody—I just couldn't bring myself to lie under a linear accelerator. Sure, the cancer was massive; sure, by standard protocols, they should have dropped an atomic bomb on me to wipe out the risk entirely—but I didn't have metastases in my neck, and that was the deciding factor for me. I fought the medical board's decision tooth and nail.

In the end, my surgeon—a total wizard with a scalpel—gave me a hug and said, "I respect that you're smart enough to think for yourself. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't do the radiation either; there's more harm than good in this case."

It felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest; up until then, I felt like I was being crucified. And look, I wasn't playing games with my life; I studied everything carefully. I wanted them to see me as a unique case, not just some statistic in a textbook. I have endless respect for that medical board; I know they're a collective brain trust and nobody alive knows more about cancer than they do. But it's easy to talk big when it isn't your skin on the line—this is my fight, and I'm the one making the calls.

Just to be clear, I’m not telling anyone else to go head-to-head with a medical board. I just want people to understand that with cancer, nothing is black and white or set in stone. If there had been metastasis, there wouldn't be any debate; I would have let them cut me out if that's what it took. 😁

My deepest condolences. To you, and to everyone else here. Honestly, I usually try to avoid commenting on posts like this because they just mess with my head for days afterward.

I'm so sorry.

quietpilot87 said:Just a quick heads-up—cancer treatment has actually come a long way for the better over the last decade or so.

For sure. Honestly, I don't think I'm wrong when I say that Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center is an elite institution with a top-tier staff. The doctors are incredibly skilled and genuinely invested, and the nurses? They’re patient, empathetic, and just... there for you. If anyone has had a different experience, I haven't seen it; everything I've witnessed has been nothing short of amazing. 🙂 They handle the toughest cases with such calm and grace, and they never, ever give up on a patient. My roommates were both in their seventies and eighties, dealing with squamous cell carcinoma of the tongue, and the staff truly goes above and beyond their job descriptions. They're wonderful. 🙂

Don't get me wrong, I have my gripes too. The organization could definitely be tightened up, but the sheer heart and dedication these people pour into their work makes it easy to forgive the hiccups. 🙏

Angela Wright said:Talking about Jane really brings Dan back to mind. She used to post in this thread during the first part of this whole ordeal. We met through here. She was honestly incredible. She was battling ovarian cancer and actually hit remission. But then, ten years down the line, she developed a new tumor in her bladder—just a direct consequence of the radiation treatment. She was such a target for illness, you know? Half her uterus gone, living with a stoma, weighing maybe 90 pounds... yet there she was, driving around in her car to visit people who were less sick than her just to lift their spirits. She was absolutely wild, just bursting with life and totally fearless. Her biggest worry? How her husband was going to handle the mortgage after she passed. She’d badger me to vent about my own relationship drama, giving me advice while I’d end up feeling like a complete jerk afterward because, in the middle of our chats, I’d totally forget how sick she actually was. It felt so stupid to be whining about my petty little problems to her... but then I’d call her to unload again, and she’d just laugh it off. Because, hey, we're alive, and this stuff happens to people. Then, out of nowhere, she was just gone. Her blood counts just bottomed out overnight...

Angela, you are such a kind, wonderful person. Please, don't you dare feel guilty or weak for a single second. You helped her too, just in a different way. We all have this fundamental need to feel "normal"—to talk about everyday, mundane things in a world that feels completely insane. Because let's face it: it isn't normal to be deathly ill. It isn't normal to watch your family fall apart in tears. It isn't normal to be physically altered to the point where you barely recognize yourself. It isn't normal having to relearn how to swallow, how to eat, or even how to speak. And it certainly isn't normal to wait five agonizing years just for them to declare "remission," especially when you know deep down that those five years are mostly just paperwork and nobody in the universe can actually guarantee anything.

Honestly, I live for those conversations that have absolutely nothing to do with hospitals. I love them. They pull me back into real life. They give me that sense that everything still makes sense, that the world is still intact, and that things might actually turn out okay.

Right here is a story about an incredibly brave, kindhearted, and selfless woman. Give this a read—it’ll help anyone fighting this or their families too. I’ve sat down and talked with her several times, especially regarding how we treat cancer patients. It isn't just about the hospitals; the real issue is our society. People still act like we're stuck in the eighties, back when you basically never walked out of the Mayo Clinic alive.

Don't you dare lose hope. Not ever. Medicine has come such a long way since then. Sure, maybe there isn't a cure right now for all 200-plus types of tumors—maybe there never will be—but cancer isn't a death sentence, especially if you catch it early. So much can be fixed, but you have to trust your doctors. More importantly? You have to trust yourself. Every single person is unique; every case is its own thing. That’s why Jane says you have to get your head in the right place first. Willpower is a hell of a thing. I always say there isn't a force in the entire universe stronger than a focused human mind. That's why I don't dwell on statistics—I know them all by heart, they just weigh you down. I don't think about the consequences; they're gruesome. When you're dealing with carcinoma, there are no "win-win" scenarios. They're all "lose-lose": either they cut something off that you're going to miss terribly, or they wreck you with radiation and toxins. I push those thoughts away the second they surface. My one mantra is that this piece of crap isn't going to kill me. So what if it comes back for everyone else? There's no theory saying it’s coming back for me. I’m going to be the exception; they'll write books about it. When I hit a hundred, they'll have to hit me with a shovel to get me to go—I'm not going anywhere! 😁

Angela Wright said:When it comes to friends and family—situations like this act as the ultimate life filter. It’s actually one of those silver linings that comes packaged with these kinds of hardships. You learn exactly who people are and what you can realistically expect from them. People you thought were your inner circle will catch you off guard, while the ones you least expected might be the very ones who step up.

Spot on. Except when you're dealing with cancer, that filter becomes a hundred times more precise—and a hell of a lot crueler—than in almost any other crisis. Most people just vanish; they avoid you like you're some kind of contagion. But then, out of nowhere, certain people show up whom you never would have expected to help. Honestly, sometimes it's total strangers who leave you speechless. And you find yourself wanting to pay it forward because you feel this overwhelming need to repay God, Space, or Fate. You'll hop in your car and go visit someone you barely know, just because you heard they're back in the hospital waiting for surgery. You can't really explain it to yourself or anyone else, and honestly, you don't even want to. You just act on what feels right. And in that moment, you feel free—maybe for the first time in your life. Because you finally see what matters. It isn't about the unimaginable horror or the suffering you've endured. It's about the fact that despite all that, you can still feel love, compassion, closeness, happiness... a deep respect for another human being and for life itself.

It’s hard to explain that to someone who hasn't been pushed to the absolute edge. To someone who hasn't stood right at the precipice. To someone who hasn't let that abyss stare deep into their soul. But there is something incredibly cathartic about it. It’s liberating.

Angela Foster4 said:Her life—I see it every single day—is turning into everything she feared most: being completely helpless. Our relationship has shifted so much, and not for the better. In movies, you usually see people pull closer together during times like this, but we’ve just drifted apart.

She’s retreated into herself; she's become so negative and listless. Meanwhile, I’m over here fighting my own demons, dealing with anxiety and all these racing thoughts about the future, while she’s battling cancer that's slowly eating her away. No matter how hard I try to be there for her in every way I know how, she isn't satisfied with me, and all those things we used to talk about? They've just dried up. I don't blame her, though. She’s suffering every day. She can barely walk. Her skin hangs off her because of how much weight she's lost in just two months. She deals with agonizing pain and nausea. Some days are so brutal she just spends the entire time stuck in bed.

The mother didn't just change, grow cold, or distance herself from you. She stays quiet to protect you. She stays silent because nobody else can truly get it. She keeps it in so it doesn't erupt out of her like an avalanche. And there is so much inside her that you couldn't even begin to imagine. Fear, worry, pain, guilt, resentment, rage, loneliness, disappointment, depression, grief, apathy... From sunrise to sunset, it's like riding a psychotic roller coaster where you can't catch your breath for even a second. You're terrified of dying. You're terrified of dying in agony. You're scared of surgery leaving you disfigured. You're scared of radiation. You're scared of chemo. You're scared for your family. You're scared of being a burden. You're scared of being a coward. Screw anyone who told you that you should just "stay positive," as if you can just flip a switch on that. Screw anyone who judged you for it. Screw yourself for feeling like maybe everything is your fault. Screw cancer—you'll show it who's boss. Screw everyone who wrote you off or gave up on you. And screw this pain that throbs and flashes in your head so hard you can't think or focus. But you have to, because you know you have to—because everything depends on you. As long as there's breath in your lungs, there's hope. You won't, you *can't* give up. You grit your teeth. And you fight, even if it's the last thing you ever do.

I could go on like this for days—and that would honestly only be two percent of it. That's why I recommend a professional; someone to talk to, both her and you. For her, so she can realize that "I am human, and nothing human is alien to me"—that someone else has walked this path before, through all the highs and the lows. There have been the bravest men on earth and men who tremble at their own shadows. It's natural, it's universal. I once had to comfort a guy who was six-foot-four and 260 pounds who was sobbing like a child. And people had to comfort me when my throat tightened so hard from fear I couldn't squeeze out a single word the night before an eight-hour surgery. But for you, you need a therapist so you can actually recognize your own needs and struggles. If you aren't okay, her chances of recovery shrink. You have to be fully present. That is terrifyingly important. A mother needs to see that you are doing alright; that matters to her more than her own well-being.

Good luck. And don't blame me for being blunt; I just wrote exactly what I was feeling.

Bryan Edwards83 said:I heard there’s a study coming out soon that backs up this whole topic, so I wanted to see if there's any truth to it. Basically, the lining of the mouth regenerates incredibly fast. My thought is that if we constantly bite at it out of habit, that constant high-speed cell turnover might actually trigger cancer. Look, I’m no expert, I just heard this was on the horizon, so let's see what happens.

I’d really appreciate it if some professionals here could weigh in and tell me if this holds water...

This is an old thread, but since nobody ever jumped in to answer you, I figured I’d share what I’ve learned from firsthand experience. Maybe it’ll help someone else.

If you smoke, pretty much any sore in your mouth becomes a risk factor. It gets even sketchier if you’re mixing alcohol with tobacco. Alcohol is a carcinogen too. You get a little bite, maybe a bad dental bridge or an unfiled crown scrapes your tongue—those little injuries can turn dangerous if the oral mucosa can't keep up its regeneration because of the smoking and drinking. "A little boozing, a little smoking—and boom, you've got cancer," is how my doctor at the Mayo Clinic put it. Dentists know this stuff inside and out; they’re always telling patients not to smoke for at least 24 hours after an extraction. In theory, almost all the cells in your mouth replace themselves within a month. If you have a wound that hasn't healed by then—get it checked out immediately.

Dana Martin87 said:Maybe that makes sense if you're religious... 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 way to the end. If I believed in the supernatural, I'd say we're already living in hell.

Don't lose hope. It isn't easy for anyone—not for believers, not for skeptics. Death and sickness are the great equalizers; they don't care what you believe. Try to stay positive and pass as much of that optimism onto your dad as you can. Just like you're looking out for him, he’s still looking out for you. Show him how strong you are. Be his cheerleader. Smile every single time you look at him. Just surround him with warmth and tenderness.

I know you're scared. I know how incredibly hard this is for you. I'm wishing both of you nothing but strength and peace.

Lawrence Miller6 said:But honestly, none of that even matters anymore. She’s gone. Since then, I’ve just been living in this total fog. I can't function, I barely leave my bed, and for the last month, I’ve been lucky if I get two hours of sleep a night. If it wasn't for my family, I don't know what I'd do—but because of them, I can't even think about it. Life feels like one big, cruel joke right now. It just doesn't make sense anymore.

Life does have meaning. It really is beautiful. I know it doesn't feel that way right now, but please, give yourself some grace. Time won't magically heal those wounds—the pain is always going to be there—but it will eventually let you focus on other things, like your wife and daughter. They bring joy to your life, just like you do for them.

Get those thoughts about ending it all out of your head. You are irreplaceable to your family. Aside from them, nobody is even going to notice you're gone.

Just take it one day at a time. Try to stay active, even if it's just a tiny bit. Don't worry about big plans or beating yourself up over how much you're struggling. Just find something—anything—to motivate you, whether it's the people you love or a hobby. The goal is just to find a way to pull your mind away from those dark thoughts of death and dying.

I’ve dealt with this exact same thing myself on various different subforums. People drifting off-topic or just turning everything into a casual chat—that’s usually why it happens. And most of the time, there isn't even a formal warning or a ban involved.

My takeaway? For the minor, harmless stuff, moderators just quietly scrub the posts. If they were actually dealing with something major, I’d definitely be able to tell what was going on. 😁

Now, Andrew Booth29 might be able to tell you if there's some kind of behind-the-scenes agreement happening, but honestly, I think that's exactly the point. 🙂

What on earth does "recruiting" for my posts even mean? Do you actually know what that word implies? ☕

I was there. Honestly, watching people go at each other's throats over THC to CBD ratios in oils, different manufacturing methods, treatment protocols, all these various diagnoses... it just doesn't inspire much confidence in me. You know what they say—everyone thinks their own way is the best way. So, I figured maybe there were some folks in this group who weren't just looking out for themselves and might actually give me an objective perspective.

But hey, whatever. It is what it is. I gave it a shot, at least. Thanks for the help anyway.

Eric Newman75 said:Hey there, I’m looking into hemp oil. How can you actually tell if it’s the "real deal"? Is there any way to verify what you're buying? Also, besides that, is there a specific list of conditions—like certain cancers—where the oil actually makes an impact versus where it’s just a waste of money?

Look, I know there are scammers out there. I also know it’s pricey. But it’s being talked about everywhere lately—probably for a reason. 🙂

I'll say it again: I'm asking because I want to know. I’m not here to stir the pot, and I’m definitely not playing cop. If anyone prefers to chat via private message instead of posting publicly, that’s fine by me. I’m genuinely interested in this, both as a potential alternative to heavy-duty painkillers and as a possible treatment method.

Harold Perez2 said:Honestly, Eliza is the one who actually made things better—I mean, Tramal is just one pill that absolutely wrecks your system, and there isn't really any other way to describe that kind of pain. I’m not the type to back down, but even I started taking half a dose of Eliza because my thoughts... they were starting to spiral. Between everything from the past and what's happening now, things were crossing a line into territory that feels impossible to escape from. I know my depression is tied to it too—how every little thing she does can trigger an emotional reaction or cause me to spin these stories in my head that probably don't even make sense... But still, I don't retreat. It's just that my mood completely tanks, and I find myself hoping—just wishing—that she'll give me a hug or ask what's wrong, but most of the time, that doesn't happen. Like I said, I understand the illness and I know all this is a result of it, but I feel like I'm starting to slip... sinking into my own head, and I'm terrified I'll hit a point of no return. And yet, all I want is to help her—to make her see that we're a family, and that nobody should ever feel like they have to be "better" than their own family, especially when we've proven time and again that we're right here by your side.

Tramadol is an opioid analgesic, whereas Alice is an antidepressant. They aren't even in the same ballpark. Sadly, there just aren't many options for severe pain today besides opioids. Maybe medical cannabis would help? I'm actually looking into that myself. Cannabis-based products don't cause addiction, and you don't have to deal with all those side effects like constipation, nausea, dry mouth, or sweating.

If smoking wasn't my issue, I'd honestly rather be rolling joints all day than popping pills. Tramadol is pure evil. That’s exactly why I’m hunting for that oil.