My name is Jacob Rich. I am a father of 2 boys, 18 and 11 years old. I was just diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer on July 28th, 2025, and a large portion of my colon was cut out along with some intestines and bladder. The cancer has spread to my lymph nodes. I am starting chemo soon.

I try to work as much as I can, but I am not making enough to pay mortgage bills and ostomy supplies, etc.

MY FIGHT IS FOR MY SONS

I want to see my boys get older and do fun things with them, but with the stress of bills, medical costs, and not being able to work 40 hours, money is the main factor in being able to fully concentrate on fighting cancer and healing so that I have more time to live and be a father. Some fights you choose, and some choose you. For me, that fight began the day I was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. The words hit me like a physical blow, a weight I’ve carried every day since. It’s a relentless, exhausting battle, but it’s not just my life on the line. I’m fighting for the chance to see my sons grow up.

This disease has changed everything. It’s given me a colostomy bag, a constant, physical reminder of what I'm up against. It’s a struggle no one talks about. The fear of leaks, the public stares, the constant feeling of being exposed—it’s a heavy burden to bear on top of the cancer itself. It makes every simple task a mental hurdle, and every outing a source of anxiety.

But what truly hurts isn't the physical pain or the daily challenges. It's the heartbreaking thought of what I might miss. I look at my 11-year-old and imagine the moment he gets his driver's license. The sheer joy, the nervous excitement, the freedom of that first car ride—a milestone I’m terrified I won’t be here for. Then there's my 18-year-old, on the cusp of his journey to becoming a great man. I want to see him succeed, to offer advice, to be there to witness his victories and help him through his struggles. The thought of not being able to see him become the man I know he can be is a thought that haunts me more than any test result.

Maybe my biggest struggle, though, has been navigating a healthcare system that feels less like a place of healing and more like a business. Without insurance, I’ve felt a sense of judgment from the moment I walk through the door. I’m not always seen as a person in a life-or-death battle, but as a financial risk, a problem to be solved with a bill. The compassion I’ve needed most has often been replaced by a cold transaction, and it’s a lonely feeling to know that your life is a line item on a balance sheet.

That’s why I'm sharing this. The stress of this fight, the constant worry about how to afford the treatments that could give me more time, is a battle of its own. It's time I could be spending with my boys, making memories, or simply resting. The donations I receive won't just go to bills; they will buy me peace of mind. They will help me live longer and, just as importantly, live with less stress. They will give me the greatest gift of all: more time to be a father, to fight for every single milestone, and to show my sons what it means to be a man who never gives up, no matter the odds. Any donation gives me a little more time with my sons. God bless.