Support for families dealing with cancer and other serious illnesses (Part II)

Angela Foster4 said:I guess I'll join this thread too. It’s 6:00 AM and I can't sleep; I'm just awake again, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything in my head over and over.

I was looking for some kind of support for people dealing with cancer and their families, but I couldn't find much for a long time. Then I stumbled upon this forum and this specific topic, so I decided to register. My mom was diagnosed with lung cancer seven months ago—Stage 4, which has already metastasized to her brain. She had 14 metastases, though thankfully they've shrunk a bit due to radiation.

No one in my family has ever had cancer; we really only knew about it through movies or TV shows. My whole world collapsed, and honestly, it still feels that way. There are better days and worse ones, but mostly it feels like everything has just stopped, like our entire little universe has been swallowed by this disease. Mom has already undergone cranial radiation and she's been switching between different types of chemo, and the illness has changed everything.

Her life... I see every single day how she’s becoming the one thing she feared most in life: helpless. Our relationship has changed drastically, and not for the better. In movies, you usually see people drawing closer during times like this, but we've actually drifted apart.

She’s withdrawn into herself; she's become quite negative and listless. Meanwhile, I'm fighting my own demons—anxiety and all sorts of intrusive thoughts about the future—while she fights a cancer that is slowly consuming her. No matter how hard I try to be there for her in the ways I know how, she isn't satisfied with me, and all our common ground has just evaporated. I don't blame her, though. She's in pain every day, barely able to walk, and she's lost so much weight in the last two months that her skin just hangs off her. She deals with intense pain and nausea. Some days are so bad she just stays in bed.

This isn't living. This has nothing to do with life. For all of us, life has just become a waiting game for maybe a slightly better tomorrow. It’s hard, because even during the moments when she feels okay, she’s different. We don't laugh anymore, we don't enjoy anything; she’s become sharp with everything, and I just miss her tenderness. I'm an only child, and I just miss my mom—the version of her I could laugh with, goof around with, talk about nonsense or philosophy... anything.

It's difficult to handle all of this because she is suffering so much, and I don't know how to deal with these massive life shifts or where to look for something better. On top of everything, I've isolated myself from people who are more curious than they are concerned—so-called friends and acquaintances. So here I am, alone at 6:00 AM during sleepless nights, typing this here in the hope of meeting good people who are going through something similar. I realized my head feels like a balloon lately; I spend too much time alone with my own thoughts.

Not long before her diagnosis, I ended a serious relationship and dealt with a personal tragedy, and then the cancer hit... it's just been a downward spiral.

Her condition is terminal. I just want her to have quality of life for whatever time is left, rather than just quantity.

My biggest fear is when the end comes. I'm terrified that we aren't close anymore. Because of this cancer, she has changed, distanced herself, and grown cold, even on the "good" days. I'm scared of it all, but it's hard to share this with anyone else who might actually understand, since I've always been so close to my mother.

I'm also scared that I won't be able to endure this. I feel like the burden is getting heavier and heavier. It's hard to stay occupied 24/7 since I'm not working right now, and like I said, I'm struggling with my own anxiety, which is a whole other story. I've pushed away people who tire me out with superficial stories about themselves; it just drains my energy. I think this first post is more about me than about my mom, and part of me feels selfish for that, but then I think, no, I'm not—I'm just a human being, and this is a genuinely brutal period in my life. I'm looking for support and understanding, and that seems natural enough. I hope I'm right.

P.S. Honestly, it took everything I had just to get this typed out, but here we go. I’ve been lurking and reading through your posts, and I have to say, I’m impressed by everyone's courage and grit. Sending strength, faith, and good vibes to all of you—and hoping for a quick recovery for your loved ones. ♥

I’d highly suggest picking up "On Death and Dying" by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. It’s based on psychological studies regarding what people actually go through at the end. One of the stages of dying involves anger and rage, and I suspect that might be where your mom is right now. After that comes (I think) acceptance of their condition. If you look at it through that lens, maybe you won't feel like she's rejecting you or doesn't care... Hang in there.

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.

Thanks for all the replies. I’m feeling much clearer today because I finally caught up on some sleep. I am definitely going to track down that book and give it a read; I'm hungry for any extra info that might help me wrap my head around all this and actually accept it... Regarding professional help, I have my own therapist whom I see regularly, and she helps me navigate certain things, but everything else... that's just me and my own thoughts. As for my mother, there's no chance she'll go to anyone; she thinks she knows best what she needs, and while I honestly believe talking to someone would help her immensely, well...

The thing is, I wanted to open up here because I'm hoping to find people who have walked this path before—people who actually understand what I'm going through. On the surface, I'm doing fine, and honestly, I'm holding up pretty well considering the circumstances. There's no depression, no sadness, no bitterness... at least not from my side.

I don't even know where I get this strength from. I've never had it before—this ability to carry such a heavy burden on my shoulders while being completely alone under these conditions. It just happened that I ended up facing everything regarding my mom entirely "on my own."

Like I mentioned, I ended a long-term relationship just shortly before Mom's cancer diagnosis, I distanced myself from certain nosy people, and since I don't have any siblings, it's just me in all of this. So, I don't exactly have anything else to occupy my mind 24/7. My relationship with my mom was always hit-or-miss, though we were incredibly close. I say hit-or-miss because there were stretches of our lives where we didn't see eye-to-eye, yet we were always tethered to one another. Then, finally, just when our relationship had truly settled into its rightful place and everything was moving toward a better place... boom, cancer.

Regardless of how we used to clash, or how much things improved in these last few years until we became so close again, everything just went to hell!

She was always my role model, my hero, a rock of a woman that I am so proud of—even if I didn't always act like it back in my younger years. She is someone I couldn't imagine life without. No matter what was happening in my world, she was the first person I'd share it with. We were so deeply bonded, even if our perspectives differed on certain things.

We could talk on the phone for hours about absolutely anything; we were as close as best friends. But after that horrific cancer diagnosis, everything started to shift over time. Now, I look at a woman who was the most hardworking person I've ever known—someone who worked from dawn till dusk, fought for everything she had, and never met a challenge she couldn't tackle... and now, she can barely pull herself out of bed for a few minutes.

She endures the pain and the nausea after coming home from chemo, and I feel so helpless. She even told me herself that I'm no help to her (I know she doesn't mean it), so I try not to take anything she says to heart; I can see how bitter she is toward this disease and how hard she's fighting to beat it. She always loved to read—she read over 1,000 books in her lifetime—despite struggling with dyslexia. She pushed through those limitations so they wouldn't hold her back. Once she got the diagnosis, she decided she wasn't going to read another word about it online or on any hospital paperwork. The less she knows, the better.

When she got those first papers from the hospital detailing the type of tumor, she wouldn't even glance at them or read them; I already knew it was Stage 4. After that, I spoke with my therapist and asked for his honest opinion on how much time she might have left. He’s a wonderful doctor and has handled similar cases, even if he isn't an oncologist. He said roughly a few months... and while miracles happen, if we aren't talking about miracles... a few months.

I carry all of this inside me. I see her every single day and I pretend everything is okay in front of her. Then, three months later, out of nowhere and in a moment of sheer terror, she asks me, "Do you even know that I'm Stage 4?" And I just say, "I know, Mom. Don't worry, it's going to be okay. We'll take it day by day."

And so, in the middle of this chemo, everything is a struggle for her. She gets exhausted after walking just ten steps, and she refused to eat because she lost her sense of taste and appetite entirely. That has improved now, thank God, because she was put on a medication to stimulate appetite—the kind they sometimes prescribe for people with anorexia. It works, because she's actually eating now! And that brings me so much joy, because she has literally doubled her intake.

I’ve realized I’ve just... adjusted to this reality. It’s become my new normal. Those long, deep conversations, the laughter, even the heated arguments we used to have... they’re gone. It feels like I’ve already lost half of her, in a way, just by accepting this version of her as my everyday life. Now, if we aren't sitting right next to each other, I’ll give her a quick call every few minutes just to check in. Is she eating? How are her legs holding up? She struggles with the stairs sometimes, and seeing that... it's hard.

It breaks my heart to watch her on the phone and see her hand shaking. This is a woman who, just two years ago, was absolutely crushing it in everything—her career, her personal life, all of it. She was unstoppable.

I don't talk about any of this with anyone else in my life. That's why I came here... just to try and keep my own head above water.

I know, I know, I'm a grown adult, but there are moments where I feel like a little girl just screaming "Mommy, Mommy!" But she’s my only mother. Regardless of whether we saw eye-to-eye or not, I miss her warmth. I miss a life where things felt okay... because more than anything, she hates suffering. She hates feeling helpless.

I miss the depth of our talks, the way we actually looked at the world together. And it crushes me to think about what happens if she passes away before I can finally get my act together... before I can truly be "proud" of our relationship. Like, as a daughter? If I ever have children of my own, they won't get to know her, and that thought... it hurts so much. But then I just wipe my eyes, force a smile, and pretend everything is fine.

Thank you for reading. If anyone has any advice or even just a kind word, I would really appreciate it.

Angela Foster4 said:I’m jumping into this thread too. It’s 6:00 AM and I can’t sleep; I’m wide awake again, just lying there playing the same painful loop over and over in my head all night long.

I’ve been searching for support for people dealing with cancer and their families, but I couldn't find much until I stumbled upon this forum and this specific topic, which is why I decided to sign up. Seven months ago, my mom was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer, and it had already metastasized to her brain. She has 14 metastases, though thankfully radiation therapy has managed to shrink them slightly.

No one in my family has ever dealt with cancer before; we only knew about it through movies or TV shows. My entire world collapsed, and honestly, it hasn't stopped falling apart. Some days are better than others, but mostly it feels like everything has ground to a halt—like our entire little universe has been swallowed whole by this disease. Mom has already undergone cranial radiation, alternating between different types of chemo, and this illness has completely transformed her life.

I watch her every single day becoming the very thing she feared most in life: helpless. Our relationship has shifted drastically, and not for the better. In movies, you usually see people drawing closer during crises, but we’ve actually drifted apart.

She’s withdrawn into herself, becoming incredibly negative and listless. Meanwhile, I’m fighting my own demons—anxiety and endless, spiraling thoughts about the future—while she battles a cancer that is slowly consuming her. 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 the things we used to talk about have just evaporated. I don't blame her; she’s in pain every single day, she can barely walk, and she’s lost so much weight in the last two months that her skin just hangs off her. She’s dealing with agonizing pain and nausea. Some days are so brutal she does nothing but stay in bed.

This isn't living. This isn't what life is supposed to be. For all of us, life has turned into nothing more than an anxious wait for some hypothetical "better tomorrow." It’s hard because even during the moments when she feels okay, she’s changed. We don't laugh anymore; we don't enjoy anything. She’s become sharp and biting with everything, and I just miss her tenderness. Being her only child, I just miss my mom—missing the laughter, the silliness, the random deep philosophical talks, or just talking about absolutely nothing... anything at all.

It’s overwhelming because she is suffering so intensely, and I don't know how to handle these massive shifts in my life or where to look for hope. On top of everything, I’ve isolated myself from people who are more curious than they are concerned—those so-called friends and acquaintances. So here I am, alone at 6:00 AM after another sleepless night, typing this out in the hopes of finding good people who are going through something similar. I feel like my head is a balloon ready to pop because I spend too much time trapped inside my own thoughts.

Not long before her diagnosis, I ended a serious relationship and hit another personal tragedy, and then the cancer hit... it’s just been one downward spiral after another.

Her condition is terminal. All I want now is for her to have quality of life for whatever time she has left, rather than just quantity.

My biggest fear is when the end comes. I’m terrified that we aren't close anymore; the cancer changed her, made her distance herself and turn cold, even on the relatively "good" days. I’m scared of it all, but it’s so hard to share this with anyone else who might actually understand, given how close I've always been to my mother.

I’m also scared that I won't be able to endure this. I feel like the burden is getting heavier and heavier, and it’s difficult to focus on anything during the day since I’m not working right now—and like I said, I’m battling my own anxiety, which is a whole other story. I’ve pushed away people who drain me with their shallow stories about themselves; it just sucks the energy right out of me. I realize this first post is more about me than it is about my mom, and part of me feels selfish, but then I think, no, I’m not—I’m only human, and this is genuinely one of the hardest periods of my life. I’m looking for support and understanding, and that’s only natural. I hope I’m right.

P.S. Honestly, it took everything in me just to sit down and type this out, but here we are. I’ve been lurking and reading through your posts, and I genuinely admire the courage and grit you all are showing. Sending strength, faith, and nothing but good vibes to everyone here—and wishing your loved ones a steady recovery!

My story played out almost exactly like yours, just with a few different beats, which is why I originally started this thread back in 2007.
The biggest hurdle was actually myself. I kept projecting my own anxieties and preconceived notions onto the situation, and honestly, that was the heaviest weight to carry. My relationship with my mother had started hitting some rough patches right before she got sick, and then the illness just came along and leveled everything. Right before she fell ill, I was in a dark place because of those strained ties—feeling isolated and lost in every sense of the word. When the diagnosis hit, it absolutely crushed me. I remember lying there, feeling just like you do, praying, "God, I can't do this alone. You're my witness, I truly can't handle this, please send someone to help me." And He did. He sent my husband. In the most unexpected, surreal turn of events, he was right by my side from that moment on. He was the one pulling me up when I collapsed, driving me to the hospital, and after she passed, he was the one helping me wash and dress her... It’s strange how my greatest blessing emerged from my deepest tragedy. Out of a situation that usually tears marriages apart, my relationship and our new family were built.
One thing you really need to realize—and it might be the root of the friction between you and your mom—is that you haven't fully processed that this is *her* illness. This is happening to her, not to you. You are caught in the whirlwind, sure, but the reality is hers. She isn't going to feel any better if you spend all your energy fighting against the fact that things simply *are* what they are. Mothers have a sixth sense for that tension, and it just adds more weight to her shoulders, fueling a sense of guilt. You still have time to just let her be, to let her live life on her terms for as long as she has left. When the end draws near, let her go peacefully. Tell her everything is okay, tell her you'll be fine, that she did a wonderful job, and that you're going to make sure you live a happy life... giving her that peace is the greatest gift you can offer.
Make the most of the time you have. Dig out the old photo albums, talk about the old memories. At the end of the road, it always feels like there wasn't enough time.
As for friends and social circles—situations like this act as the ultimate life filter. It’s one of those silver linings that comes packaged with the trauma. You learn exactly who people are and what you can actually expect from them. People you thought were your inner circle will surprise you in ways you didn't see coming, while those you never expected to rely on will be the ones to step up.
I'm here if you ever need to vent.
Hang in there and just take it one day at a time. Deal with the circumstances as they unfold. You cross the bridges when you get to them; you can't cross them ahead of schedule.

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.

When I was reading through the latest posts this morning, I was honestly on the verge of tears, especially this part:

Eric Newman75 said:(...) It doesn't matter if you've endured unimaginable horror and suffering. What matters is that despite all of that, you can still feel love, compassion, closeness, and happiness... A genuine respect for another being and for life itself.

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

Absolutely.

There are days when it’s just hard—really, really hard... and yet...

I wish she were here, even if just for a moment, to see this new version of me—the one who rose from the ashes, covered in scars, but stronger than I have ever been.
It's her birthday soon, and I know I'll cry. The grief is massive, but I am happy.
Happy that I had her as a parent, from our very first day together until my very last.
Happy that the abyss stared deep into me while I was balancing on its edge on my tiptoes.

Rue86 🙂

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! 😁

Talking about Jane brings Dan to mind. She used to post in this thread back in the first chapter. We met through here, and man, she was incredible. She was battling ovarian cancer and actually hit remission. But ten years later, the radiation caught up with her, and she developed a new tumor on her bladder. She was a walking target—living with a partial hysterectomy and a stoma—but despite weighing only about 100 pounds, she’d drive her car around visiting people who were less sick than she was, just to boost their spirits. She was wild, full of life, and absolutely fearless. Her biggest worry? How her husband was going to pay off 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; I'd get so caught up in our talks that I’d forget how sick she actually was, making my "problems" feel totally trivial. Then, I’d call her to vent again, and she’d just laugh it off—because hey, we're alive, and this stuff happens to everyone. Then, out of nowhere, she was gone. Her blood counts just plummeted overnight...
My mission in life is trying to find some higher purpose in everything that’s happened. If I don't, I can't deal with it all without losing my mind. Everything ends one way or another; you learn the lessons, you take the hits, but it still leaves you wrecked. You probably spend your whole life trying to bring order to that chaotic part of your soul. It feels like nobody ever truly succeeds at it, but if you want to function, you have to try to create some semblance of balance in that corner of your universe.
This thread is part of that process for me. It’s also a tribute to my old friends—Dan, Vivian, Vida, Joe, Vedra... and everyone else I haven't named who touched my life with their struggles right here.
You just have to...

Sent from my iPhone using Reddit

Eric Newman75 said:My only mantra is this: that piece of crap isn't going to kill me. So what if it comes back for everyone else? It’s not coming back for me—that's just how it works. I’m going to be the exception, the one people write books about. When I hit a hundred, they're going to have to use a shovel to put me down because I am not leaving this place! 😁

Respect. Having an attitude like that is the absolute baseline for any successful fight. Not a single person has ever survived this without that kind of grit.

Sent from my iPhone using Reddit

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.

Angela Wright said:Basically, don't let yourself run through endless "what if" scenarios in your head. Just live day by day, tackle obstacles as they show up, and most importantly—realize this is primarily happening to your dad, not you. Everyone else is just caught in the wake.
That’s the only sane way to handle it. Life is unpredictable, and there aren't any alternative versions of how this plays out.

Thanks a lot—that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. He started chemo, and I help out with the little things whenever I can, but those small things are really what make up a life.
He actually remarried, so he has a partner by his side, which makes things a whole lot easier.

I know exactly what his diagnosis means. Even though his oncologist keeps pressing the idea that people sometimes live much longer than expected, I see the reality of the situation and the actual odds. My dad seems to have accepted it, which is actually a good thing. His only real fear right now is the side effects from the chemo. Or rather, the kind of fear he's vocal about that most people probably just bury deep inside...

And look, I get that life is unpredictable—mentally, I understand all that—but emotionally? It’s a fight. I have these bursts of being super productive, followed by bouts of depression unlike anything I've felt in a long time. Then there are times when I'm either starving myself or just bingeing on everything in sight—another thing I haven't dealt with in ages. My psychiatrist helps a ton, and I'm grateful for her. I'm constantly haunted by thoughts of death and the pointlessness of it all, which is the hardest part. Right now, I'm just trying to claw my way out of that headspace and find some shred of meaning in this existence. I’ll keep fighting, though.

neoncyclist792 said:My dad passed away this past Monday. He was waiting for all of us to arrive so we could be there for him, and then he just stopped breathing—less than two months after the diagnosis. I don't even have the energy to write about the healthcare system or any of that mess...

I'm so sorry 🙂 Hang in there!

Angela Wright said:I went through almost the exact same thing, just with minor differences, which is why I originally started this thread back in 2007.

Me too. It shakes you how similar this is—same cancer, nearly the same stage! And I didn't even have the strength to write about it back then. Now that this is happening to my dad, maybe I'm finally ready to open up that folder regarding my mom.

Rue86, hang in there! 🙂
And just a side note, so much has improved with cancer treatment over the last decade or so.

Eric Newman75 said:That’s why I don’t bother with the stats—I know them all by heart, and frankly, they just weigh you down. I don't dwell on the consequences; they’re grim. When you're fighting cancer, there is no "win-win" scenario—it's all "lose-lose." Either they cut something out that you're going to miss terribly, or they absolutely wreck you with radiation and poison. As soon as those thoughts pop up, I brush them off. My only mantra is that this piece of shit isn't taking me out. So what if everyone else relapses? It won't happen to me—that's just how it works. I'll be the exception; people will write books about it. If I make it to a hundred, they'll have to take me out with a shovel, because I'm not going anywhere. 😁

🙂 🙏 Preach!

Eric Newman75 said:It’s not that she changed, went cold, or pulled away from you. She’s staying quiet to protect you. She stays silent because nobody can truly get it. She keeps it in so it doesn't come crashing down like an avalanche. There's just too much of it to even wrap your head around. The fear, the worry, the pain, the guilt, the bitterness, the rage, the loneliness, the disappointment, the depression, the sadness, the numbness... From sunrise to sunset, you're riding a damn roller coaster and you can't catch your breath for a second. You're terrified of dying. Terrified of dying in agony. Scared of surgery that leaves you disfigured. Scared of radiation. Scared of chemo. Scared for your family. Scared of being a burden. Scared of being seen as a coward. Screw anyone who told you to "just stay positive," like you can just flip a switch. Screw anyone who judges you for it. Screw yourself for feeling like maybe everything is your fault. And screw cancer—you're going to show that bastard who's actually in charge. Screw everyone who gave up on you or wrote you off. And screw this pain that flashes and throbs in your head, making it impossible to think or focus. But you have to. You know you have to, because everything rests on you. As long as you're breathing, 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.

This too!

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. 🙏

My father passed away this past Wednesday. He fought colon cancer for four long years. By the time they caught it, it was already too late to cure. Despite that, he stayed pretty fit during those four years; he could walk several miles a day, though he didn't tolerate the cancer pain at all. He went through several major surgeries over that period—recovery was brutal, but within a month, he’d be back on his feet and handling his daily routine just fine. Things took a turn for the worse in February of this year when he developed a stomach ulcer. He nearly bled out. He lost a massive amount of weight. After they operated on the ulcer, there was a brief window where he bounced back, regained some weight, and was active again—driving, grocery shopping, the whole bit. But then the rash appeared all over his body. I knew right then things were turning south. Following the rash, early in April, the severe nausea kicked in. It started with heavy diarrhea, followed by constant vomiting. He had a short hospital stay, then spent a few days getting IV fluids at home from the local clinic. That helped for a bit; the vomiting stopped and the nausea eased up. On the surface, he looked okay, but he told me it was there, even if it wasn't debilitating. Then, after a few days, the violent vomiting returned. Another hospitalization. He actually felt much better in the hospital, started eating again, and they sent him home. But the second he got back, the vomiting started again, and two days later, he was back in the hospital. He couldn't eat anything at all. They had to keep him on IV nutrition. He wasn't in pain, though. He stayed in the hospital until the end. We spoke just the day before he passed; it was obvious he was rushing through the conversation because talking was becoming a struggle. That was the first time during this entire illness that he seemed disoriented. He actually called me to give me someone's phone number—someone I hadn't even asked for. My mother had been looking for that number. He got confused and thought he needed to give it to me. Yes, he had a long, grueling battle, but his story might offer some hope to those who receive a late cancer diagnosis. It doesn't have to mean an immediate sentence to agony and being bedridden. Aside from his final few weeks in the hospital, my father remained mobile, stayed pain-free, and until that stomach ulcer hit, he still had plenty of strength. He was always strong, and he stayed that way until the very end.

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.

My deepest condolences....

Dana Martin87 said:My dad passed away this Wednesday. He fought colon cancer for four full years. By the time they caught it, it was already too late to cure him. Still—over those four years, he stayed pretty fit; he could walk several miles a day, and he didn't let the cancer pain slow him down much. He went through a few major surgeries during that time, and while recovery was rough, he’d be back on his feet and doing his usual routine within a month. Things took a turn for the worse back in February when he developed a stomach ulcer. It almost bled him out. He lost a ton of weight. After they operated on the ulcer, there was a brief window where he bounced back—regained some weight, was active again, driving himself around, doing the grocery shopping... But then he broke out in a rash all over his body. I knew right then things were turning south. Following the rash, at the start of April, the heavy nausea hit. First it was bad diarrhea, then the vomiting started. He had a short hospital stay, then spent a few days getting IV fluids at home from the local clinic. That helped—the vomiting stopped and the nausea settled into something manageable. On the surface, he looked fine, but he told me it was there, even if it wasn't totally debilitating. That lasted a few days before the brutal vomiting returned. Another hospitalization. He actually felt much better in the hospital, started eating again, and they sent him home. But as soon as he got back, the vomiting flared up again, and two days later, he was back in the hospital. He couldn't eat at all anymore. They were keeping him going via IV. He wasn't in pain, though. He stayed in the hospital until the end. The day before we lost him, we were talking, and it was obvious he was rushing through the conversation because talking was becoming such an effort. It was the first time during this whole illness that he seemed a bit disoriented. He called me to give me some guy's phone number—someone I hadn't even asked for. My mom had been looking for that number. He got confused and thought he needed to give it to me instead. Yeah, it was a long, hard fight, but maybe his story can offer some hope to people who get a late diagnosis—it doesn't have to mean you're immediately sentenced to constant pain and being stuck in bed. Aside from that last month in the hospital, Dad was mobile, pain-free, and until that ulcer hit, he still had plenty of strength. He was always a fighter, and he stayed that way until the very end.

I'm so sorry, Dana.

Four years, though... that's a long stretch, even if nothing ever feels like enough. I'm glad he made the most of that time. He sounds like a hell of a fighter. Hats off to him, and to you too.

Dana Martin87 said:My father passed away this Wednesday. He fought colon cancer for four long years. By the time they caught it, it was already too late to cure him. But even through those four years, he stayed pretty fit—he could walk several miles a day, though he didn't tolerate the cancer pain at all. He went through several major surgeries during that time; recovery was brutal every single time, but within a month, he’d be back on his feet and handling all his daily chores like nothing happened. Things took a turn for the worse in February of this year when he developed a stomach ulcer. It nearly bled him to death. He lost a massive amount of weight. After they operated on the ulcer, there was a brief window where he seemed to bounce back—he gained a few pounds, was mobile again, driving himself around, doing the grocery shopping... but then he broke out in a rash all over his body. I knew right then it was a bad sign. Once that rash appeared, by early April, the intense nausea kicked in. First, it was severe diarrhea, and then the vomiting started. He was hospitalized briefly, and then for a few days, he’d go to the clinic for IV fluids. That helped for a bit; the vomiting stopped and the nausea settled down. To everyone else, he looked fine, but he told me it was there—just not bothering him too much. Then, after a few days of feeling better, the horrific vomiting returned. Back to the hospital. He actually felt much better while he was in the hospital, started eating again, and they finally let him come home. But as soon as he got back? Two days later, he was back in the hospital. He couldn't eat anything at all. They had to keep him on IV nutrition. Surprisingly, he wasn't in pain. He just stayed in the hospital until the end. The day before he died, we were talking, and it was obvious he was rushing to finish the conversation because speaking was becoming such an effort. It was the first time during this whole illness that he seemed disoriented. He called me to give me someone's phone number—someone I hadn't even asked for. My mom had been looking for that number, but he got confused and thought *I* was the one who needed it. Yeah, he had a long, grueling battle, but I think his story can offer some hope to people who get a late cancer diagnosis. It doesn't have to mean you're sentenced to constant pain and being stuck in bed. Aside from those last few weeks in the hospital, Dad was mobile, he wasn't in pain, and until that ulcer hit, he still had a lot of strength left in him. He was always strong, and he stayed that way until the very end.

My condolences.
My father has lung cancer. The diagnosis was handed down last October, but they never actually did a bronchoscopy to confirm it because he refused every single test and any kind of follow-up. Because of that, the doctors won't even officially list it as cancer—they just call them "lung lesions." But let’s be real, we all know that’s just a sanitized way of sugarcoating the truth.
At first, we were totally blindsided. We actually tried to talk him out of it, hoping he’d change his mind, but in the end, we just had to swallow it. It's his call, and we have to respect that.
Right before Christmas, he ended up in the hospital. His oxygen levels dropped below 90%, he was choking on coughing fits, and honestly? We thought that was it. He finally got out after a week, and since then, he’s been going through all his usual daily routines—going to the pharmacy, grocery shopping, all that stuff. But we’re just sitting here on high alert, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The only symptom that's actually gotten worse is his cough.

She goes in for a chest X-ray every three months just to keep an eye on those lesions.
To me, being in a coma is just this endless, agonizing wait for the inevitable. And that uncertainty? It’s brutal. Honestly, it's incredibly hard for me to deal with him just "ignoring" me like this.

On the flip side, a nurse we know and talk to pretty regularly says we just have to respect his call. Honestly, she thinks accepting his decision might be the only way to ensure he actually gets some quality time left, especially considering how old he is and just how brutal the surgery, the whole recovery process, and the chemo are going to be.

Deep down, I know they're right. The biggest issue is how everyone gets so worked up, acting all angry because he "didn't even try to get treated." To which he just snapped back that everyone who was stuck in a hospital ward with him over Christmas is already dead—yet here he is, still living, still doing everything he used to do, just at a lower gear.

I know total chaos is coming. I'm trying to brace myself, but honestly? You can't prepare for this kind of thing. No matter what. I'm not even telling people anything because there’s no point, and I’m just trying to make sure the kids spend as much time with him as possible since they adore him. But even that’s becoming a struggle; he burns out fast and has been incredibly high-strung lately.

Anyway, sending strength to everyone. 🙂

Paul Campbell3, hang in there!

Regarding his decision—look, there’s really nothing you can do to change it, other than giving him the support he needs right now.

And honestly, who knows? Maybe my father doesn't even have anything serious going on.

If they haven't performed a bronchoscopy yet, I'm assuming they haven't done a biopsy either. If all they did was a chest X-ray, the results could mean anything—it might be something significant, or it might be nothing at all.

Starting treatment isn't necessarily a requirement right away, especially since he's getting older, but he really should finish the diagnostic process. He needs to know exactly what kind of opponent he's facing. 😉

Keep a very close eye on his weight. If it starts dropping, you might want to look into Pulmocare. Also, if you can get an oxygen concentrator ready or have one on standby, it helps immensely. Good luck!

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. 😁