My story is like so many other’s stories: healthy, semi-young, active, usually chose the salad over the fries, parked farther away in the parking lot to get some extra steps in , and looked at life “half-full.” No major health issues were ever reported when I did my annual doctor visits until 2022. In July, my doctor found that I was very anemic and a small “something” in my breast. A mammogram followed, with an ultrasound, and eventually a biopsy. The day they gave me the results, I jumped for joy and all my coworkers celebrated a clean biopsy with me. I had eluded a terrible battle and was so happy. It also created the reality that so many other women live in: for just a brief time, I lived with and planned life with breast cancer. Whew! I dodged that bullet. Fast forward to August, a month later…

I lay in the ER, finally out of pain, thanks to this wonderful nurse and fentanyl. The doctor entered, and told my husband and I that it was not the gall bladder, as previously expected, but a mass in my colon. We were not allowed to jump to conclusions, but a colonoscopy was next to determine what that thing was. The colonoscopy told us it was cancer — large, the size of an orange — in the ascending colon, and a colectomy was scheduled within 3 days. The surgeon did her job and removed said colon tumor and lymph nodes, and reported she thought she “got it all,” because she couldn’t see anything else that would indicated cancer anywhere else. The near-future brought surgery recovery, a port implanted, a  punctured lung in the process, a PET scan, and oncologist appt to start chemo. Fast forward to Oct…

Inoperable, Stage IV (metastasis to liver), with five tumors. This small-town, elderly doctor encouraged me with the fact that I was healthy and young enough to get all they had to throw at me and see what happens. I asked about surgery on the liver and he said liver surgeons like the tumors all together to go in and pluck them out, but mine were spread out through my whole liver, according to the black dots on the PET scan. The gut punch was as bad as the pain the week before the diagnosis. My daughter sat with me in complete shock, and holding back tears. I asked what other options there were and he said none, we will see if we can beat it. I knew that wasn’t enough for me. I’m not in the habit of waiting for very much in my life.

I was scheduled for infusion on my 32nd wedding anniversary. I sat in the chair, with a spark of determination, running the list of side effects through my head and trying to figure out my battle plan. I then came to the conclusion that if I did not control cancer, it would surely control me. Inoperable and wait was not the strategy that sounded successful to me. I knew I had to show up and fight for my health, like there was no tomorrow , or there really wouldn’t be. So I sat in the infusion chair with my phone, an started looking up everything I could about MCRC, metastasis to liver. I knew I could not leave my health to chance. I had to know my enemy—my disease—and all that it entailed. I knew there was someone out there bigger than my small-town doctor. Not to discredit his experience, but his “end-of-career” phase didn’t seem to benefit me. I found a clinical trial, my phone said, of a pump implanted in to the abdomen that put chemo directly into the liver to kill cancer. I asked my current doctor about this trial and his reply was, “They do that somewhere, not sure who though,” and off to infusion I went. My fire grew. My husband’s job and research lead me to a very large hospital about 4 hours away that is one of the top 5 in the country. I made an appointment for a second opinion. Meanwhile the side effects were brutal and foreign. I’m not a person to nap. I’m not a person to be waited on. I pull my own weight, I work, I make my husband’s lunch, I am a wife and mother who has run a home and family, yet I laid on the couch, sick… and my fire grew.

Safari took me to many places with ideas on how to manage FULFOX side effects. I figured, if I could manage and tolerate the side effects somewhat, I could finish this treatment and kill this demon. I changed diet, nausea meds, and found ideas to help with neuropathy and other awful “new normals.” I changed my perspective. Instead of dreading every other Wednesday, I embraced it fully. I wanted the “killing juice.” I was ready to fight and help this poison do it’s magic. My battle plan was forming and with each infusion, my fire grew. The second opinion confirmed the first, BUT – she wanted me to see her surgical oncologist, one of the few surgeons that put in HAI pumps. The appointment with the surgeon was quick and glorious! With the collaboration of the Tumor Board, she entered the room and with a big smile and pat to my knee stated, “We’re going to get this out of you!” My reply was, “It is inoperable..?”

“Not in my house,” she stated. My fire grew.

My research continued and my remedies for side effects grew, but not as quickly as my chemo accumulation. It was a struggle, but I made it through 12 rounds. During that regimen, I had a liver ablation and liver resection that removed 70% of my liver and implanted an HAI pump, followed with 6 months of FUDR, the cleanup chemo put directly into my liver. Although difficult, each step brought up my percentage of survival, which was bleak to say the least. I never believed the numbers and percentages of survival, and despise doctors that give those time frames.

I survived the chemo rounds and rang the bell in November of 2024. No signs of cancer. I believe “cancer-free” was the term they used. The holidays were magical. Such a blessing! In early January I noticed a lump in my neck. The devastation was overwhelming. A phone call to my oncologist and an urgent trip to the distant hospital confirmed the worst, with a biopsy. It had come back very quickly and was living in a lymph node in my neck. My BRAF mutation had not responded to the treatment as well as hoped.

This was a tough one. 6 weeks of victory, only to be thrown in to battle again. The doctor told me this journey will be a challenge… I know what that is code for: “nearly impossible.” After a week of depression (something I have never experienced), I got up off the couch, adjusted my emotional and spiritual armor, and lit my fire again.

I started a targeted oral treatment in February (Valentine’s Day), and another surgery in April to remove that lymph node and 32 others around it. The good news was out of those 32, only 2 had cancer, including the enlarged one, and 2 had dead cancer cells. Those ratios were positive. Infusion started again, biweekly with a whole new different set of side effects. Research commenced and after the first 2 infusions, I dove into new natural ways to elevate my discomforts. The rash that accompanied this infusion was horrific. I struggled 2 rounds with this and found a natural remedy, never to have it again. The other side effects I worked on with my doctor. I currently am still on this treatment of pills daily and infusion bi-weekly. They are truly astonished that I am able to maintain this treatment, and am currently NED. As of my latest signature test, there is no sign of cancer in my blood. I will continue until April, the 2-year mark, and my oncologist said a break has been earned. We will continue with signatures, which are liquid biopsy tests to catch anything that may pop up in the blood. I know my reality is a lifetime battle, and I’m ok with that. We all only have a lifetime.

Please don’t misunderstand me, I had some very low moments. I gave myself time to be mad, sad, and downright pissed off. Why me? But then, why anyone? I joined a family I did not want to be a part of on August 26, 2022, but a family it is. We have all had these emotions and outbursts. It’s natural and should not be condemned. I didn’t stay in that mindset and with the help of my husband, who just held me while I yelled, cried and cursed, I got out of it quickly. He wouldn’t let me sit and stew in it. And for that I am eternally grateful. We are all entitled to our emotions. Diseases and diagnosis bring you to a true sense of mortality, how fragile life is, and how we can be hit in the face with death. Choosing to embrace death is a personal choice, and I strongly believe that each of us has the right to make that choice on our own. I choose to fight for life. I choose to help others in my situation. I choose to encourage them to look forward, and see this or any other disease as a challenge and not an end.

If I can be used to encourage others, then I have a true purpose, more than I ever had before my diagnosis. I know we all have an end date. When you are diagnosed with a disease, such as cancer, you get a small glimpse of what might end your time here on earth. Not everyone has that information, and I am not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse. That being said, when I go to meet my Lord, it will be His timing. It will be then and only then that my fire will dim.