⚠️ Disclaimer

This is a personal account of our experience navigating cancer diagnosis and treatment. It is not medical advice and should not be used to treat, diagnose, or guide healthcare decisions. Always consult a qualified medical professional. We are simply sharing our story, as truthfully and respectfully as possible.

Inside the Oncology Ward: Our First Day at U of C

I will forever remember our first experience with the oncology/hematology ward at the University of Chicago. By the end of that day, we felt isolated, disturbed, and completely jaded.

A Glimmer of Hope

Before any conventional treatments, Brad had already started to improve. He went from choking on water to eating chicken Caesar salad with just a few hiccups (we found a way around those, too). This happened after just eight days of taking cannabis oil orally. It was remarkable. In hindsight, I wish we had known about suppositories back then, which might have avoided the euphoric effects entirely.

The Diagnosis and the Wait

Brad had just started a new job and now had insurance, so he scheduled an endoscopy. The image the doctor took was damning — a large tumor wrapped around his esophagus, just above the stomach. He was referred to RUSH Chicago, where they performed a biopsy of his right lung to determine whether the cancer had spread. We stayed overnight.

Soon after, we were referred to the esophageal cancer trial (PANGEA) at the University of Chicago. His first appointment was scheduled six weeks after the biopsy, allowing healing time before starting chemotherapy.

Arriving at U of C

We pulled into the hospital parking garage, which charged $20. A voice came over the speaker — female, sultry, oddly seductive. "Take the ticket," it said, like Sharon Stone in Fatal Attraction. We were still in good spirits that day, hopeful. Brad had been feeling better. But the tone was set.

The elevators had the same strange, seductive female voice announcing the floors. Then we reached the 6th floor and signed in. Bowls of oversized Ring Pops and other candies sat on every counter — sugar, sugar, and more sugar.

Then came what we started calling “The Creepy Cart” — snacks wheeled through the waiting area: Rice Krispie Treats topped with marshmallows and chocolate. A literal glucose bomb, delivered with a smile.

Meeting the Dietician

We were soon greeted by a young oncology dietician who had just returned from maternity leave. She told Brad to gain weight by eating sticky buns, baked potatoes with all the fixings, ice cream — whatever it took.

We had done our own research and were stunned. Brad and I looked at each other and knew — we were on our own.

At the time, there were no signs of integrative support at U of C. No mention of nutrition beyond calories. No options beyond conventional treatment. It was clear: this was 100% traditional oncology.

The Nurse Introduction

Next, we met with an oncology nurse who started by saying, "Today I’m going to talk at you for about an hour about things you won’t understand." Her words. Her tone was cold, mechanical.

She explained that regardless of whether Brad's lung cancer matched the esophageal cancer, the chemo would be the same — she even laughed through her mask as she said this.

We were stunned. Why do the biopsy, then?

We kept calm. Brad was doing well and had started cannabis oil ten days earlier. Two days before his first chemo treatment, he swallowed solid food without issue.

The Doctor’s Visit

We waited for hours before finally meeting the doctor. The patient chair faced a full-length mirror. We wondered: Who wants to sit and stare at themselves while awaiting life-or-death news?

Then the doctor walked in and smiled.

"You're going to die," he said. "Even with chemo, you'll never be able to eat again. Today we're putting in a feeding tube."

Brad replied, "What are you talking about? I ate chicken Caesar salad yesterday. I'm having steak tonight."

His tumor had obviously shrunk, but the doctor acted like it was irrelevant. He told us that even in the lucky half of patients chemo helped, Brad had only a 5% chance of living another 18 months. If the cancer didn’t kill him, the chemo would.

He echoed the dietician's advice: "Fatten him up. Sticky buns."

Then he laid out a chemo plan: three types, used one after the other as each stopped working. Brad asked if living two more years was possible. The doctor shrugged: "Maybe."

The room was full of medical students watching silently. When the doctor left, Brad asked one of them if he really only had that long to live. The student awkwardly agreed. It was surreal, painful, and devoid of compassion.

Into the Ward

After the consult, we were led to the chemo ward. Each cubicle was separated by half-walls and a curtain. The lime-green recliners reminded me of an ER. The ward was clean. The staff, professional and kind.

Brad was diagnosed with adenocarcinoma, HER2 positive. He was set to receive 5FU, Herceptin (for HER2), and Oxaliplatin — a platinum-based chemo. His treatment began that day.

We brought a pillow, cribbage, cards, and snacks. I propped up his feet and gave him a foot rub. Nurses kept asking if he felt tingling in his fingers or toes. He didn’t.

We kept him hydrated. Our goal was to flush the chemo as quickly as possible. It worked. He felt good and left in high spirits.

The Infusions Continue

Two weeks later, the same treatment. Again, no tingling. Then a fourth drug was added: Cisplatin — another platinum. That changed everything.

It was snowing. We were in northwest Chicago when Brad suddenly pulled over, jumped out of the car, and collapsed with violent diarrhea in the snow. It was traumatic. He was disoriented and freezing. I got him cleaned up, into the car, and took the wheel. We found a bathroom nearby.

Winter came. Brad bundled up for his walks to work. The platinum drugs make cold unbearable, and a nurse friend warned us to keep him away from the freezer and always warm. We followed that advice strictly.

Brad completed 15 rounds of platinum chemo in total. His second chemo regimen actually had two chemotherapy drugs at once.

Looking Back

This is only part of the journey, but it remains burned into my memory: the candy carts, the mirror-facing chairs, the sterile tone, the percentages spoken like sentences.

I share this not to accuse, but to illuminate. For anyone walking this path — you are not crazy. You are not alone. And yes, there may be other ways.

Brad fought with incredible courage, and although he has since passed away, his story and spirit live on.