Support resources for families dealing with cancer and other serious illnesses

vividcanyon13 said:Look, I didn't come to this thread expecting some magic wand or a miracle word to just fix everything. I’m just here to vent and share what’s on my mind with people who are actually going through it, or maybe you've already survived these kinds of traumas.
I get the reality of the situation, okay? I'm doing everything humanly possible. I'm there for her, talking to her, showering her with love and attention, spending basically all my free time by her side.
But man, I can't just reach in and rip that horrible pain away from her. I can't give her the quality of life she deserves for the time she has left.
And yeah, fine, call me selfish if you want, but I can't beat this fear of the inevitable. Watching her suffer like this... it’s like this damn demon is eating me alive from the inside out.
God, I just wish I could wake up from this nightmare, but I know that doesn't answer your question.😢

I totally get you. I mean, I *really* get you because I went through all of this recently and I know exactly how you feel. That feeling of pure misery, rage, and total helplessness? It’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life. The issues patients face at this stage—you just can't handle them at home. For severe pain, they need to be hospitalized under constant supervision by an anesthesiologist, but our healthcare system? Forget about it. They just send them home and act like the case is closed, while for the patient and their family, the real hell is just beginning. This kind of cruel, heartless attitude toward the sick really shows what kind of society we live in. To watch someone suffer when you *could* help—because let's be honest, any pain can be managed, or at least lessened significantly if anyone actually tried—is just monstrous. And that demon eating at you? It keeps gnawing at all of us who have been through this. Unfortunately, this nightmare is the reality.
My advice? You have to demand things. Be a pain in the neck. Insist that the doctors give her something more effective for the pain and push for a referral to a Pain Management Clinic (even if they don't always do much). Also, don't hesitate to call 911 repeatedly when the pain gets unbearable; that’s how she'll get something administered intravenously so she can get even a tiny bit of relief.
Hang in there. I'm right here if you need anything at all.

vividcanyon13 said:I didn't come to this thread looking for some magic word or a miracle cure to fix everything. I just wanted to share what's on my mind with people who are walking this path right now, or those who have already survived similar traumas.
I’m fully aware of the reality here, and I’m doing everything humanly possible; I support her, I talk to her, I shower her with attention and love, and I spend almost all my free time by her side.
But the truth is, I can't just reach in and take away that horrific pain. I can't give her the quality of life she deserves during the time she has left.
And yeah, maybe that sounds selfish, but I can't shake this fear of the inevitable. Watching her suffer... it feels like this damn demon is slowly eating me alive from the inside out.
Honestly, I just want to wake up from this nightmare, but I know that doesn't answer your question.😢

Pain can be managed—it *must* be managed. Talk to the anesthesiologists and insist that they titrate her medication doses to keep her comfortable.
I know exactly where you are right now. I pushed myself to the brink of anorexia because I was so consumed by this "inevitability." Eventually, something just clicked in my brain. I decided to focus strictly on the "here" and "now," refusing to look any further than tomorrow. That became my way of surviving. Day by day, I processed it. It might sound grim, but I spent a lot of time Googling the horrors that came with my mother's diagnosis until it just became my daily reality. My entire focus shifted to ensuring Mom had peace and received the best palliative care available. She passed away in my arms, finally at peace after two and a half years of suffering. You know, I think the greatest act of love a child can show a parent is actually letting go. I prayed to God to take her home; I let go, and I told her it was okay to leave, that everything would be fine, and that I would be okay too. Something in a person just... matures when that happens. She went peacefully, truly. She had the most serene expression on her face. And even though it's incredibly hard and I don't have anyone else in the world besides my dad, and even though it hurts like hell, I know it had to be this way and that I did everything I possibly could.
Even as things get worse for her, please don't bury yourself along with her before it's time. You have to stay alive for yourself as much as for her. It’s vital to realize that this is primarily happening to her. Even though we are deeply connected to our mothers, we are still separate individuals caught in a situation. We have the choice of how to handle this—whether we choose a healthy path or a self-destructive one. She only has her cross to carry until the end. I don't think it helps if she senses our agony, because that only makes her burden heavier. Now that I am a mother myself and have felt the pain of my own child, I am even more acutely aware of that reality.
I wish you peace in your heart and your mind. You are doing everything right for her, but please, do something for yourself too—for your own sake, and for hers.

Dear Angela Wright, your posts are filled with such profound wisdom and truth. Everything you say resonates deeply. Even without having read the tragic story you shared with this community, I can feel that you write from the depths of your soul—from the heart of someone who has been profoundly wounded, yet emerged far stronger, more noble, and more mature...
Everything you do for us, all your activity here, is a pure expression of selfless altruism and a genuine desire to help those in need.

Yesterday, I sat by her bedside, holding her hand and stroking it. She looked at me and said, "You're always smiling when you're with me, but I know how you truly feel, my poor little girl. My dear mother, even in her own suffering, she thinks of others and what lies ahead for us." Because no matter how much I pretend to be okay, a mother just knows...
I wish I had the time to "Google" things, but everything is simply moving too fast. As long as I believed she would be just another statistic to beat this vicious illness, I was fine. I’d have the occasional wave of sadness or fear in my room at night, but nothing more. However, lately, she is weakening rapidly, and I haven't had the chance to adjust to this new reality...
Thank you once again for finding the time and the right words. 🙂

silentgardener732 said:I understand you completely. I went through all of this recently and I know exactly how you feel. That sense of misery, anger, and helplessness... it stays with you for life. The issues patients face at this stage cannot be managed at home. Severe pain requires hospitalization and constant monitoring by an anesthesiologist, but our healthcare system doesn't provide that. Instead, they just send them home. For the doctors, the case is closed. For the patients and their families, the true hell begins. This kind of cruel, heartless treatment toward the sick shows exactly what kind of society we live in. To watch someone suffer when help is available—when pain can be mitigated, if not eliminated—is monstrous. The demon eating away at you will continue to gnaw at everyone who has endured this. Unfortunately, this nightmare is reality.
My advice is to demand more effective pain management from the doctor. Insist they refer her to a Pain Management Clinic, even if they aren't particularly helpful. Also, call 911 persistently whenever the pain becomes unbearable; she needs intravenous intervention just to get a moment of relief.
Hang in there. I am here if there is anything I can do to help.

silentgardener732, thank you so much for the support.
It is exactly as you described. Total indifference and coldness toward patients in extreme agony. I have had enough of watching the oncology ward in my city. These patients are critically ill, exhausted, and broken, yet they are forced to spend three or four hours in a crowded waiting room. Most of them are standing because there are barely ten chairs for everyone waiting for therapy or to review results with a doctor. And let's not even mention that a dedicated oncology ward doesn't truly exist, which means patients in critical condition cannot stay in the hospital. We have no palliative care unit. No specialized pain clinic. The last time I spoke with her oncologist to explain her excruciating pain, I waited two and a half hours just to get a prescription for Sevredol, which I then had to go out and buy myself. Needless to say, it does absolutely nothing for her pain.

vividcanyon13 said:Yesterday I was just sitting there by her bed, holding her hand and stroking it...

Reading this brings back a moment I shared with my own mother. We were lying just like that, and I found myself staring out the window at the clouds racing across the sky. I remember it so clearly—that sudden realization that I would carry this exact moment with me forever. Even now, when that memory resurfaces, the emotional weight feels just as heavy as it did then.
Time moves just like those clouds drifting overhead; eventually, everything turns into nothing more than a memory. All we can really do is try to make sure those memories are as beautiful as they can possibly be.

It breaks my heart that mothers have to endure this. It’s just not right that their departure has to look like this, even if this life is just a brief stopover on an infinite journey. They should be leaving us happy, peaceful, and content in the twilight of a long life, with smiles on their faces and a healthy glow in their cheeks. 😢

So, our Oncologist broke the news today—Dad has lung cancer, which apparently triggered that pulmonary embolism and the leg thrombosis...
Back in early April, his lung scan showed just that one spot, the same one from a year ago they thought was just tuberculosis. But by the end of April, this new shadow popped up, and now they're calling it cancer. The doctor said it was all a fluke discovery since they were only scanning his lungs because of the embolism. She claims it's an early stage—like, it won't even start causing real trouble for a few years. Her suggestion? Just tiny daily doses of radiation for a few seconds at a time—she says if he were healthy, he wouldn't even feel it. It’s basically preventative since the tumor is so small and localized. Ultimately, it’s his call, and of course, he's decided to go for it. According to her, it's curable.
I'm honestly reeling. After everything else he's been through, just when he was finally starting to turn a corner and recover, now this hits us. I mean, how much more is my dad supposed to take 😢.
What are the actual survival rates like? Is "curable" really a thing here? After everything we've dealt with, I'm feeling pretty skeptical about all of it. Also, any tips on how to make the radiation easier on him?

Chloe Gray5 said:The oncologist told us today that Dad has lung cancer, which is why he had the pulmonary embolism and the leg thrombosis..
Back in early April, the lung scan showed only one lesion—the same one from a year ago that they thought was just tuberculosis. But by the end of April, a new shadow popped up, and now they’re calling it cancer. The oncologist claims this was all found by pure chance because they were scanning his lungs to check for the embolism, and she says it's an early stage that won't cause major issues for a few years. She recommended small daily doses of radiation, just a few seconds at a time, saying if he were healthy, he wouldn't even feel it. Apparently, since it's such a tiny, localized spot, it's a preventative measure. She said the choice is ultimately his. Of course, he made his decision. According to her, it's curable.
This really hit me hard. After everything else, just when things were finally looking up and he started recovering, now there's this. How much more does my dad have to go through 😢.
What are the general prognoses? Is it actually curable? After everything we've been through, I'm skeptical of everything. How can my dad handle the radiation more easily?

Oncologists don't just throw statements like that around unless they truly mean them. So, he'll go ahead with the radiation, and at this stage, tumors are incredibly sensitive to it. Since his immune system took a hit, the malignancy clearly flared up. Up until now, his immunity was keeping it in check, but all this recent chaos provided the perfect trigger.
I'm so sorry he has to deal with this on top of everything else. You know what they say: "When it rains, it pours."
My life has been a non-stop series of disasters since my mom got sick. Ever since 2005, I haven't had a moment of peace; it feels like one nightmare just follows the next. Just when you think you've cleared a hurdle and can finally catch your breath, boom—another crisis hits. That's just how life works for some people. You either end up resigned, frustrated, or completely revolted. Personally, I'm a little bit of all three, hitting me all at once.

Angela Wright said:Oncologists aren't just throwing words around—they really do mean what they say. He’s heading in for radiation, and at this stage, those tumors are super sensitive to it. Since his immune system took a hit, the malignancy basically woke up. Up until now, his body was keeping it in check, but all this recent stress just pushed things over the edge.
It sucks that you're dealing with this extra layer on top of everything else. You know how it goes—when it rains, it pours.
Honestly, my life has been one giant mess since my mom got sick. Ever since 2005, it's just been one thing after another—total chaos. Just when you think you've finally caught a break or handled a situation, boom, something else hits you... that's just how life rolls for some people. You end up feeling resigned, frustrated, or just completely fed up. I'm kind of feeling all of that at once, honestly.

I'm so sorry—I really hope things settle down for you guys soon. I totally get it; all those emotions just swirl together, but I try to stay positive—there's no other way to keep moving through life.

It’s so hard when someone you love gets sick, whether they're young or old—you're never truly ready to let go, and it always feels too soon. But I truly believe that as long as our loved ones have us by their side, they'll be stronger and braver. Even when we can't physically step in or take the weight off their shoulders, I think being there mentally makes a huge difference. Just hang in there and keep the faith!!

dustyjackal10 said:The issue is they couldn't find the primary tumor. The Lymph was secondary—it shrank quite a bit after chemo, but the treatment basically wrecked everything else too. Now the immune system is so depleted that there aren't any therapeutic options left, while the carcinomas just keep spreading.

The specialist’s take? Maybe more chemo once the immunity recovers—if it even does. The patient hasn't eaten anything since the start of the fifth cycle, which means two and a half months of nothing.

The patient doesn't want any more chemo. My take (as family) is that I shouldn't have let them start the first round at all.

Now there's talk about heading to the Ependorf Clinic in Hamburg for tumor treatment. (The extended family is weighing it.)

Right now, my plan is to try boosting the immunity and looking into alternative routes. Honestly, I don't even know anymore. It's a total nightmare.

Hi everyone,

This battle is over. My mother passed away on Saturday, August 11th. 😢

Wishing you all luck, strength, and wisdom as you continue your fight.

dustyjackal10 said:Hey everyone,

this fight is over; my mother passed away this past Saturday, August 11th, 2012. 😢

Wishing you all nothing but luck, strength, and wisdom as you continue your own battles.

I am so sorry, please accept my deepest condolences. 😢

When you don't even know who the primary enemy is, trying to wage that kind of war and actually win it feels almost impossible. 😢
She’s in a much better place now, far away from this valley of tears. May your mother rest in peace and watch over you from above.

dustyjackal10
Please accept my deepest condolences.

Hey everyone,
My mother-in-law is currently unconscious over at the neurosurgery ward at Rebro Hospital.

She was admitted on July 25th after dealing with some dizziness and slight weakness on her right side.

The initial CT and MRI scans showed shadows measuring about 1.5 x 1.7 cm and a larger one at 2.5 x 3 cm.
She had an open biopsy and they performed a partial tumor reduction.
The diagnosis came back as Grade 4 glioblastoma, and it’s pretty much taken over her entire left hemisphere.
They've been talking about edema and things like that.
Right now she’s on meds to deal with the swelling, but she's just too weak for any major treatment. I'm honestly not sure if she'll even get radiation or chemo.
The doctors are saying she’s too unstable for Gamma Knife or other procedures right now, so they're waiting for her condition to improve before deciding on a treatment plan. But her condition is actually getting worse, and they've already got a ventilator ready.
They're giving her a few months, but... a few months of what???
I see people posting about tumor cases here, so I wanted to ask: is there any clinic in the US or maybe Europe where someone could step in and temporarily slow down this progression?
The thing is, my wife just gave birth to a beautiful baby girl 18 days ago—literally two days after her mom and my child's grandmother was rushed to the hospital.
My wife is struggling so much emotionally, and I think it's affecting her breastfeeding and everything else, which makes sense given the situation. It’s such a mess because we can't even fully celebrate our baby or properly grieve; we're just caught between these two extreme emotional extremes.
Our only wish is for Grandma to wake up and meet her granddaughter. That would bring so much peace to my wife and our whole family.
Is there any hope?
THANKS

Sending my deepest condolences, dustyjackal10

Michael Cruz28 said:Hello,
My mother-in-law is currently unconscious in neurosurgery at Washington, D.C. Memorial Hospital.

She was hospitalized on July 25th presenting with mild right-side weakness and dizziness.

The initial CT followed by an MRI showed shadows measuring 1.5 x 1.7 cm and a larger one at 2.5 x 3 cm.
She underwent an open biopsy and partial tumor reduction.
The diagnosis is Stage 4 glioblastoma, affecting almost the entire left hemisphere.
They mentioned edema and other issues.
She’s on medication to manage the swelling, but she’s too weak for intensive treatment. I'm not sure if she'll even receive any radiation or chemotherapy.
The doctors say she's too unstable for Gamma Knife or other therapies, so they're waiting for her condition to improve before potentially treating her. But her condition is just getting worse, and they've already prepared a ventilator.
They’re giving her a few months, but a few months of what???
I see people discussing tumor cases here, so I’m wondering if there is any clinic in the US or Europe where they could intervene to temporarily halt this progression.
Basically, my wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl just 18 days ago—specifically, two days after her mother and my child's grandmother was hospitalized.
My wife is doing so poorly that I think it's affecting her breastfeeding, which is understandable given the circumstances. It's a tragedy because we can't fully celebrate the baby or truly grieve because we're caught between two extremely intense emotional events.
Our only wish is for Grandma to wake up and see her granddaughter. That would bring such peace to my wife and our whole family.
Is there any hope???
THANK YOU

Unfortunately, when it comes to glioblastoma, especially at this stage, medicine simply doesn't have an answer. Even in the best clinics in the world, she would receive the exact same treatment she’s getting now: anti-edema therapy (Mannitol and Dexamethasone). That edema creates massive intracranial pressure inside the skull, which pushes the brain to one side and keeps her in a coma. If there is hydrocephalus (fluid buildup), it might be possible to mechanically drain that fluid to reduce the pressure. This could stabilize her and allow her to wake up, potentially opening the door for radiation therapy combined with Temodal. My own mother was in a similar state at Rebro Hospital, and we fought hard just to get them to perform a stereotactic procedure and a fluid puncture. They took her away completely unresponsive, and brought her back to the room fully conscious after just 20 minutes. The doctors often won't do it, likely for pragmatic reasons. It is a palliative procedure, but for people in your situation, it can mean everything. Ask about it, and if you can, try to push for it.
As for the Gamma Knife, with a tumor that widespread, it unfortunately isn't an option😢. That's generally only considered for tumors under, I believe, 2cm.
The progression of this disease is inevitably horrific; the only thing you can do is try to slow it down slightly. I am so incredibly sorry, but I can't write anything positive or optimistic about this diagnosis, no matter how desperately or selfishly I might want to. Just like my mother, she ended up with the one type of tumor out of all possible ones that offers the bleakest outlook for recovery.
Hang in there.

Angela Wright said:Sadly, when it comes to glioblastoma—especially at this stage—medicine just doesn't have all the answers. Even at the top-tier clinics in the US, she’d be getting the exact same treatment she is now: anti-edema therapy (Mannitol and Dexamethasone). That swelling is what causes that intense intracranial pressure inside the skull, pushing the brain to one side, which is why she's in a coma. If there's hydrocephalus (fluid buildup) involved, they might be able to mechanically drain that fluid to relieve the pressure. Doing that could stabilize her and wake her up enough to actually start radiation combined with Temodal. My mom went through something similar while she was at Rebro Hospital, and we had to fight tooth and nail just to get them to perform a stereotactic procedure and a CSF puncture. They took her out completely unconscious and brought her back fully awake to the room just 20 minutes later. Honestly, doctors often avoid doing it, probably for pragmatic reasons. It’s considered a palliative procedure, but for someone in your situation, it could mean the entire world. Please look into it and, if you can, try to make it happen.
As for Gamma Knife, with a tumor that spread out that much, it's unfortunately not an option😢. That’s usually only on the table for tumors under, what, 2cm?
The progression of this disease is inevitably brutal; the best we can do is try to slow it down a bit. I am so, so sorry. As much as I want to be optimistic and write something positive for you, I just can't—not with a diagnosis like this, no matter how selfishly I might wish I could. Just like my mom, she ended up with the absolute worst kind of tumor out of everything possible.
Hang in there.

Thanks so much for the advice!
And thank you even more for reminding me there's still good in the world!
You're the best!

Angela Wright, please, I see you have so much experience and life wisdom in you, help me....
Just a month ago, all of this felt like it was happening to someone else. Today, it’s hitting me, and it’s hitting twice as hard.
On July 24th, I lost my aunt. She passed away within just ten days of being diagnosed with primary liver carcinoma. He didn't even realize what was happening to him; he was gone overnight. They told me he just fell asleep—that his kidneys failed and he was essentially drowning from fluid buildup. They say he was lucky because he only dealt with pain for a couple of days. I haven't even had time to process losing him before this new lightning bolt struck. Since July 13th, my mom has been fighting through pneumonia, then an infection in her gallbladder, and finally, an ultrasound revealed carcinoma with metastases in the liver. Everything else seems clear, at least that's how it looks, but they're telling us there's nothing more they can do. They've given her just a few months. For two days, I just cried, trying to pull myself together and gather information. I went to Merkur Hospital, and they said maybe removal might be possible later, but first she has to recover from the complications following that unsuccessful surgery. Please, I need help. What are we facing? I am not ready to say goodbye to both my parents in such a short window of time. I have to, and I want to, give everything I have to help Mom beat this. Please, does anyone here have any experience with this kind of situation? For now, she’s doing okay; she actually has a huge appetite, mostly out of grief for Dad, and she stays brave for my sake. Believe me, I am screaming inside. My whole world is falling apart...🙂

Just wanted to check in and let you guys know I'm doing a bit better. After my second round of therapy, the lymphoma has shrunk quite a bit, and everyone at the hospital is pretty happy with the progress. It’s been about a week and a half since the chemo, and my labs are looking really solid now, especially with a little help from some supplements. The only real nightmare was the mucositis—that was pretty nasty during those first few days, though it's finally starting to settle down. I did have a question, though: roughly when should I expect to be called in for a CT scan to see what's left? And how do follow-ups usually work once everything is cleared? Since we couldn't actually tell it was lymphoma from just blood work—only through ultrasound—I'm curious about the next steps.

@Sophia Davis4/">@@Sophia Davis4, I am incredibly sorry you’re dealing with all of this hitting you at once; I can only imagine how brutal this stretch is for you. You didn't mention which primary tumor we're actually talking about, so I can't give you a specific answer regarding that. Look, nobody can tell you exactly what to expect next. Given that we're dealing with cancer and the targets involved, the situation clearly isn't good—and I know you're already aware of that. What’s done is done, and neither you nor your mother can change the past. All you can do, and honestly all you *must* do, is fight. You need to dig deep, find every ounce of strength you have, and be her rock. You have to pull yourself together, because if you crack and let despair take over, nothing good will come of it. You have to take whatever chances are on the table, no matter how slim, and fight. I really hope you aren't facing this alone and that you have some support around you. Hang in there, dear, and don't let life win—unfortunately, this is just how life is built. 😢
@wiredcanyon39/">@@wiredcanyon39, the CT scan happens after the first line of treatment is finished.
@dustyjackal10/">@@dustyjackal10, I am in no position to make a decision like that, nor do I actually know who I would even give it to. You could put out an announcement, and someone might donate the medication based on the medical history provided.
Sorry for the typos, I'm typing this on my phone.

Angela Wright said:@Sophia Davis4/">@@Sophia Davis4, I am so incredibly sorry that everything is hitting you all at once like this. I can only imagine how heavy this feels. You didn't mention which primary tumor we're dealing with, so I can't give you a super specific answer regarding that. Honestly, no one can tell you exactly what to expect. Given that it's cancer and considering the targets involved, the situation clearly isn't good—and I know you realize that already. It is what it is, and neither you nor your mom can change the reality of the diagnosis. All you can do, and really, all you *must* do, is fight. You have to dig deep, find every ounce of strength you have, and be her absolute rock. You need to pull yourself together, because if you break down and let despair take over, it won't help anyone. You just have to take whatever chances are there, no matter how slim, and fight. I truly hope you aren't going through this alone and that you have some support nearby. Hang in there, honey. Don't let life beat you down; unfortunately, life is made of moments just like this. 😢
@wiredcanyon39/">@@wiredcanyon39, the CT scan happens after the first line of treatment is finished.
@dustyjackal10/">@@dustyjackal10, I’m in no position to make a call like that, nor do I actually know who I would even give it to. You could put out an ad and donate the drug based on the medical history provided.
Sorry for the typos, typing this on my phone.

I know all of that. I really do. But I have these bad moments. The nights are the hardest because that's when I have nothing to do but think, and then sleep becomes impossible. There is a primary tumor on the gallbladder, which is very rare and carries a very grim prognosis. And she... she is just so full of life around me. We wanted to do this before, but Dad wouldn't leave his house back then. She looks at me with so much hope, while I'm just sitting here drowning in fear. I'm the only one here besides my husband, who is so understanding and willing to help, and our two little girls. But parents are parents, and I'm just not ready to lose them in such a short window of time. I know I have to stay strong and be there for her, but I'm terrified. I feel like I'm afraid to even breathe because I'm so scared of losing her too...

Her report shows an infiltrative process of the gallbladder involving the surrounding liver tissue. Everything else—the rest of the liver, pancreas, spleen, adrenal glands, kidneys, and bladder—looks normal with no focal lesions. It also mentions that no lymph nodes were found in the abdomen or pelvic area that would suggest secondary spread.