Finding My Voice: Living with Esophageal Cancer

When I heard the words “You have esophageal cancer” in October 2025, it felt like the ground gave out beneath me. Nothing prepares you for that moment — not the weeks of testing, not the endless scans, not even the quiet hope that it’s something else. Everything changed in an instant.

On October 30th, I had two procedures: a port placed in my chest for upcoming chemotherapy and a G-tube placed in my stomach to prepare for the day when eating might become too painful. My doctors told me the tube would help make sure I stay strong once treatments start. Right now, I can still eat normally — though food doesn’t hold the same appeal. My appetite is weak, my stomach feels unsettled, and I’m not really hungry anymore. So, each day, I try to do at least two containers of tube feeding to keep my nutrition up. It’s strange to say, has to be done.

The G-tube site still feels raw. There are three large cuts around it — deep, bruised, and tender — from where the surgeons helped guide it into place. Some days, the pain dulls to an ache; other days, it catches me off guard, a sharp sting that reminds me just how new all of this still is. I can’t sleep on my side yet, and my back is killing me from so many nights spent flat on my back. It’s hard to find a position that doesn’t make me aware of the tube, the port, or the soreness in my chest.

The port feels strange — not painful, exactly, but alien. There’s a small cut where it was placed, and another near my collarbone. When I touch it, I can feel the wire looping up and around the bone, dipping down into the artery. It feels “funky,” like something mechanical has been tucked inside me — which, in a way, it has. It’s meant to make things easier once chemotherapy starts, but it’s still unsettling knowing there’s a line running directly into my  jugular vein.

I’m supposed to walk for thirty minutes a day to keep my strength up, but right now, that feels impossible. My energy is gone before I’ve even finished setting up the feeding bag. I try — I tell myself I’ll start tomorrow — but my body just says no. Fatigue is its own kind of weight, heavier than I expected, wrapping around me like a fog.

The hardest moments come when I look at my two fur babies, Bella and Daisy. They’re Morkies — small, loving, and full of energy — and they don’t understand why I keep pushing them away. They just want to curl up on my lap like always, to snuggle against me, but I can’t risk them bumping the tube. The guilt hits hard every time I see the confusion in their eyes. I try to pet them gently, to let them know it’s okay, but sometimes I just break down and cry. My emotions are everywhere lately — one moment I’m determined, the next I’m exhausted, and sometimes I’m just overwhelmed, and at times don’t know if I can do this.

Each day feels like learning to live inside a body I barely recognize. I’m managing work from home — scheduling for medical offices — but it’s tough. I have to stop often to stretch or rest because the pain builds quickly. The normalcy of logging into work helps distract me, but the fatigue is never far behind.

Still, I remind myself: this is temporary. The pain, the exhaustion, the fear — they’re all part of the process of getting better. I tell myself that every feeding, every careful cleaning of the tube site, every cautious movement is an act of survival.

Cancer changes everything — the way you see your body, the way you measure time, the way you find strength. Some days, I don’t feel strong at all. But even on those days, I’m still here. I’m still showing up. I’m still doing what I can — even if that just means lying still, taking deep breaths, and letting myself feel it all.

This isn’t the life I expected, but it’s the one I’m living right now. And through the pain, the fatigue, and the tears, I hold onto one simple truth: I’m still fighting. I’m still healing. I’m still me.