CHAPTER 1: WHEN CANCER COMES BACK

I’m sharing something that demanded more honesty and bravery than anything I’ve written before. Chapter 1 of my memoir, Still Here: How Faith, Food, and Family Beat Stage Four Cancer, is available below to read in its entirety.

May 1, 2024.

I lay on the ultrasound table watching the ceiling tiles blur as the radiologist guided a needle into my neck.

I’d been here before. Different room, different hospital, but the same cold table, the same antiseptic smell, the same feeling of helplessness as someone pushed a needle into your body to pull out pieces of you that would tell you whether you were going to live or die.

Four core samples.

I felt each one—not pain exactly, the lidocaine took care of that—but pressure. The sensation of something foreign invading your body, taking what it wanted.

The radiologist said something clinical and detached. “We’re done. You did great. Results in a few days.”

But I already knew.

The cancer was back.

You just know these things. Your body tells you before any scan or biopsy confirms it. The exhaustion that won’t go away. The swelling in your neck that shouldn’t be there. The fear that sits in your chest like a stone.

I’d already beaten cancer once. In 2021, I went through hell—radiation that burned me from the inside out, chemotherapy that made me so sick I couldn’t remember what food tasted like. I lost weight. I lost my voice for a while. I lost pieces of myself I didn’t know I could lose.

But I survived.

The scans came back clear. The doctors used words like “remission” and “non-detectable.” My family celebrated. We thought it was over.

We were wrong.

A few days after the biopsy, I sat in my living room viewing the pathology report on my cell phone. The cell phone felt too light for what it was about to tell me.

My wife was in the room also.

I read the words out loud, stumbling over the medical terminology I didn’t fully understand but knew was bad:

“Squamous cell carcinoma, p16 positive. Metastatic to the same lymph nodes.”

Sarah looked concerned.

“That does not sound good,” I said, quietly.

“Damn, your cancer is back,” Sarah said. “Same cancer. Same place. I told you not to trust them.”

The lymph node was over 2 centimeters, bigger than a marble. Not microscopic. Not “caught early.” It had been growing inside me for months while we celebrated my remission, while we thought I was safe.

I didn’t understand what “recurrent cancer” really meant until my oncologist explained the statistics.

When cancer comes back after treatment, especially in the same location, your odds change. Not slightly. Dramatically. The five-year survival rate for recurrent head and neck cancer drops significantly—some studies show it’s cut in half compared to a first-time diagnosis.

And I wasn’t just dealing with recurrence. The pathology would soon show positive margins—cancer cells at the edges of what they’d cut out. Positive surgical margins double or triple your recurrence risk. I was already stacking bad odds on top of bad odds.

But I didn’t know that yet. I just knew the cancer was back, and everything I’d been through—the radiation, the chemotherapy, the suffering—hadn’t been enough.

Recurrent Cancer

Recurrent cancer.

Those two words carry a weight that’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t heard them.

When you’re diagnosed with cancer the first time, there’s shock, fear, but also a weird kind of hope. Modern medicine is amazing. Surgery, radiation, chemotherapy—they save lives every day. You think, “Okay, this is going to be hard, but we can beat this.”

But when cancer comes back—when it survives everything medicine threw at it and shows up again in the same place it started—that’s different.

That’s not just bad luck.

That’s cancer that adapted. Cancer that learned. Cancer that refused to die.

And if it came back once… what’s stopping it from coming back again? And again? And again?

That question followed me everywhere.

May 31, 2024: Round Two

Thirty days after that biopsy, I was wheeled into an operating room for a five-hour surgery.

Three surgeons. A left neck dissection. They were going to remove the tumor and every lymph node they could reach.

“We’ll get it this time,” my surgeon said the night before. “We’ll be aggressive.”

I wanted to believe him.

Sarah and Jeremy hugged me earlier in the truck, when they dropped me off. Her eyes were red but she smiled.

“Call me right away when you wake up,” she whispered.

I remember thinking, as the anesthesia pulled me down, What if I don’t wake up?

I did wake up.

Groggy, disoriented, my neck wrapped in bandages, drains sticking out of my skin. A nurse was moving a tray around.

“It went well,” the nurse said. “They got everything they could see.”

Everything they could see.

That phrase stuck with me.

A few days later, the ENT surgeon came to my hospital room with the pathology report. He sat down—not a good sign. Doctors don’t sit unless they’re about to tell you something you don’t want to hear.

“We removed the tumor,” he started. “But the pathology shows some concerning findings.”

He explained it as simply as he could, but the words still hit like punches:

The cancer cells were at the edges of what they’d cut out. Positive margins. Microscopic disease left behind.

The cancer had broken out of the lymph nodes and was growing into the tissue around them. Extranodal extension.

The cells were poorly differentiated—aggressive, fast-growing, primitive.

“We’ll follow up with your oncologist. He probably will recommend radiation and chemotherapy,” he said. “That should take care of what’s left.”

I nodded, but inside I was screaming.

Should?

What if it doesn’t?

August 2024: Round Two, Part Two

The PET scan came back showing residual disease in my neck.

The surgery hadn’t gotten it all.

So I went through another round of hell. More radiation, thirty-five more treatments on top of the thirty-five I’d already endured in 2021. More chemotherapy, carboplatin and 5-FU pumped into my veins for three cycles. My second time through this nightmare in three years.

Seventy total radiation treatments.

Two full rounds of chemotherapy.

My body was breaking down. The radiation was hardening scar tissue, damaging nerves, and destroying the muscles that controlled my shoulder. My voice was getting weaker. My feet were numb from neuropathy, the chemotherapy attacking the nerves in my extremities.

People asked how I was doing, and I’d say, “Fine. Hanging in there.”

But I wasn’t fine.

I was terrified.

I was exhausted.

I was starting to wonder if my body could take any more.

December 30, 2024: A Moment of Hope

The PET scan came back clear.

I sat in the doctor’s office, staring at the report, afraid to believe it.

“No convincing metabolic findings to suggest residual metastatic disease.”

Clear.

No active cancer.

The doctor smiled. “This is great news, Wayne. Everything we see appears to be post-treatment changes. No cancer.”

I called Sarah from the parking ramp, my hands shaking.

“We did it,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’m clear.”

She cried. I cried.

We celebrated New Year’s Eve 2025 like we’d been given a second chance at life. Because we had.

But the cancer wasn’t done with me yet.

February 22, 2025: The Nightmare Returns

Fifty-four days after that clear PET scan, I sat in an exam room waiting for my oncologist to discuss my chest CT results.

The oncologist came in with a look I recognized. The same look from three years ago. From one year ago. The look that says, I’m about to ruin your day.

“We found some nodules in your lungs,” he said carefully. “Small—just a few millimeters—but they weren’t there on your last scan.”

My stomach dropped.

“What does that mean?”

“We don’t know yet. They could be scar tissue, infection, or inflammation. Or they could be something else. We’ll need to watch them.”

I knew what “something else” meant.

The report said it plainly:

“Multiple new bilateral pulmonary nodules, measuring 5 mm or less. These are indeterminate, though suspicious for metastatic disease.”

New nodules. In both lungs.

Right lower lobe: 4 millimeters.
Left upper lobe: 5 millimeters.

Small—barely visible—but there.

The Waiting Game

For three months, I lived in a nightmare.

Every morning, I woke up wondering if cancer was growing inside me. Every night I lay awake feeling those nodules in my chest, even though I know you can’t feel something that small.

The doctors kept saying, “We’ll watch it. Small nodules can be anything. We’ll scan again in a few months.”

But I knew.

Deep down, I knew.

The cancer had broken out of my lymph nodes months earlier, the pathology report had said so. Extranodal extension. It had been spreading systemically while we focused on controlling the local disease in my neck.

And now it was showing up in my lungs.

May 19, 2025: The Worst Day

The follow-up CT scan came back.

I was sitting in my car in the hospital parking lot when my phone buzzed. The patient portal notification.

Most people wait for their doctor to call and explain scan results gently, with context and reassurance. But I’d learned to check the portal immediately, I couldn’t stand the waiting. I’d log in from my phone and read the raw radiology reports before anyone had a chance to soften the blow.

So when the notification came through, I pulled up the app in my truck.

Alone.

No doctor to explain. No nurse to hold my hand. Just me, my phone, and the words that would shatter everything:

“Bilateral pulmonary nodules increased in size and number as compared to previous examination consistent with progressive metastatic disease.”

I read it three times, hoping the words would change.

They didn’t.

Progressive metastatic disease.

The nodules had doubled in size in just three months.

4 millimeters → 8 millimeters.
5 millimeters → 8 millimeters.

New ones were appearing.

The radiologist didn’t use words like “suspicious” anymore.

They used words like “progressive metastatic disease.”

Progressive.

Not stable. Not controlled.

Growing. Spreading. Winning.

I sat there in my truck, staring at the screen, feeling the world tilt.

This wasn’t “watch and wait” anymore.

This was cancer. Active. Spreading. Unstoppable.

I called Sarah.

“It’s back,” I said, my voice shaking. “I just saw the report on the portal. It’s in my lungs. And it’s growing fast. The nodules doubled in three months.”

She was quiet for a moment. I could almost hear her mind working, the medic in her processing the information, calculating odds, evaluating options.

“How many nodules?” she asked.

“At least four that I could see. Maybe more.”

Another pause.

“We’re not giving up,” she said. And in her voice, I heard something I hadn’t heard in months: determination backed by knowledge. This wasn’t blind optimism. This was a trained medical professional who’d been preparing for this fight without even knowing it.

June 3, 2025: Stage Four

June 3, 2025 was my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

Twenty-five years. A quarter century of marriage. Of building a life, raising sons, surviving crises, holding each other through the impossible. Most couples celebrate silver anniversaries with trips, dinners, toasts to the years behind them and the years still to come.

Sarah and I spent ours waiting for a pathology report.

Two weeks earlier, they’d biopsied one of the lung nodules. Another needle. Another table. Another piece of me extracted and sent to a lab to determine my fate.

The results came back on our anniversary.

“Metastatic squamous cell carcinoma, p16 positive.”

The same cancer from my throat. Now in my lungs. Confirmed. Documented. Undeniable.

Stage four.

I looked at Sarah—my wife of twenty-five years, the woman who’d been beside me through every surgery, every scan, every terrifying phone call—and I didn’t know what to say.

Happy anniversary. You’re married to a dying man.

Stage four means metastatic. It means the cancer has spread beyond the original site to distant organs.

For head and neck cancer, stage four comes with brutal statistics: five-year survival rates around 39%. And that’s an average, some people do better, many do worse.

When cancer spreads to the lungs, those odds get even grimmer. Median survival for metastatic head and neck cancer is typically 10-13 months without advanced immunotherapy.

I was facing numbers that said I had less than a year to live.

But I’m not a statistic. I’m a man with a family who needs me, a God who wasn’t done with me yet, and a wife who refused to accept “there’s nothing more we can do.”

Statistics tell you the odds. Faith and determination help you beat them.

June 11, 2025: The Impossible Choice

I sat on a phone call with my oncologist and Sarah. We were discussing treatment options for my newly diagnosed stage four metastatic cancer.

He pulled up my latest scans, pathology reports, and PD-L1 score.

“Your PD-L1 score came back,” he said. “It’s 20%.”

“Is that good or bad?” I asked.

“It’s… moderate,” he said carefully. “Ideally, we’d want 50% or higher for single-agent immunotherapy. With 20%, your response rate to Keytruda alone is lower. That’s why I’m recommending we add chemotherapy.”

My stomach sank.

“More chemo?”

“Yes. Keytruda plus either carboplatin and paclitaxel, or carboplatin and gemcitabine. The combination gives you much better odds than Keytruda alone.”

I looked down at my feet. They felt like pincushions. Had been for months. The neuropathy from my last round of chemotherapy, carboplatin and 5-FU, had damaged the nerves permanently.

“What happens if I do more chemo?” I asked.

He paused. “The neuropathy will likely get worse. Paclitaxel especially can cause significant nerve damage. Your hands and arms could be affected.”

I sat there thinking about what that meant.

I’d already lost my voice, damaged vocal cords from seventy radiation treatments.

I’d already lost my shoulder, atrophied muscle and nerve damage that left my arm weak and useless.

I’d already lost my feet, numb from chemotherapy, probably forever.

Now they wanted me to risk my hands too.

My hands.

The things I needed to type, to write, to work, to hold my wife, to feel anything at all.

“What if we just do Keytruda alone?” Sarah asked.

My oncologist was quiet for a moment.

“It’s an option,” he said slowly. “But with a 20% PD-L1 score, your chances of response are lower. I’d feel more comfortable adding chemotherapy.”

“But it’s possible?” I pressed. “Keytruda alone could work?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s possible. Some patients respond well even with lower PD-L1 scores. But statistically, your odds are better with combination therapy.”

I looked at Sarah. She squeezed my hand.

“Can I have a few days to think about it?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “But Wayne, the cancer is growing fast. We need to start treatment soon.”

“I understand.”

That night, Sarah and I sat on a couch in silence.

“What are you thinking?” she finally asked.

“I’m thinking about quality of life,” I said. “I’ve been through two rounds of chemo. Seventy radiation treatments. Surgery. My body is destroyed. And now they want me to do more chemo that might take my hands?”

“But if it keeps me alive—”

“What kind of alive?” Sarah responded. “If you can’t work, can’t write, can’t feel anything because your entire body is numb from nerve damage… is that living?”

I didn’t answer.

“I know the odds are lower with Keytruda alone,” she continued. “I know adding chemo would be the safer bet. But Wayne, I don’t think your body can survive more of that poison. I think the chemo might kill you before the cancer does.”

She looked at me with a determined look.

“Then we do Keytruda alone,” I said. “And we do everything else we can think of to support it.”

Sarah wasn’t just my wife. She’d been a medic in the Air Force, worked in oncology units, seen the system from the inside. She knew how cancer treatments worked, and how they failed. She’d watched patients get sicker from the treatments than from the disease. She’d seen the limits of conventional medicine.

For years before I got sick, she’d been quietly removing chemicals from our home, questioning processed foods, researching alternatives. I didn’t always understand it. Sometimes I thought she was being too cautious. The products were so expensive.

But when cancer came for me, her caution became our weapon.

Understanding PD-L1 Scores: What 20% Really Means

When my oncologist said my PD-L1 score was 20%, I had no idea what that meant. So let me explain it the way I wish someone had explained it to me.

What Is PD-L1?

PD-L1 stands for Programmed Death-Ligand 1. It’s a protein found on the surface of some cells in your body—including some cancer cells.

Think of PD-L1 as a “don’t attack me” signal that cancer cells can display to trick your immune system.

Here’s how it works:

Normal immune function:

1. Your T-cells (immune system soldiers) patrol your body looking for threats
2. When they find a cancer cell, they attach to it and destroy it
3. This is how your immune system is supposed to work

But cancer is smart. It learns to hide:

1. Cancer cells start displaying PD-L1 on their surface
2. PD-L1 binds to a receptor on T-cells called PD-1
3. When PD-L1 binds to PD-1, it tells the T-cell: “I’m normal, don’t attack me”
4. The T-cell backs off
5. The cancer survives and grows

This is called immune evasion—cancer hiding from your immune system.

How Keytruda Works

Keytruda (pembrolizumab) is a PD-1 checkpoint inhibitor.

It works by blocking the PD-1 receptor on T-cells so that cancer’s “don’t attack me” signal (PD-L1) can’t connect.

With Keytruda:

1. Keytruda attaches to the PD-1 receptor on your T-cells
2. This prevents cancer’s PD-L1 from binding to PD-1
3. The T-cells can now “see” the cancer again
4. Your immune system attacks and destroys the cancer cells

It’s like taking off cancer’s invisibility cloak.

What the PD-L1 Score Means

Your PD-L1 score tells you what percentage of your cancer cells are displaying PD-L1.

When they test your tumor, pathologists count:

• How many cancer cells have PD-L1 on their surface
• What percentage of the total tumor expresses PD-L1

My score: 20%

This means 20% of my cancer cells were displaying PD-L1. The other 80% weren’t using this particular immune evasion tactic.

Why PD-L1 Score Matters for Treatment

Higher PD-L1 scores generally predict better response to Keytruda:

PD-L1 ≥ 50% (high expression):

• Response rate to Keytruda alone: ~40-45%
• About 4 out of 10 patients respond
• Oncologists feel comfortable using Keytruda as monotherapy (single drug)

PD-L1 20-49% (moderate expression):

• Response rate to Keytruda alone: ~20-25%
• About 2 out of 10 patients respond
• Oncologists often recommend adding chemotherapy to improve odds

PD-L1 < 20% (low expression):

• Response rate to Keytruda alone: ~10-15%
• About 1 out of 10 patients respond
• Chemotherapy is strongly recommended

My 20% score put me right at the cutoff—the gray zone where oncologists debate whether single-agent Keytruda is enough or if chemotherapy should be added.

Why My Oncologist Recommended Adding Chemotherapy

With a 20% PD-L1 score, my oncologist explained:

“Your response rate to Keytruda alone is around 20-25%. That means there’s about a 1 in 4 or 1 in 5 chance it will work by itself.”

“But if we add chemotherapy—carboplatin plus paclitaxel or gemcitabine—we can push that response rate up to 40-50% or higher. We double your chances.”

The math was clear: Adding chemo would statistically give me better odds.

But statistics don’t account for quality of life.

Why I Chose Keytruda Alone Despite the Lower Odds

I had already been through two rounds of chemotherapy:

1. 2021: Carboplatin + 5-FU (first cancer battle)
2. 2024: Carboplatin + 5-FU again (recurrence)

The damage was severe:

• ✅ Peripheral neuropathy (permanent nerve damage in my feet—numb, tingling, painful)
• ✅ Severe nausea (lost 50+ pounds, couldn’t eat for months)
• ✅ Fatigue (so exhausted I could barely stand)
• ✅ Brain fog (chemo brain—memory loss, confusion)

My oncologist warned that a third round—especially with paclitaxel—would likely cause:

• Worsening neuropathy in my feet
• New neuropathy in my hands and arms
• Potential permanent disability (unable to type, write, work, or feel touch)

I had to make a choice:

Option 1: Keytruda + Chemotherapy

• ✅ Higher response rate (~40-50%)
• ❌ Likely permanent nerve damage in hands/arms
• ❌ Severe side effects for months
• ❌ Risk of quality of life so poor I couldn’t work or function

Option 2: Keytruda Alone

• ❌ Lower response rate (~20-25%)
• ✅ No additional nerve damage
• ✅ Better quality of life during treatment
• ✅ Ability to add integrative protocols (carnivore diet, IV vitamin C, supplements)

I chose quality of life over higher statistical odds.

I chose to preserve my hands and my ability to function.

And I chose to stack every other advantage I could find to make up for the lower PD-L1 score.

Why a 20% Response Rate Doesn’t Mean 80% Failure

This is important: A 20-25% response rate doesn’t mean you have a 20% chance of surviving.

What it means:

• 20-25% of patients have significant tumor shrinkage (objective response—tumors shrink by 30% or more)
• Another 30-40% have stable disease (cancer doesn’t grow, but doesn’t shrink either—still a win)
• Only 30-40% have progressive disease (cancer continues growing despite treatment)

So the real breakdown is:

• 60-65% benefit from Keytruda (response + stable disease)
• 30-40% don’t respond

Those are much better odds than 1 in 5.

Plus, response rates are population averages. They don’t account for:

• Individual immune system strength
• Lifestyle factors (diet, exercise, stress)
• Supportive therapies (IV vitamin C, supplements)
• Metabolic approaches (carnivore diet starving cancer of glucose)

I believed I could be in that 20-25% who respond—especially if I optimized everything else.

How I Stacked Advantages to Beat the Odds

Since my PD-L1 score was only 20%, I couldn’t rely on Keytruda alone.

I had to give my immune system every possible advantage:

1. Carnivore Diet (started June 9, 2025)

• Starved cancer of glucose (cancer cells feed on sugar)
• Reduced systemic inflammation
• Stabilized energy and metabolic function

2. High-Dose IV Vitamin C (75 grams, twice weekly for 12 weeks)

• Generated hydrogen peroxide selectively toxic to cancer cells
• Supported immune function
• Enhanced Keytruda efficacy (research suggests synergy)

3. Vitamin D Optimization (50,000 IU daily)

• Activated T-cells (needed for Keytruda to work)
• Raised levels from 18 ng/mL (severely deficient) to 72 ng/mL (optimal)

4. Zinc and Magnesium

• Zinc activates p53 tumor suppressor gene
• Magnesium activates vitamin D
• Both critical for immune function

5. Repurposed Medications (under medical supervision)

• Ivermectin 44mg daily (anti-cancer mechanisms in preclinical studies)
• Fenbendazole 444mg, 3 days/week (with liver monitoring)
• Methylene blue (compounded)

6. Lifestyle Optimization

• 30 minutes daily sunshine (circadian rhythm, vitamin D, mood)
• Daily exercise and physical therapy (building strength, improving circulation)
• Red light therapy weekly (reduce inflammation, support healing)
• Prayer and stress management

I turned a 20-25% response rate into two tumors undetectable in six months.

Not because I got lucky.

Because I gave my body every tool it needed to fight.

The Results: December 2, 2025

June 3, 2025: Stage 4 metastatic cancer, 4 lung nodules, progressive disease, 20% PD-L1 score

June 11, 2025: Started Keytruda monotherapy (no chemo) + integrative protocol

September 8, 2025: First follow-up scan → Nodules shrinking

December 2, 2025: Six-month scan → Two nodules undetectable, other two dramatically smaller

My 20% PD-L1 score said I had a 1 in 4 or 1 in 5 chance of responding to Keytruda alone.

I beat those odds.

Not with luck.

With discipline, research, integrative medicine, faith, and refusing to accept that statistics define outcomes.

What This Means for You

If your oncologist tells you your PD-L1 score is low and recommends adding chemotherapy, that’s a valid recommendation based on statistical evidence.

But it’s not your only option.

You can:

1. Accept the chemo and get the higher statistical odds
2. Decline the chemo and optimize everything else to compensate
3. Try Keytruda alone first and add chemo later if needed

There’s no single right answer.

But there ARE ways to improve your odds even with a low PD-L1 score:

✅ Optimize vitamin D (most cancer patients are severely deficient)
✅ Reduce inflammation through diet (carnivore, keto, or whole foods)
✅ Consider integrative therapies (IV vitamin C, red light, supplements)
✅ Exercise daily (improves immune function and circulation)
✅ Manage stress (chronic stress suppresses immune response)
✅ Get sunshine (supports circadian rhythm and immune function)

PD-L1 score is ONE predictor. It’s not destiny.

Your immune system, your metabolic health, your lifestyle, and your determination matter too.

Sarah and I Were Used to Adversity

Sarah and I were used to adversity. We’d been fighting impossible battles long before cancer entered our lives.

Our youngest son, Jeremy, was born on April 1, 2002. He suffered a brain injury during birth. The doctors screwed up. What followed were years of surgeries, therapies, developmental delays, and specialists who couldn’t always give us answers. VP shunts for hydrocephalus. A VNS for seizures. Development delays. Special education. Years of patience when progress came in millimeters instead of miles.

Jeremy now lives in a group home, where he receives the specialized care he needs. We visit on weekends and holidays. He’s twenty-three years old, a gentle, kind young man who doesn’t fully understand cancer but who knows, somehow, when I’m hurting.

Our oldest son, Gregory, became Jeremy’s caregiver years before cancer entered our lives. Through a government program that pays family members to care for disabled relatives, Gregory worked third shift, staying awake through the long, dark hours to make sure Jeremy took his medications, stayed safe, and didn’t hurt himself during seizures. When seizures came, Gregory would gently guide his brother to the ground, protecting his head, staying calm while Jeremy’s body convulsed. He’d help Jeremy with chores and daily tasks, keep him on track, be patient when progress was slow.

Night after night. Year after year. While Sarah and I slept, Gregory watched over his brother.

And when cancer came for me, Gregory didn’t hesitate.

He became my caregiver too.

He mowed the lawn when I couldn’t lift my arm. He shoveled snow when I was too weak to stand. He did dishes, ran errands, and supported his mother so she didn’t carry the entire burden alone. He has a gift for giving, a sensitivity that lets him know when something’s wrong before anyone says it, an artistic soul that brings creativity into dark moments, and a quiet strength that held our family together when we were falling apart.

Gregory became the caregiver for both his brother and his father without hesitation, carrying a weight that would have crushed most people his age. He’d already lost an uncle to alcoholism years earlier when he was almost four years old, my older brother Alan, who left behind two children. Gregory understood, even as a young man, what it meant when fathers disappear from their children’s lives. And he made damn sure I wouldn’t disappear from his.

My parents taught me the foundation for all of it. My dad, who built everything with his hands and taught me that every problem has a solution if you’re willing to work for it. My mom, who went to work when times were tough and taught me that you adapt, you pull together, and you never stop being generous even when life is hard.

Those years caring for Jeremy, and Gregory’s willingness to step up when we needed him, taught our family skills we didn’t know we’d need when cancer came: how to navigate medical bureaucracy, how to advocate when systems fail, how to be patient when healing is slow, how to carry impossible burdens, and how to keep fighting when everyone tells you there’s nothing more that can be done.

Cancer wasn’t our first impossible fight.

And that made all the difference.

June 7-9, 2025: The Trip to Tennessee

Three days later, before I even called my oncologist back with my decision, Sarah, my son, and I loaded the truck and drove to Tennessee.

This was the trip Sarah had been planning since I got the biopsy results. Months earlier, when her mother’s husband was dying from cancer, she’d learned about a pharmacy in Tennessee. A place where doctors and pharmacists sat down with cancer patients and talked about options. Real options. Research-backed protocols. Integrative approaches that conventional oncology rarely mentions.

She’d filed that information away, not knowing how soon we would need it.

And when my lung biopsy came back stage four, she didn’t wait. She made the appointment that same night.

We arrived on June 9, 2025, but getting there was a journey in itself.

Gregory drove. He’d been working third shift with Jeremy for years, so driving through the night was second nature to him. He’s a night owl, alert, focused, comfortable in the dark hours when most people struggle to stay awake.

He planned the entire route. Studied the weather. Monitored storm systems moving through the Midwest. When we hit thunderstorms near the Tennessee border, torrential rain, lightning splitting the sky, visibility almost zero, Gregory didn’t panic. He just slowed down, turned on the hazards, and navigated us through it safely.

I’ve always felt safe when Gregory is driving. When he’s awake and alert and taking care of things. That trust, built over years of watching him care for Jeremy through seizures and midnight crises, meant I could rest during the drive. I could conserve my energy for the consultation.

That’s what Gregory does. He handles what needs to be handled so others can focus on what matters most.

Sarah chatted with Gregory to make sure he stayed alert; she’d made this trip before to visit her mom, and returning carried its own weight. But she was determined. This trip wasn’t about a visit this time. It was about hope.

And I sat in the back, weak and exhausted from treatment, watching the miles pass, praying this consultation would give us something, anything, to fight with.

When we finally arrived, Gregory cautiously parked, stretched outside the truck, and surveyed the building. Inside, it was like any other main street, privately owned pharmacy.

The consultation area was a round wood table near the front. It felt more like someone’s living room, warm, comfortable, not sterile.

The doctor and pharmacist who met with us didn’t rush. They didn’t talk down to me. The pharmacist sat with us for over an hour, explaining things I’d never heard before.

He wasn’t selling miracles. He was sharing information, studies, and research data.

We talked about high-dose IV vitamin C and how it might work alongside immunotherapy. They showed me research suggesting it could generate hydrogen peroxide that’s toxic to cancer cells while sparing healthy tissue.

We talked about ivermectin, not the “horse paste” people were arguing about online, but pharmaceutical-grade ivermectin that had been used safely in humans for decades and was now being studied for anti-cancer properties.

We talked about methylene blue, zinc, magnesium, and vitamin D, not as “alternative medicine” but as foundational support for immune function.

We even discussed fenbendazole. I was skeptical, but they explained there were case reports of patients who’d used it alongside conventional treatment and seen results. He emphasized the use of high-quality sources, medical supervision, and monitoring of the liver through bloodwork.

And then the pharmacist said something that would change everything:

“You need to start the carnivore diet. Immediately.”

I looked at Sarah. She looked at me.

“Carnivore diet?” I asked. “The meat diet?”

“Not just meat, but fat also,” he explained. “No carbs. No sugar. No bread, pasta, rice, fruit, or vegetables. Just animal products—beef, fish, eggs, tallow. Salt and water.”

It sounded insane.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because cancer cells love sugar,” he said. “They thrive on glucose. The Standard American Diet is loaded with carbs that turn into sugar in your body. By cutting out all carbohydrates, you’re starving the cancer while fueling your body with nutrient-dense, anti-inflammatory food.”

He discussed research papers. Studies. Data showing how metabolic approaches could support conventional treatment.

“I’m not saying this will cure you,” he said carefully. “I’m saying it might give your body a fighting chance. Especially if you’re doing Keytruda alone without chemotherapy backing you up.”

I looked at Sarah again. She nodded.

“When do I start?” I asked.

“Today,” he said. “Right now.”

The enchilada I’d eaten the night before was the last one I’d have for months.

The oatmeal and fruit I’d had that morning? Gone.

Everything I’d grown up eating, everything I loved? Off the table.

Starting that day, my diet was meat, fat, salt, and water. That’s it.

My wife was already on a strict Atkins phase 1 diet, so she was ready start a Carnivore Diet with me.

We left Tennessee with a truck full of supplements and medicines:

• Ivermectin (pharmaceutical grade, 44mg daily)
• Methylene blue (compounded)
• Zinc (50mg daily)
• Magnesium
• Vitamin D (50,000 IU daily)

We also had a plan to start:

• High-dose IV vitamin C (75 grams, twice weekly)
• Red light therapy (weekly, started November 2025)
• Daily sunshine (30 minutes)
• Daily exercise and physical therapy
• Fenbendazole (Online order of the Happy Healing brand, quality-tested, 444mg three days per week)

Sarah’s mom had paid for the trip. Sarah had researched everything. My son had driven us through storms to get there.

And now I had something I hadn’t had in months:

A plan.

Not just “wait and see if Keytruda works with a 20% match.”

An active, aggressive, integrative plan that treated my whole body, not just the tumor.

June 11, 2025: My Decision

Still in Tennessee, I called my oncologist.

“I’ve made my decision,” I said. “I want to do Keytruda alone. No chemotherapy.”

There was a pause.

“Wayne, I want to make sure you understand—”

“I understand,” I interrupted. “I know the odds are lower with a 20% PD-L1 score. I know adding chemo would improve my chances. But I also know that more chemo will likely destroy the nerves in my hands and arms. My feet are already numb. My shoulder is already destroyed. My voice is already damaged. I can’t lose my hands too.“

Another pause.

“I understand your reasoning,” he said quietly. “And I respect your decision. We’ll move forward with single-agent pembrolizumab.”

“There’s something else,” I said. “I’m also starting an integrative protocol. High-dose vitamin C, dietary changes, supplements. I wanted you to know.”

“What kind of dietary changes?” he asked.

“Carnivore diet. Just meat and fat.”

“Interesting,” he said. “There’s actually some research on ketogenic and low-carb diets in cancer. I’ve heard of some trials using high-dose vitamin C too. There might even be a trial you’d qualify for, but—”

“I can’t wait for a trial,” I said. “The cancer is moving too fast.”

“I understand.”

The Protocol

Starting June 9, 2025, my life became about discipline.

Every day:

• Carnivore diet only (beef, fish, eggs, salt, water)
• Ivermectin 44mg
• Zinc 50mg
• Magnesium
• Vitamin D 50,000 IU
• 30 minutes direct sunshine
• Physical therapy and weight training
• Prayer

Three days per week:

• Fenbendazole 444mg (with regular liver monitoring)

Twice per week (first 12 weeks):

• 75 grams IV vitamin C infusions at The DRIPBaR

Every three weeks:

• Keytruda infusion

No chemotherapy or radiation therapy.

Just Keytruda (20% match) plus everything I learned in Tennessee.

I didn’t know if it would work.

But I knew I had to try.

September 8, 2025: The First Sign

Three months after starting the protocol, I had my first CT scan.

I logged into the patient portal, praying harder than I’d prayed in my entire life.

The results came back.

The nodules in my lungs were shrinking.

Not gone. But shrinking.

Right middle lobe: 7 millimeters (down from 8).

For the first time since February, for the first time in seven months, the cancer wasn’t growing.

It was losing.

Sarah and I hugged each other, crying so hard I could barely speak.

“It’s working,” I said. “It’s actually working.”

December 2, 2025: The Miracle

Six months after starting the protocol.
Six months of strict carnivore diet.
Six months of 75-gram IV vitamin C infusions twice a week.
Six months of supplements, sunshine, and discipline.
Six months of Keytruda monotherapy with a 20% PD-L1 match.

No chemotherapy.

I had another scan.

I paced the bedroom reading the results on the patient portal, and the tears came before I even finished the first paragraph.

Of the four lung nodules that had appeared in February, the ones that had doubled in size by May, two were now nondetectable.

Gone.

The other two had shrunk dramatically:

Right middle lobe: 4 millimeters (back to the original February size).
Right upper lobe: just 2 millimeters (barely visible).

The report said: “No other measurable nodules. No evidence for new metastatic disease in the chest, abdomen, or pelvis.”

I looked up at Sarah, who was sitting at her desk, watching me.

“Two of them are gone,” I whispered.

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around me, and we stood there in the bedroom celebrating the moment together.

We have been blessed.

Still Here

I want to be honest with you about something.

I’m not cured.

Cancer is still part of my life. I still get scans every few months. I still see my oncologist. I still live with the knowledge that stage four metastatic cancer is serious, and the fight isn’t over.

But here’s what I also know:

May 19, 2025: Bilateral lung nodules doubled in size. “Progressive metastatic disease.”

June 3, 2025: Biopsy confirmed stage four metastatic squamous cell carcinoma.

June 11, 2025: I chose Keytruda alone (20% PD-L1 match) over Keytruda + chemotherapy.

June 9, 2025: Started aggressive integrative protocol.

December 2, 2025: Two nodules undetectable. Others shrinking. No new disease.

I didn’t do this alone.

I have an amazing oncologist who respected my decision even when he was concerned. I have Keytruda, modern immunotherapy that gave my immune system a fighting chance.

But I also had my wife, who refused to accept “there’s nothing more we can do.”

I had my son, who drove through storms to get me to a consultation that changed everything.

I had faith that carried me when I had nothing left.

And I had a protocol, an integrative approach combining Keytruda with diet, high-dose IV vitamin C, repurposed medications, supplements, and lifestyle changes, that gave my body what it needed to fight back.

What This Book Is About

This book is not about choosing between conventional medicine and alternative treatments.

It’s about using both.

It’s about understanding that when your oncologist says “the odds are low with Keytruda alone,” that doesn’t mean you’re powerless. It means you need to stack every possible advantage in your favor.

It’s about discipline, cutting out everything comfortable because survival matters more than comfort.

It’s about understanding that food is chemistry, that what you put in your body either feeds the cancer or fights it.

It’s about taking calculated risks when you’re running out of options.

And it’s about hope. Not blind hope. Not wishful thinking. But the kind of hope that comes from taking action, from making hard choices, from fighting even when you’re exhausted, and from believing that God still has work for you to do.

I had recurrent, aggressive, stage four cancer with every bad prognostic factor:

• Positive surgical margins
• Extranodal extension
• Poorly differentiated cells
• Progressive metastatic disease
• Low PD-L1 score (20%)
• No chemotherapy in third round

And I’m still here.

Not just surviving. Fighting back. Watching tumors disappear on scans.

My December 2025 reversal happened with:

• ✅ Keytruda monotherapy (20% PD-L1 match)
• ✅ Carnivore diet (started June 9, 2025)
• ✅ High-dose IV Vitamin C (75g, 2x/week for 12 weeks)
• ✅ Repurposed medications (Ivermectin, Methylene Blue, Fenbendazole)
• ✅ High-dose supplements (Vitamin D 50,000 IU, Zinc 50mg)
• ✅ Lifestyle changes (sunshine, exercise, prayer)
• ✅ NO chemotherapy or radiation therapy

If you’re reading this because cancer has touched your life, I want you to know:

You can still fight.

You can still hope.

You can still be here.

Because I am.

Still here.