One day, I was healthy. The next, I was staring at a surgeon

Life is a mystery, and tomorrow could be your last.

One day, I was healthy. The next, I was staring at a surgeon saying the word *Cancer*. "Squamous Cell Carcinoma, Stage One." I'm thirty-seven years old. How?

Three years ago, I barely survived a mental health breakdown. I clawed my way back—slowly, quietly—learning how to breathe again.

Just as I found steady ground, the diagnosis hit like a sledgehammer.

Christmas Eve, 2024. The world was getting ready to celebrate with family. I was alone in my room googling life expectancy for tongue cancer. The diagnosis was confirmed and surgery booked for 6th of February, 6 weeks later.

By surgery day, the cancer had grown like an ogre. Surgeons cut out half my tongue, and carved out 50 lymph nodes from my neck. The operation left me broken—my voice gone, swallowing agony, my face swollen beyond recognition. And still, it wasn’t enough.

Radiation came next. Six weeks of hell. It burned my mouth to blisters, stole my saliva, left me choking on pain. Food has no taste now. *Maybe never again.* Some days, lifting a cup of water feels impossible.

Now? I’m left with little optimisum for the future. Im not who I once was, i'm less capable and I dont see a future where i'm any healthier. Disability payments just cover the rent, if I’m lucky. I am limited with how many hours I can work before I become sick, and as rents get higher and my ability to earn collapses, homelessness isn’t just a threat; it’s now my reality. How long can I survive?

**So I’m begging please** For the first time in my life, I’m swallowing pride to ask: My chances of longevity, to continue treatments while keeping a roof above my head is to fund a camper/tent/caravan, help to fund a tiny corner of dignity —just a shell with a roof—so I don’t die on the street. I don’t want miracles. Just a place to endure what’s left of my existence.

Any help is a lifeline.

Thank you for reading. #NoOneDeservesThis