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

Dana Martin87 said:My dad passed away this Wednesday. He fought colon cancer for four long years. By the time they caught it, it was already too late for a cure. But despite that, he stayed remarkably fit for most of those four years; he could walk several miles a day without breaking a sweat, though he didn't tolerate the cancer pain at all. He went through several major surgeries during that time—recovery was brutal, but within a month, he’d be back on his feet, handling all his daily chores like nothing happened. Things took a turn for the worse in February when he developed a stomach ulcer. It nearly bled him out. He lost a massive amount of weight. After they operated on the ulcer, there was a brief window where he seemed to bounce back, regained some weight, and was active again—driving himself around, doing the grocery shopping... but then the rash appeared all over his body. I knew right then things were heading south. Following that rash, early in April, the severe nausea kicked in. It started with heavy diarrhea and then turned into constant vomiting. He was hospitalized briefly, 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 settled into something manageable. To anyone looking at him, he seemed fine, but he told me he felt it—even if it wasn't debilitating. Then, after a few okay days, the violent vomiting returned. Another hospitalization. He actually felt much better once he was back in the hospital; he started eating again, so they let him come home. But as soon as he stepped through the door, the vomiting started again, and two days later, he was back in the hospital for good. He couldn't eat anything at all anymore. They had to keep him on total IV nutrition. Surprisingly, he wasn't in pain. He stayed in the hospital until the end. We talked just the day before he passed; it was obvious he was rushing through the conversation because talking was becoming such an effort. That was the first time during this whole illness that he seemed truly disoriented. He actually called me to give me someone's phone number—someone I hadn't even asked for. My mom had been the one looking for that number. He got confused and thought he needed to give it to me. Yes, he had a long, grueling battle, but I think his story can offer some hope to people who receive a late cancer diagnosis. It doesn't have to mean you're immediately sentenced to agony and being bedridden. Aside from his last few weeks in the hospital, Dad remained mobile, stayed relatively pain-free, and until that ulcer hit, he still had plenty of strength left. He was always a strong man, and he remained so until the very end.

Please accept my deepest condolences. Given how advanced the stage was when it was discovered, he fought an incredible fight and held on until the end—four truly impressive years. You should be proud to have had a father like him. May he rest in peace.

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Hey everyone following this thread. I'm heading in for radiation soon—looks like I'll be doing 15 sessions... if anyone can share what their experience was like, or maybe someone close to you who went through it, I'd really appreciate it. Mostly just curious about the side effects, how the staff treats you during the process, and just the whole vibe of the procedure itself

Regarding the decision to turn down treatment—whether it’s radiation or chemo—honestly, I have no idea what I would do if I were in those shoes. My father chose to go through with chemotherapy, and for a while, he actually seemed to handle it reasonably well. But then, his blood counts just completely cratered to the point where nothing could fix it. Would things have played out differently if he had opted out of the chemo? We'll never know. Ultimately, though, it was the chemotherapy that finally took its toll on him; without it, the cancer, which had already metastasized everywhere, would have finished him much sooner.
My main priority was simply ensuring my father wasn't in pain.

As for getting an exact diagnosis, if someone isn't interested in pursuing treatment anyway, does it even matter? For my father, undergoing a bronchoscopy was easily one of the worst experiences of his life, and receiving the definitive diagnosis was what truly broke him mentally. So, I completely understand those people who prefer not to know.

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. 🙂

Eric Newman75 said:Which part of the body are we talking about right in the middle? A linear accelerator isn't going to radiate you in a way that affects everyone else around you, but there are some devices they actually insert surgically into the body, and those ones *are* radioactive.

The radiation targets the left side of my neck and the start of my chest on the left (my left side)... but according to the PET CT scan—to put it technically—it's the anterior mediastinum and further down on the right...

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. 🙂

Eric Newman75 said:If you aren't already, quit smoking—and do it at least a month before radiation starts. Smoking and radiation just don't mix. Boost your immune system. Eat as much fruit and veggies as possible, ideally raw, and grab some B-complex, magnesium, and calcium supplements... you know, for bone health. Get out there, walk, get some fresh air, exercise. Prep your body, prep your mind. You’re gonna feel weak, you might deal with nausea, dizziness, or a burning sensation. Think about transportation ahead of time; you can actually reach out to the Not Alone association, they drive the guys too. 😁

As for the therapy itself, it's fast and painless. Before that, you'll go in for "mapping," where the techs mark your path with colors on your skin. They'll get you positioned perfectly and comfortably, and you'll just replicate that exact spot when you show up for the first treatment. If those marks 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 at a specific spot, like a lymph node, or local, covering an entire area like the neck. Since you were assigned 15 sessions, I'm guessing it's adjuvant radiation after surgery. If you've been through the ENT department at KZT, I know what you've dealt with, so everything after this should feel like a breeze... 🙂

Thanks so much for the reply. I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's, so I didn't have surgery, just chemo. I finished six cycles, and that was three months ago. I had two tumors measuring 15x6x6 cm, and through chemo, they shrank down to 3 and 6.5 cm. Now, they're going to finish the job with radiation.
I've never smoked, and my blood work looks great right now. Right after my last chemo session, I started taking Biobran, then moved on to Ultra ABC Plus vitamins and B-complex, which I'm still taking. And yeah, I eat plenty of fruit. For almost two months now, I've been walking about four kilometers every single day, and since I live out in rural America, I've got all the fresh air I need...
I went for the mapping three weeks ago, so the marks are still there. They also made a mold of the part of my body getting treated, kind of like a custom mask or shield. I'll be doing the radiation over at the local clinic, and Dr. Galunic Bilic is guiding me.
All in all, what you wrote about the radiation doesn't sound too daunting at first glance, and it definitely seems easier than chemo. But whatever happens, I'll push through this final stretch.

Can you tell me a bit more about the transport and that association?

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! 🙂

Thanks

quietpilot87 said:Paul Campbell3, hang in there!

Regarding his decision, you're right—there's nothing you can do except give him the support he needs.

Thanks to you too. 🙂

That’s easy to say, but there’s always that question hanging in the air...

Jacob Stewart2 said:Who knows, maybe my father doesn't even have anything.

If they haven't done a bronchoscopy, I'm guessing they didn't take a biopsy either. If they just did a chest X-ray, it could be anything or absolutely nothing at all.

He doesn't necessarily have to start therapy, especially if he's getting up there in age, but he should at least finish the diagnostics so he actually knows what kind of opponent he's facing. 😉

Watch his weight. If things get tough, try using Pulmocare. And if you can get an oxygen concentrator ready, it helps a lot. Good luck!

There's definitely "something" there. 😁 He had a CT, and the results just confirmed what the X-ray showed. The one good thing about everything is that there are no secondary growths or pleural infiltrations.

I have a feeling that "getting to know" the enemy might actually do him more harm than good. It might sound stupid now, but in his head, he doesn't even perceive this as "cancer" because he hasn't received a final diagnosis. To him, it looks more like some "chronic illness" that's just bothering him.

Eric Newman75 said:Those are incredibly hard decisions, both for the patient and their family.
I refused treatment—both kinds. Chemotherapy is usually adjuvant, while radiation is primary. Even though everyone was against me—doctors and family alike—I refused to go under a linear accelerator. Sure, the cancer was huge; sure, according to standard protocols, they basically needed to drop an atomic bomb on me to eliminate the risk entirely—but I didn't have metastases in my neck, and that was the deciding factor. I fought the board's decision tooth and nail.

In the end, my surgeon—a total wizard with a scalpel—gave me a hug and said, "I love that you're smart and thinking for yourself. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't go through with radiation either; there's more harm than good in it."

It was a massive weight off my shoulders; before that, I felt like Jesus on the cross. And I wasn't playing games with my life; I studied everything carefully. I wanted to be treated as a unique case, not just some statistic in a medical chart. I have endless respect for that medical board—I know they represent a brain trust and nobody alive knows more about cancer than they do. But it's easy to talk big when it's not your life; this is my fight, and I make the calls.

Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat: I am NOT suggesting anyone go out and pick a fight with the medical board. I just want people to understand that when it comes to cancer, nothing is black and white, and nothing is set in stone. If there were metastases involved, there wouldn't even be a debate—I'd tell them to just cut it out if they have to. 😁

Respect. I know that kind of decision is brutal.
We’re waiting on a follow-up in five months to see how much things have spread, because his "growths" are massive.
As far as he’s concerned, he’s still keeping up with all his routines, just dealing with a slightly more frequent cough.
The rest of us? We’re struggling to handle the uncertainty of knowing everything is inevitably going downhill. And at the same time, we’re expected to just respect his choice. Honestly, I wish I had even a fraction of his faith. But it’s just not happening. 😢

Robin Diaz4 said:Regarding turning down treatment (like radiation or chemo), I honestly don't know what I would do if I were in those shoes. My father went through chemo, and for a while, he actually handled it okay, but then his blood work just tanked so hard that nothing could fix it. Would it have been different if he’d said no to the chemo? We'll never know. At the end of the day, it was the chemo that finished him off, not the cancer, which had already spread everywhere.
For me, the priority was just making sure my father wasn't in pain.

And about getting an exact diagnosis—if a person doesn't want to fight it, is there even a point? A bronchoscopy was hands down the worst thing my father ever went through, and getting that final, definitive diagnosis completely broke him mentally. So, I totally get why some people choose not to know.

I think that last part is exactly what the "issue" is with my father, too. I’ve eventually come to realize that a final diagnosis might actually crush him.
It started because he recently had some bad lab results regarding his bladder. They basically told him the sediment was full of malignant cells, and his doctor insisted he needed an urgent cystoscopy. I could see how terrified he was because I was the one driving him to all these tests. In the end, the results came back completely clear, and the repeat sediment tests were fine too.

So, I truly believe that refusing the bronchoscopy—which would finally confirm the cancer and its type—is, in a way, his "lifeline." As crazy as that sounds.

Paul Campbell3, I wouldn't go against faith if I were you. At the Mayo Clinic, they basically tell you that treating the mind is just as vital as treating the body. It’s not that they’re against alternative medicine—not by a long shot—as long as it doesn't interfere with the standard treatment plan. If a patient feels like honey, lemon, turmeric, or cinnamon might help, let them have it. These are healthy herbs that won't do any harm, and psychologically, they can act as a powerful placebo. They kickstart internal mechanisms we don't even fully understand yet. I've seen it happen—people given less than a five percent chance of survival just getting right back up out of bed.

Traditional medicine still has a massive uphill battle ahead when it comes to beating cancer. Now that I've looked into this a bit more deeply, I'm feeling pretty skeptical. It's like trying to fight a hundred different wars all at once; every disease is unique, and every single one has a million different subtypes and variations. It feels like an impossible mission. Those cells actually seem to have a sort of intelligence of their own. Researchers in Germany recently discovered that glioblastomas in the brain essentially create a backup system, which is why they keep coming back. What's the point of operating on or radiating one section if there's a whole reserve waiting on the other side of the brain? They haven't quite figured out why oral cancers recur at such high rates—it's almost a rule—but they know it's linked to saliva, where the body's own chemistry turns against itself. There have even been cases where the cancer vanishes while radiation and chemo are ongoing, only to resurface the second the treatment stops. The damn thing hides, camouflages itself, and plays dead. I'm oversimplifying here, obviously, just to illustrate the massive wall that doctors are hitting. There really are no rules. Surgery helps some people and fails others. Radiation works for some and does nothing for others, especially since it's so hard to get precise readings afterward, meaning new growths often go unnoticed. It all depends on the type of tumor, the individual's body, and sometimes, even their mindset. The psyche healing the body itself... nobody truly knows how. That's why, as a rule, doctors won't give you a definitive prognosis. They've seen it all—the miracles and the tragedies alike. 🙂

When my mother passed away from breast cancer ten years ago, it felt like it happened overnight. One minute everything was fine, the next she was gone. It all started with a cough and some back pain, then breathing issues landed her in the hospital, and two days later, that was it. No one—not even her—had any clue there was cancer or metastases involved. Up until those final days, there wasn't a single hint of what was actually happening. By pure chance, she essentially walked right through her own diagnosis without knowing it, passing away thinking it was just bronchitis. Honestly, given her temperament and how she viewed the world, maybe that was for the best. I don't know how she would have handled the endless rounds of chemo, radiation, or being stuck in a hospital bed. That kind of thing would have broken her spirit before the disease ever could. For us, though, it was a massive shock.
Looking at myself now, I’m the complete opposite. I’m a total health freak. I go for every checkup, every preventative measure, and I’m willing to try anything—every possible test, drug, or therapy out there.
In my eyes, the fact that my mom never went for screenings, checkups, or mammograms was purely selfish. Her fear of "finding something" was bigger than everything else. My first thought is always, "What happens to my kids?" if something were to happen to me tomorrow and I hadn't exhausted every single option available. But I guess we aren't all built the same way.

Sarah King25 said:Thanks, you too. 🙂

Easy to say, but there’s always that one question just hanging there in the air...

That's just how it goes with cancer. There are always going to be question marks hanging over everything. If someone decides to pass on chemo, you start spiraling with the same questions you're asking now—just sitting there dreading the day things take a turn for the worst. And yeah, you’ll constantly wonder if there was another way, if you could've done something differently to get a better result. It's natural to go there. It's part of the grind.
If someone decides to go through with chemo, you’re immediately staring down a whole new set of headaches. Will it actually work, or just backfire? Will it do what it did for my mother—shrink a massive tumor down to something almost invisible, making you think she was basically cured, only for metastases to come crashing back in six months later? Then there's the physical toll. How is her body going to handle the hit? Will she even be able to tolerate it? Look, it’s definitely easier to feel like you're actually fighting back when you have a plan in place, but chemo brings its own brand of terror. Cancer is just one of those brutal diseases—it’s hell for the patient and a nightmare for everyone around them, mostly because, historically, the word "cancer" has always been synonymous with the end of the road. On the flip side, medical tech has come a long way lately. And then, of course, there’s that unpredictable factor—people who defy every single statistic, surviving much longer than expected or even reaching full remission. Whether they go the chemo route or not, sometimes life just throws you a curveball.

From what I’ve learned, the most important thing during this whole fight is keeping your head up and staying mentally resilient—not letting yourself sink. In that regard, I get where your dad is coming from. It doesn't sound stupid at all to say he views ignorance as a lifeline; honestly, I totally get it.
Look, I get it—it’s rough for all of you. But honestly? He’s the one carrying the heaviest load right now. He’s doing exactly what he thinks will lift his spirits and help him navigate this mess—even if it doesn't look like much to anyone else. As a family, there isn't much left to do besides just standing by him, no matter how draining it gets. At the end of the day, that's just what being human is about—showing up and giving what you can when things hit the fan.

Eric Newman75 said:Paul Campbell3, I wouldn't go against that faith if I were you. At the Mayo Clinic, they basically tell you that treating the mind is just as important as treating the body.

This is what the oncologist told my parents.

Eric Newman75 said:That’s exactly why doctors usually won't give you a straight prognosis. They've seen it all—the miracles and the absolute train wrecks. They know better than to bet on a outcome when they've witnessed everything from total recoveries to the worst-case scenarios. 🙂

I'm with you on that. And honestly? It’s the truth. I know an oncologist who tells stories about patients hanging on for ten years—dealing with a diagnosis where most people don't even make it past eighteen months. If you actually hit the three or four-year mark, you're basically hitting the jackpot. We're fragile creatures, sure, but sometimes people are terrifyingly resilient. There's no way for anyone to predict that kind of strength ahead of time.

quietpilot87 said:We’re fragile creatures, I guess. But then there are those moments where we turn out to be terrifyingly strong—the kind of strength nobody sees coming.

You’re smart, girl. My late grandfather used to say, "Whatever a man can endure, nobody else can—not even a horse!" And he wasn't just talking; he had the scars to prove it, dealing with constant illnesses and disability his whole life. But he never, ever gave up.

Regarding that whole situation, I’ll keep it brief since it belongs in a different thread anyway—don't want to start cluttering this one up again.

Eric Newman75 said:Honestly, I just draw my inspiration from the people I meet. 🙂

Mr. S.—I don't even know his first name, all he told me was that he’s from California—is my absolute hero. He doesn't smoke, but man, does he love to drink. "Wine is my sin," he used to say, "wine is going to be the death of me." Honestly, it probably will be. I doubt he’s ever going to change his ways, but when he finally does, it'll be after one hell of a titanic struggle. That's just who he is: a fighter through and through. He swears like a sailor and speaks his mind with this raw, blunt honesty, no sugar-coating whatsoever. Nothing seems to phase him—not the endless surgeries, the radiation, or the chemo. Every time some bad news hit, he’d just bark, "To hell with them!" He’d say it about every single setback, and god knows there were more of those than any normal person could ever stomach. I wasn't exactly sure who he was aiming that at—I figured he meant the cancer cells and the metastases—but who cares? If that catchphrase helped him get through it, he could have shouted it from the top of a cathedral for all I care.

He never complained. Not once. Even the doctors and nurses kept saying the same thing—so you know it’s the truth. When we first met, he just blurted out, "Had an erection this morning. That's how I know I'm getting better. My wife will pay for everything when I get home." He had me laughing. Honestly, he had everyone laughing—me, the other patients, even the staff. He was a total legend in the ENT department at KZT. The procedure I went through—tumor removal and tissue grafting—he had to go back under the knife for it several times. There were issues with graft rejection, so he was practically a permanent fixture on that operating table. Let me lay it out for you so you understand exactly what kind of balls this guy has. We’re talking about the worst ten days of your life, regardless of what you've dealt with before. First off, your tongue is killing you. Out of the twelve cranial nerves, three end up right there. It’s moved by eight different muscles. It is an incredibly delicate, complex, and sensitive tool. Without it, you can’t talk and you can’t eat. Any surgery on that organ is basically suffering squared. Second, you've got your esophagus and trachea—the very tubes you need for breathing and swallowing. Your throat gets so irritated that taking air or swallowing becomes a nightmare. You find yourself counting the seconds between breaths or swallows just to stretch them out. And you *have* to breathe and you *have* to swallow because saliva pools in the wounds, choking you, forcing you to cough it up constantly. You mess up a dozen times, instinctively reaching for your mouth, only to realize everything ends up on your forearm or elbow because of the cannula in your neck. That’s actually the funny part of the story. The rest is grim. Third, your back absolutely destroys you because you have to lie perfectly still. You can't shift an inch. You can't relieve the pressure for even a second. If they ever invented a torture method based on that, it would be terrifyingly effective. And fourth, you try to deal with all that frustration by making these tiny, millimeter movements—lifting your head slightly, shifting your upper body, repositioning against the pillow—which just ends up giving you sores and blisters on your heels. I used to think it was impossible to bleed from sheer exhaustion, but it is. Absolutely. To wrap up this litany of misery—I don't know what could ever drive me to go through that again, God help me. But S. did it. One graft, then another, then pieces from his left side, then his right... I honestly don't know where they were scavenging parts from to do all that reconstruction. "Go ahead, screw you guys," he’d sort of mutter to the surgeons whenever they came around asking for permission. They didn't give up on him, but he sure as hell didn't give up on them either.

I pulled a disappearing act from the hospital after three weeks. It was early, sure, but I just couldn't take it anymore—I needed a total change of scenery. He’d been stuck in there for three months at that point. And he’s still there, which means it’s been nearly half a year now. "Screw them," he gave me a little wink when we crossed paths. "You're a legend, man. You don't see that every day—nobody gets out of a clinic that fast," he said, giving me props. "Man, I just hit a wall. I was too embarrassed to stay. The nurses were basically stripping me down to wash me, and I'm peeing like a damn puppy every five minutes," I shot back, matching his vibe. He just smirked, gave my shoulder a solid pat, and kept walking down the hall. When I was finally heading out after my check-up, he waved from a distance. Well, more like made some suggestive gestures instead of a normal wave. Yeah, Mr. S., we’re gonna screw them. I promise.

It’s been nearly three years now. Time moves so incredibly fast, yet the pain feels just as raw as if it happened yesterday. I rarely find myself opening this thread, but here I am... I just felt the need to say something.

Eric Newman75 - that post of yours should have been the very first one on this thread. It was so positive and encouraging; you really deserve a huge 🙂
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Dana Martin87 - I am so deeply sorry about your father. I remember you because we were posting at the same time, and I recall you mentioning he was doing well. So, seeing your post today—from a total stranger, really—it caught me off guard and truly saddened me. My heart goes out to everyone else following this thread too.

My father is gone; we fought through a situation that felt completely hopeless. To put it briefly, it was lung adenocarcinoma that went undetected until it was too late, with metastases in the adrenal glands, the brain, and the lungs... We fought with everything we had, but the chemotherapy eventually wore him down, and our healthcare system didn't make things any easier—though, honestly, I don't wish that experience on anyone. In the end, I found myself having to manage his medication adjustments myself and arranging proper care. I had to secure a place where we could be by his side 24/7, which meant dealing with being discharged from the ER in terrible condition in the middle of the night. I spent my days hunting down every alternative treatment, buying nausea medications and painkillers, reading every medical paper I could find, and gathering advice from people on this very forum. Ultimately, I was left haunted by the question of whether I could have done even more.
Later on, a wonderful woman at the pharmacy where I was picking up his supplies told my mother that she had never seen anyone fight as hard as her daughters did (it seemed like we were practically living there, given how often I was in 🙂). I broke down right then and there, because I still struggle with the feeling that it was never quite enough. Then again, I know people who fight until their very last breath, and that includes the incredible people on this forum who served as my inspiration and my strength. I truly, from the bottom of my heart, wish you all victories in your battles, and I hope you come through them as whole as possible.

Thanks, wishing you all the best as well. 🙂

Donna Ruiz67 said:Of course, I kept wondering if there was more I could have done.

I just can't stop thinking about this question....

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If you’d had more information—if you ever could have—then you absolutely would have made a different choice given those specific circumstances.

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Hey everyone!
I’ve been lurking and reading through this thread for about a year now—it’s been a tough ride, but honestly, a lifesaver.
So, back in May of last year, my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer that had already spread to her liver and lungs. She went in for surgery at the end of June 2018, and she’s living with a stoma now.
Yesterday, she ended up in the ER because of these intense pains in her shoulder blade and lower back that she's been dealing with for a while. Given everything she's going through, the doctors are worried it might be bone metastases.
The recommendation is to get a bone scan done as an outpatient, then follow up with the pain management clinic and, if possible, her oncologist.
As far as pain relief goes, the ER staff prescribed her some Zaldiar tablets and Transtec 35mg patches. Right now, she's taking Ketonal forte, but that only seems to help for a tiny bit.
She isn't doing chemo at the moment; her last round (the 4th cycle of 5-FU/LV) was on March 11th, and the CT showed things were holding steady. We saw the oncologist and the board about a month ago, and they decided to hold off on more chemo for now since she's only down to 47 kg and is struggling nutritionally. They told us to check back in once she builds some strength and feels better. Our plan is to reach out to the oncologist as soon as we get the bone scan finished.
I was wondering if anyone here has experience with those patches? Also, does anyone know where the best or fastest place is to schedule a bone scan? We’re based over in Washington, D.C.
One more thing—about that Zaldiar they prescribed... it's a mix of paracetamol and tramadol, but we're in a bit of a bind because her oncologist strictly forbade any paracetamol due to her liver. Out of all these options, what’s the "lesser of two evils" to help manage her pain without making things worse?

They kept pumping my father with all sorts of medications that, in hindsight, were systematically wrecking his liver; however, the doctors insisted that managing his pain was the absolute priority at the time.
In any case, I’d suggest trying to get a second opinion from an oncologist—perhaps they might have a more viable suggestion.
Before the diagnosis even hit, taking a Zaldiar tablet felt about as effective as popping a TicTac—completely useless. But once they switched him over to patches, the pain vanished entirely. As things progressed and the discomfort intensified, they simply increased the dosage of the patches, and I can honestly say that right up until the very end, my father wasn't in any significant pain.