A: Colon. Yes, like that colon. The one no one wants to talk about unless it’s a fiber commercial. The tumor’s in my ass and basically the most undignified cancer imaginable.

A: Stage 3C, T2 N2 M0 aka The Boss Level. As for “okay,” define okay. Emotionally? No. Spiritually? Working on it. Medically? TBD. Financially? FLM. Mentally? Still using sarcasm to cope.

A: Money. Food. Love. Space. A vacation from my body, if you’re offering. Maslow's hierarchy of needs.
You can donate [here] or Venmo me at @rachelsmak as well as zelle me @651-208-1369

A: Hell yes. Slow-cooked, Lion Diet–approved food. Broth. Butter. Beef. Love notes. Guilt-free snacks.
No gluten, no alcohol, no pity casseroles. (Unless it’s cute.)

A: You can. But understand I may answer with:

• A meme

• A one-word lie (“fine”)

• Nothing at all
  This isn’t personal. It’s survival.

A: Only if you want to be gently but permanently ghosted.

A: YES. Silence is sacred. Just send a heart. Or a dumb gif. Or money. Or a playlist.
You don’t have to fix me. You just have to show up.

A:

• Donate [here].

• Share my blog, Cancer Is a Gift.

• Cook me something from the Lion Diet.

• Offer airline miles or connections.

• Venmo me instead of texting “LMK what you need.”

• Subscribe. Show up. Send memes.

• Be a decent human. That’s it. That’s the post.

A:
Let’s be specific, because “let me know if you need anything” is a sweet nothing and I’m living in full-blown need everything mode. Here’s the truth:

• Money. (Obvious. Ongoing. Urgent.)

• Food. I’m on the Lion Diet (all meat, salt, and water). If you send soup with kale in it, I will cry and then ghost you.

• Fecal Microbial Transplant. Yeah, that’s right. I need someone else's superior poop to fix my gut. Google it, then pray for me because it’s typically around $10k.

• Gym Membership. Preferably one with infrared sauna access. Or a punching bag so I can scream-cry while rebuilding my immune system.

• Flight Miles. Some of my treatment isn’t local, and airfare is a privilege I don’t have right now. If you’ve got points, let’s talk.

• Supplements. Quality ones. Not gummy vitamins from the checkout aisle. Think magnesium, beef liver capsules, ox bile, ivermectin, psilocybin, and other experimental treatments. These are expensive so money is preferred unless you have a supplement company you are willing to partner with a cancer patient.

• Gift cards. Not Starbucks or Outback Steak House. Think grocery stores (for meat), gas stations, target or other places for essentials or anything that keeps me functioning between appointments.

• Medical supplies. Things like heating pads, sitz baths, essential oils…

• Quiet. Peace. A break from noise. If you can’t give money, give me space. Pray. Light a candle. Be kind to someone on my behalf.

A: Absolutely not. Insurance in the U.S. is a suggestion, not a solution.

• They don’t cover all my imaging.

• They deny certain lab work unless it’s “pre-approved.”

• They don’t touch integrative treatments or nutritional support.

• And forget mental health—unless I want a Zoom therapist named Brent who reads from a script.

I’m looking at paying thousands out of pocket to stay alive. So no, I don’t want to hear about your deductible woes unless your colon is also trying to kill you.

A: Because I’m exhausted. Not “I need a nap” tired—existentially, cosmically tired. Sometimes healing means disappearing. Sometimes I’m just hiding from medical bills and my own inbox.

A: Like being both the patient and the doctor, the fighter and the battlefield, the victim and the advocate—and no one can see how hard you're trying just to exist.

A: Yes. But not “I need a nap” tired—more like my cells are fighting a civil war tired. More like I slept 9 hours and still feel like I’m melting through the bed tired.
It’s fatigue that wears your personality down like sandpaper. It makes brushing your teeth feel like a victory. It makes text messages feel like dissertations.

A:

• Waiting for results.

• Being treated like a project instead of a person.

• Watching people you love treat your diagnosis like a conversation killer.

• Having your grief sterilized by phrases like “you got this!”

Also: the nausea. The isolation. The invasive procedures. The loss of trust in your own body. And the fact that you’re expected to keep showing up, smiling, pretending you’re still the same person.

A: Yes.
But I’m also braver than I’ve ever been, in a quiet, exhausted way. Not the kind of brave that looks good in an instagram post.

A: I’m still me. Messy, genius, exhausted, brilliant. If you’re wondering whether cancer has silenced me—don’t worry. I’m still louder than your thoughts.

A: Oh sweet summer child, I have.
SSDI is not a golden ticket. It’s a months-long, often times years-long paperwork-heavy, soul-draining maze that requires proof you’re disabled enough to die but not dead enough to avoid the process. Most people get denied on their first try—and second—and third.
And during those months? Bills don’t pause. Rent doesn’t wait. Cancer doesn’t go on sabbatical.

A: “HealingJourney123” (with zero bars and a $120 co-pay)