<div><strong><em>I'm a dad. A husband. A three-time cancer fighter. And I should be dead.</em></strong>
</div>
<div>On June 3rd, 2025, Sarah and I should have been celebrating 25 years of marriage. Instead, I opened the patient portal on my phone and read the pathology report from my lung biopsy. <strong>Stage 4.</strong> The cancer was back. It had spread to my lungs and bloodstream. They gave me four months.
</div>
<div>I looked at my wife, my partner through everything, and we decided that wasn't good enough.
</div>
<div>This wasn't my first fight. Since 2021, I've battled head and neck cancer. <strong>Seventy rounds of radiation. Twenty chemotherapy treatments. A high-risk five-hour radical neck dissection where surgeons cut from behind my ear to my collarbone.</strong> Sarah, a disabled veteran, held our family together while I fought. We raised two sons, one with special needs. I kept working as a project manager between treatments. I kept showing up.
</div>
<div>Then something happened that the doctors didn't expect.
</div>
<div><strong>The cancer started shrinking.</strong>
</div>
<div>My oncologist called it remarkable. I call it a miracle. A miracle built on faith, an incredible medical team, and an integrative treatment plan that combined conventional medicine with therapies most oncologists never mention. High-dose IV vitamin C. Repurposed medications. A complete overhaul of how I fuel my body. I documented everything.
</div>
<div><strong><em>I'm still here. And I want to help others walk this same path.</em></strong>
</div>
<div>I've built a website, WaynesCancerJourney.com, where I share my protocols, my research, and my story. I'm writing a book so others facing this nightmare have a roadmap. Every day I hear from cancer patients asking what I did. I want to keep answering them. I want to keep being living proof that there's hope.
</div>
<div>But the fight isn't over.
</div>
<div><strong><em>The Cost of Surviving</em></strong>
</div>
<div>The radiation that saved my life also destroyed my nerves. I live with excruciating chronic pain every single day. Nerve damage. Muscle spasms that seize my neck without warning. Pain that never stops, never fades, never gives me a break.
</div>
<div>And I lost my voice. For a project manager, your voice is everything. I lost my career. I lost my income.
</div>
<div>Now I'm trapped in what they call the SSDI donut hole. I can't work. I can't collect unemployment. And my first disability check won't arrive until mid-February. Meanwhile, the bills keep coming.
</div>
<div>My immunotherapy, Keytruda, gives me a fighting chance. But the treatments that are actually healing the damage? Insurance says no.
</div>
<div>Where Your Donation Goes
</div>
<div><br />
</div>
<div><strong>Alpha-Lipoic Acid (ALA) Infusions: $5,500 per cycle</strong>. This treatment can actually repair the nerve damage from radiation. It could give me my voice back and reduce the relentless pain. My insurance won't cover it.
</div>
<div><strong>High-Dose IV Vitamin C Infusions: $2,400 per month.</strong> These infusions support my immune system and help my body tolerate treatment. Research backs it. My insurance won't.
</div>
<div><strong>Repurposed Medications: $500 per month</strong> for off-label cancer-fighting drugs that studies show can slow tumor growth. Not covered.
</div>
<div><strong>Copays and Medical Expenses: $10,000 annually</strong> in out-of-pocket costs for scans, appointments, and treatments.
</div>
<div><strong>Survival Until Disability Arrives:</strong> Groceries. Utilities. The basics to keep my family afloat until mid-February when SSDI finally kicks in.
</div>
<div><br />
</div>
<div><strong><em>Why I'm Asking</em></strong>
</div>
<div>This is the hardest thing I've ever done. Harder than the surgery. Harder than the chemo. Asking for help goes against everything in me.
</div>
<div>But my family still needs me. My son with special needs lives in a group home, and I'm his primary support for every specialist visit. My other son is navigating his early twenties, and I want to be the dad who's there for him. Sarah and I spent our 25th anniversary reading a cancer diagnosis on my phone. I want to give her a 26th worth celebrating.
</div>
<div><br />
</div>
<div><strong><em>One share. One prayer. One donation. It all matters.</em></strong>
</div>
<div>Thank you for standing with me.
</div>
<div>With gratitude,
</div>
<div>Wayne
</div>

Anonymous

thomas rollo

Chad Latvaaho

richard mueske

Stage 4 Cancer Took Dad’s Voice, Job and Insurance

Still $2,000 to go. Help us build momentum.