Please don’t take this GoFundMe the wrong way. I’m not bashing James. What I’m sharing are my thoughts — not known facts. These are my feelings about cancer, the pain it causes, and the real story of how it affects families.

RIP James.

My husband and James found out around the same time that they both had colon cancer. Both were young, in their early 40s, and both were stage 3B.

We followed his story and saw so many similarities. When we found out he passed — just a month after saying he was doing well — it scared us to death.

How? Why?

He was on FOLFOX, just like my husband. I’m sure James had excellent doctors and more options. He was worth millions. I’m sure he had great insurance. My husband is now on Medicaid and can’t work.

How did he pass, yet my husband is still alive?

My husband almost died twice during chemo on FOLFOX.

The first time was during his sixth treatment. He turned out to be allergic to the medication, and round six was when it showed.

He was hooked up to chemo when his throat started closing. He tried calling out for help but couldn’t. He tried reaching for the call button, but it was on the dresser — out of reach.

As he struggled, a nurse assistant happened to walk past the room and glanced in.

I had gone to the bathroom after seeing he was hooked up and resting in bed. Of course, the one time I wasn’t there, this happened.

A nurse came running into the bathroom screaming my name. She said, “Come quick, something is wrong with Steven.”

I cannot describe the fear I felt in that moment. My best friend. My partner of 17 years.

I was screaming, “What happened?” as I ran behind her.

When we got to the room, there he was — a doctor holding one arm, counting his pulse. His body was slanted on the bed, head down, legs up. A rag was on his head. He was white and blue. I was completely lost.

“What happened?” I kept asking.

They were telling him to open his eyes, trying to get any response, but he just laid there.

And here is where the power of love shines.

I pushed everyone out of the way and got to Steven. I grabbed his hand and yelled at him like any wife would.

“Steven! You better open your eyes right now! You are not going to leave me. You better come back. I love you. OPEN YOUR EYES!”

Slowly, his eyes opened for a brief moment. He looked right at me. Our eyes met. He squeezed my hand.

And I knew he was going to be okay.

The doctors couldn’t believe it. Me yelling at him actually brought him back. In that moment, everyone relaxed just a little, and they were able to prepare him for transport to the hospital by ambulance.

That memory will always be one of the worst — yet most beautiful — moments of my life.

Cancer is one hell of a rollercoaster.

We missed treatments because our car kept breaking down. I remember one time on the way home, our muffler literally fell off — and we just kept driving.

Cancer hits differently when it hits your own family.

Both my mom and dad died of cancer in 2008. I was 35 years old. Then one of my best friends found a lump and passed away within six months, a few years later, at 40.

Each time I felt a different kind of grief — but nothing compares to finding out your partner, your best friend, has cancer.

The ups and downs. The struggle. Begging friends for help. It gets old fast. There isn’t much help out there for the average family.

After the allergic reaction, we had to stop chemo. At that time, his bloodwork showed no signs of cancer. But we have to wait five years before anyone can say he’s cancer-free.

He has a mutation that makes his cancer aggressive. The doctors won’t say he’s cancer-free.

Steven refused to ring the bell.

He looked at the nurse and doctor and said, “Why would I ring the bell? I’m not cancer-free. And most of all, I don’t want to rub it in the faces of the people still here getting treatment.”

That’s who he is.

Then came our next adventure.

We went in for bloodwork, and nothing was coming out of his port. While sitting with the doctor, I noticed his arm looked blue-green and mentioned it.

The doctor sent us straight to the ER for an ultrasound.

The ultrasound tech was so kind. We got lucky again — God, or something, was working on our side that day.

She said, “I’m going to go a little higher up your neck.”

That wasn’t even on the original orders, but she checked anyway.

And there it was. A big blood clot.

He was admitted again. Put on medication to dissolve it. The port was removed and placed on the other side. He still takes blood clot medication, and now the newer power port isn’t working.

After surviving two life-threatening events, we’re right back to cancer.

When you think it’s over, it gets worse.

We thought maybe life would be okay

We were wrong.

Steven was a palliative care patient. During treatment and issues with his ileostomy, he was prescribed a large amount of pain medication.

He was taking 15 mg of oxycodone every 4–6 hours, along with Ativan, Gabapentin, and other medications.

Now here comes another issue

Steven became addicted to the pain medication he was prescribed.

He’s been tapering off for about five months.

He is not the same man.

He doesn’t smile anymore. He’s angry a lot. He feels like a failure because he can’t provide for his family.

There are days he won’t eat just to make sure our son and I do.

I watch him make a tiny plate or say he’s not hungry. It breaks my heart.

In 15 years together, I never saw him cry. Not once.

Before cancer, this was my husband:

One day we stopped for gas. He went inside to pay and came out smiling from ear to ear.

An elderly woman — probably around 80 — had shown him some Christmas earrings she bought. He told her they looked beautiful and wished her a Merry Christmas.

When he got back in the car, he said, “I’m sorry, I spent money I shouldn’t have.”

He saw her looking at earrings inside and heard her say she couldn’t afford them — so he bought them for her.

How kind can someone be?

He used to tell women over 70 how beautiful they looked. I used to joke that they were going to start chasing him.

That was my husband. The man who stole my heart.

Now he feels broken.

He is suicidal. He wonders why he’s still here and not someone like James — a man with six children.

He cries daily, saying the cancer is coming back.

I’ll admit — my heart broke when James died.

But then I saw his GoFundMe raise over a million dollars in one day.

That hit me hard.

My husband created a GoFundMe. We raised $240. We couldn’t even get people to share it — though I am so grateful for the few who helped.

I personally feel James could afford life insurance. I believe he likely had strong health insurance and wasn’t left in debt.

So my experiment begins.

What does it take to get help?

Tell me.

His original Gofundme is in photos.