My partner, aged 38, complained of severe pain on the right side of his abdomen in September 2024, like stabbing pains but not continuous.
He decided to see his doctor, who ordered blood tests and an ultrasound scan. Everything came back fine, except that he was still in pain. So he decided to have a CT scan, which also came back fine.
Unable to diagnose the problem, the doctor advised him to make an appointment with a gastroenterologist. By the time he told us this, it was already late October.
I made an appointment: a three-month wait, with the appointment on January 25, 2025. At the end of this appointment, our gastroenterologist recommended a colonoscopy, scheduled for February 17.
After the colonoscopy, he tells us that the appendix doesn’t look very good (pus) and that we should make an appointment with a surgeon.
So we start the process of finding one as soon as possible.
First appointment in early March, then a proposal to remove the appendix scheduled for March 27.
The operation went well. The surgeon advised my husband to make an appointment with our gastroenterologist for April 7 to get the biopsy results, because everything is analyzed after every operation.
I should point out that March 27 was a Thursday.
On Saturday, March 29, we received the appendix operation report via the health portal.
My husband isn’t the type to read, but I absolutely wanted to read it. I’m curious by nature and especially interested in everything that’s going on.
As I read, the ground fell away beneath my feet and my world collapsed: appendicular tumor with diffuse carcinomatosis throughout the peritoneum.
I wasn’t ready to read this kind of news, and I wondered how it was possible to put this on the patient’s health portal without telling him first.
I spent the weekend crying. My partner, who was more detached, told me that there must be a mistake or that maybe I was overreacting, that it didn’t mean what I thought it meant, and so on.
On Monday morning, at 9 a.m., instead of going to work, I went to the surgeon’s office. In tears, I asked his assistant if I could see the surgeon because I had questions to ask him, that we had learned about a tumor through the health portal and that it was impossible to leave me like this without really knowing, that it was unbearable.
She listened to me, and I think I moved her. She asked me to wait in the waiting room and said she would call the surgeon because he was about to go into surgery. I heard the conversation, and I especially heard the surgeon ask his assistant how it was possible that we had received the report via our health portal without having been officially notified.
I realized that this was a human error. The surgeon agreed to take my call and answer my questions, while remaining vague. He told me that he was making assumptions, but that he was waiting for the biopsy results and advised me to see our gastroenterologist, who was in the same building.
So I asked the surgeon’s assistant if she could contact the gastroenterologist’s assistant to see if I could come in, which she agreed to do.
The gastroenterologist saw me between two patients. He asked me what he could do for me, and I asked him to tell me the truth. He said: “Yes, your husband has cancer, and I can tell you right now that he will need chemotherapy. We are currently waiting for the biopsy results to find out what type of cancer it is, but it is definitely cancer.”
I broke down. I said to him, “So I can tell him before our appointment on April 7?” He said, “Yes, you can, and above all, keep in mind that it’s a curable cancer.” I left his office like a robot on autopilot.
I had to tell the man I love that he had cancer. How could I find the words without breaking down?
How is it possible to tell the man you love that he is sick?
I called his brother because I was distraught and, above all, I didn’t know how to broach the subject.
We met at home and I told him: “I didn’t go to work, I went to the clinic. I couldn’t stand not knowing, and the doctor confirmed that you do have cancer… but that it’s curable. You’ll have chemotherapy, and he’ll tell us the treatment plan on April 7.“ His reaction was incredible, totally detached. He said, ”Great, I can’t wait for Monday to start everything,” and he never cried.
April 7, diagnosis: appendicular adenocarcinoma with peritoneal carcinomatosis.
Protocol: implantable port inserted on Thursday of the same week and first chemo on April 16, Folfox.
The gastroenterologist tells us that he is sending his file to a hospital in France that specializes in carcinosis, but that he doesn’t think he will get an answer right away. Incredibly, we get an answer after a week.
My husband’s file is “accepted”—am I allowed to use that word? As if it were a selection process? Yet that’s how we feel.
The professor tells our gastroenterologist that five rounds of chemotherapy are needed and that he then wants to meet with him to perform a laparoscopy and see whether he is eligible for CHIP or not.
The chemotherapy is very well tolerated, with no debilitating side effects apart from tingling in the extremities and sensitivity to cold.
We call on a lady who has a gift, a “fire cutter,” who works on him remotely, and we are convinced that she has a lot to do with the fact that he feels almost no side effects.
He continues to live his life as normal and, above all, he does not feel sick and does not act sick, which makes it less difficult for me psychologically, because our greatest fear when faced with these diagnoses is to see the person we love suffer.
We have an appointment with the professor on June 20, who explains to us that CHIP is curative and that Pipac is palliative—the words are frightening. The laparoscopy took place on June 24. Everything went well, and we broke down when we were told that he was eligible for CHIP.
The surgery was scheduled for August 7, but before that, he had to undergo two more rounds of chemotherapy, as it is a 12-round protocol: seven before and five after.
The operation went well and lasted 6.5 hours: removal of the right colon, gallbladder, omentum, part of the rectum, resection of the liver, and clearance of the diaphragm.
I wasn’t able to see him until the next day in intensive care, and it’s true that I wasn’t warned, but he was all swollen. I was shocked, but I had to put on a brave face so as not to cry in front of him. He wasn’t in pain; the pain was very well managed with an epidural, morphine, etc.
He was in great shape for five days and was walking again after four days.
Then, on August 13, hell began for him: severe pain throughout his back that nothing could relieve, and shortness of breath at the slightest effort. But we were told that this was normal because his body was beginning to react and understand.
For my part, as I found him to be in worse shape than after the surgery, I was not at ease, especially since my partner is not used to pain and seeing him suffer like that, I did not understand.
Until August 15, at 9 p.m., when he couldn’t breathe, his heart raced, and he was quickly taken care of (blood tests, etc.). The result: two bacteria: Staphylococcus aureus and Acinetobacter.
While waiting for the right antibiotic, he was given a broad-spectrum antibiotic that worked immediately, and he felt better right away.
We went home with home medical care because he had to be on an antibiotic IV until September 4.
In summary, the operation itself did not cause him any pain. To date, the scar is very nice, he is eating properly again, but what traumatized him the most was really these bacteria. He really suffered and was afraid, but he was well cared for and helped by the medical staff.
We are now 6 weeks post-op. He had another blood test with markers and a scan last week. Everything has been sent to the professor, who will contact us this Friday, the 26th, to discuss his health and the next steps (resuming chemotherapy, etc.).
He is a little apprehensive about the chemotherapy, even though he tolerated it very well before the operation, but he remains positive and can see the light at the end of the tunnel. He’s hanging in there, he’s strong, and he amazes me. I know that his strength of character and positivity will overcome everything. Thanks to him, I believe it.
It’s terrible, but I’m the one who is sadder than he is; he’s the one who has to cheer me up. Sometimes I’m ashamed of being so sad. I hope he can see how much I love him.
I am young, 33 years old, and it’s true that we think these things only happen to other people. I never thought I would experience this, or if I did, it would be much later in life. I surprise myself, because I have hardly broken down in front of him. I am continuing with my professional and personal life while being there for him.
I am grateful to our gastroenterologist and his multidisciplinary team meetings, which enabled our file to be sent to this wonderful professor. I know that this is an incredible opportunity and we are very grateful.
I believe in the future and remain hopeful.
Finally, thank you to this wonderful professor and his availability.