Dreamy Warrior

Generally, when you think of cancer, you think words like 'cure', 'remission' and 'surgery'. Since diagnosis, I've learned a lot about the cancer world. How doctors don't like using 'remission' anymore. Now they use 'NED' or 'No Evidence of Disease'. Also, if they deem you inoperable, you are therefore also incurable. I'm one of the 'lucky' ones who can't have surgery. My cancer is too spread out into my lymph nodes. It's too risky, too extensive a surgery to undergo. My surgeon said it's always possible to find someone willing to cut me open, but he suggests against it for my quality of life. He said that during recovery, the cancer could just grow back. Because diffused gastric cancer is tricky like that. Their cells can't really be seen on scans because they're too 'flat'. I won't get into the nitty gritty, there are medical journals for that. Suffice to say, I have been living th...

I've been wondering what to write about next. I come up with ideas of things that might help enlighten others, help other patients... but I never sit down to write them. I either don't feel well enough or my brain is foggy. I guess today I'll talk about how over the last 4 months I've learned to live 2 weeks at a time. That means I try not to plan anything more than 2 weeks ahead - and it stresses me when I'm forced to. Visitors, treatment plans... it's never anything I actually want to do. I've just been existing, having trouble finding joy in the things I used to love, and sometimes even in people that I do love. I frantically refresh my support groups, still looking for an answer to everything. I have found solace in the fact that I'm not alone. And yet somehow within my young people's support group, I still manage to be the odd one out. Everybody else is on a curative path, or has completed treatment. Meanwhile I'm just... coasting. I...

There are too many variables up in the air when it comes to most cancer treatments. Some are lucky and have localised cancers which can be cured with surgery or radiation. Some are less lucky and need to undergo chemo/radiation to shrink the tumours before they can have surgery. Some are even less lucky, like myself, who are given little opportunity for 'cure'. Just because the cancer decided to take the party outside the stomach and into distant lymph nodes, liver and bone. At least that's what the last CT scan showed - that there is more metasteses BUT we are shrinking them with chemo. So we're buying me some time. I still feel like shit on chemo but this round has so far been more tolerable. I'm staying on top of nausea better - though I'm getting this weird "ball" sensation stuck in my mid esophagus. Some burping tends to relieve it but it's a strange spot for gas to get stuck. Not to mention I overate at dinner and was miserable all night ...

This month is apparently stomach cancer awareness month. Did you know about stomach cancer before I got diagnosed or whatever reason you've come across this blog? Did you know anything about it? Did you know the ribbon colour for it is periwinkle? Did you know that most people don't get diagnosed until it's a late stage? There are so many different kinds of stomach cancers - you'll hear about them in support groups. Diffused gastric adenocarcinoma. Linitis Plastica. Signet Ring Cell Carcinoma. And sometimes if you're lucky like me, you have a little bit of all of the above. Mainly the first kind- diffused poorly differentiated adenocarcinoma. It translates to "You're fucked." They say one of the symptoms of stomach cancer is nausea. What the fuck? People get nauseated often - they don't automatically think "Oh shit maybe I have stomach cancer." I didn't show any major symptoms until March of this year when I started getting a pain...

I feel absolutely awful today. I had a great weekend last week, seeing close friends from Twitch and doing amazing fun meaningful things with them. Then I got a tiny sore throat which turned into a cough and when I went to get my bloods done, the doctor immediately started talking about admitting me to hospital - which triggered my PTSD big time. Anxiety shot through the roof and my entire day was just ruined. They made me wait while they tested my bloods, when usually I would just go home and get the results on chemo day. My white blood cell count came back fine, but they still wanted me to go on antibiotics just in case. So now my gut health is all over the place. Stools are loose and my stomach hurts. Not to mention I haven't slept well due to coughing/choking/sternum pain every night waking me up. I vomited stomach acid - I cough so much it just comes out like an open faucet because of the stents. I don't get it - I don't understand what is happening. I also feel fo...

Good days are hard to come by. When they do, it usually revolves around having no issues with eating. Great energy. Bowels are working. Things we usually take for granted. So many people will walk through life with not a care in the world - having no idea of the cancer-ridden people next to them who is having severe indigestion and feels like they're about to die. So yeah, when a good day rolls around, it's great. I have energy, I have happiness. My mum calls it "high". Saying I'm "high" already when I'm in a good mood. It makes her happy to see me happy and I want to give her more moments like these. Even if it's just me being an idiot. Which is what I used to do all the time. But when night falls, and things get quieter... the thoughts get louder. The thief of happiness starts creeping in, ready to steal all the good things away from me. Ready to tell me it's fleeting, pointless and that I will be dead. He must be great at parties. ...

When I last had to admit myself into hospital, the form was pretty straight forward. When I had to do it for my initial diagnostic scope, I just had to add that I'd had laparascopic surgery before. In a very short amount of time, all that has changed. Now, I have a list of medications to include. I have to tell them I have esophageal stents and I also have to let them know that I have a 'power port' or port-a-cath. What's that, you might ask? WELL... as soon as we confirmed that I was going to be on this clinical trial, I was booked in to get a port "installed". It sounded simple, painless and convenient. The oncologist said it's a little device that sits under the skin. Ummm.. okay. This is how it's "installed" (GRAPHIC VIDEO!) I was lucky that the radiology surgeon who installed my port was a pro and liked to listen to music while he worked. So we put on some Queen and I was awake the entire time, talking away apparently. I told th...