“I Have Stage 4 Cancer and I’m Living My Best Life”: Adrienne’s Stage 4 Colon Cancer Story

When Adrienne received her stage 4 colon cancer diagnosis in January 2025, nothing in her life had pointed toward cancer; not her routine bloodwork, not her annual physicals, not even the fatigue she had been living with for years. As a physician assistant in Ohio, Adrienne was attuned to her body. But she had quietly dismissed persistent exhaustion as stress, heartbreak, and depression following a major life upheaval. It wasn’t until an evening of ice cream followed by a strange and very specific discomfort in her abdomen that she pressed in, felt a lump, and trusted what her body was telling her.

Interviewed by: Taylor Scheib
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

Adrienne’s path to her colon cancer diagnosis required both self-advocacy and a remarkable bit of circumstance. When she arrived at the emergency room, her labs were perfectly normal, no one else could feel the lump, and there was no medically obvious reason to keep her there. But her best friend, a fellow physician assistant, was working that shift and trusted Adrienne’s instincts enough to order a CT scan. That single decision revealed multiple lesions on her liver: metastatic disease. Adrienne said, “She told me that if it had been anyone else, she probably would have sent me home, which was so scary to think about.”

What makes Adrienne’s story so powerful is how her mentality transformed. The diagnosis forced a reckoning she’d been postponing for years. Cancer collapsed the distance between dreams she had shelved indefinitely and a version of herself that she had never quite stepped into. Today, Adrienne moves through the world with an intentionality she didn’t have before, building what she calls her dream life even as she continues treatment.

Watch Adrienne’s video and read through the edited transcript of her interview for more on her colon cancer story.

• Persistent, unexplained fatigue can be a silent symptom of cancer. Adrienne experienced debilitating fatigue for years before her diagnosis, fatigue that was dismissed as stress, depression, and heartbreak.
• Self-advocacy and medical access can be lifesaving. Adrienne’s decision to go directly to the ER and the fact that a trusted friend was working that shift are what led to her CT scan and, ultimately, her diagnosis.
• A cancer recurrence after scans show no evidence of disease (NED) does not mean treatment has failed. After her combined colon and liver resection, Adrienne was declared NED. A wound healing complication delayed follow-up chemotherapy, possibly allowing microscopic disease to return: a reminder that recurrence is a disease behavior, not a patient failure.
• It is possible to rebuild identity and find purpose during and after treatment. Adrienne’s transformation from fear and isolation to intentional living is a testament to the resilience available to patients who allow themselves to grieve fully and then choose a new direction. Her story demonstrates that cancer can be both devastating and clarifying.
• Finding community on your own terms matters. From resisting support groups in the early months to building a global online community of fellow young colon cancer patients, Adrienne’s experience shows that connection looks different for everyone and is worth finding in whatever form feels safe and supportive.

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Adrienne’s Diagnosis Facts

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This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make informed treatment decisions. The views and opinions expressed in this interview do not necessarily reflect those of The Patient Story.

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Who I am


My name is Adrienne. I was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer (colon adenocarcinoma) in January of 2025. I’m from Cincinnati, Ohio.

Describing my fatigue: The colon cancer symptom that went unrecognized for years

The fatigue was my first symptom, and it’s not something that I really realized until after the fact. Looking back in hindsight, at the time when I was feeling fatigued, I just attributed it to stress. “This is just how life is. This is just how we all live now.” I had also battled a little with some depression here and there, and so I thought it was that, too. The fatigue, I would say, probably went on for, honestly, a few years, but it really got significant — I want to say 2024 into 2025. It was like: I would go to sleep, I would get nine, ten hours, wake up, barely be able to wake up. My alarm would go off, and I would just keep sleeping, keep sleeping, keep sleeping. And then when I would get up, I would just be tired throughout the day. It was significant.

How a major change in my life made the symptoms easier to dismiss

At the beginning of 2024, I went through a major breakup of a ten-year relationship. My life turned upside down, and I actually moved back in with my mom. I was trying to figure out what I was going to do next with my life because I had had this whole plan. At that point, with those emotions, I thought it was heartbreak. I thought it was a little bit of depression. I thought I was just so confused about what was going on with my life that I attributed all the fatigue to that. I really attributed all the fatigue to that, and I didn’t think twice about it being a health problem — 100%.

Looking back: Processing the guilt of a late diagnosis

That’s what I think about all the time — that it was most likely the cancer. One of the things I questioned is: How long was it there? And there’s no answer that my oncologist can give me. He has given me estimates of how long it may have taken to metastasize, but not how long it had been there. That’s one of the things I go back and think about.

I did start initially with feeling guilt — could I have caught this sooner? Why did I have to catch it so late? But I had to get out of that, because there was nothing I could have done differently. Around the time that I was feeling that severe fatigue at the end of 2024, I actually did go see my primary care provider for an annual physical. My blood work was perfect. The only thing that was abnormal was that my vitamin D was low. And so I was like, “Oh, this is why I’m fatigued — because of the vitamin D.” Looking back, my perspective now is that I can’t blame myself. I was doing everything that I could. I was going to the doctor’s office for my annual physical. I was told everything was okay. I was paying attention as much as I could to my body. But definitely in the beginning, there was a little bit of guilt — well, what if I had paid more attention? Could I have caught it sooner? I just don’t think that was realistic.

What extreme fatigue actually felt like day to day

I would go to bed at 9, 10, maybe 11 p.m. at the latest. I am not a night owl anymore. I would wake up having had eight, nine, 10 hours of good, deep sleep — this was not disruptive, bad sleep. And then I would wake up, and I just remember — I remember being with my past partner and him being able to just get up and go. I always wanted to do that, and feeling guilty because I couldn’t. I was just so tired. I felt like I could sleep until noon. When I would finally be able to get myself up, it was still this cloud of fatigue throughout the day. I would have my coffee in the morning and then definitely need another coffee or some kind of caffeine beverage in the afternoon, and still, that didn’t really help. I remember always crashing significantly by 2 p.m., needing a nap almost every single day, but still just waking up feeling fatigued. It was like nothing could help the fatigue.

What’s very interesting now, looking back, is: even though I’ve just finished my 26th round of chemo — and you would imagine the fatigue during chemo — I actually have more energy now on my off weeks than I did back in 2024. To compare the difference in how fatigued I was to now — I’m like, whoa. It was very, very significant.

Finding the lump

I always start telling the story of how I found the lump with this: I was eating ice cream. I love ice cream. I’m not lactose intolerant; there was no issue with the ice cream itself — it was just that that triggered the discovery. I remember having a bowl of ice cream one evening, and I don’t want anyone to think that the ice cream caused a problem. This is just part of the story. I started to have what just felt like a slightly upset stomach — indigestion, nothing crazy, nothing painful — but it was noticeable. I finished the ice cream, and that evening, as it didn’t go away, I went to bed and didn’t think much of it. I figured I’d wake up and it would feel better. In the morning, it didn’t go away. The discomfort was pinpointed — I could feel it in just one area of my abdomen. Normally, when you have an upset stomach, you feel yucky all over; this was one area. I started to feel around that area, and I felt an actual lump there. As soon as I felt it, it wasn’t like my heart dropped. I honestly didn’t think I had cancer. I just was like, “This is not normal. I shouldn’t have a lump here.” And that’s how I discovered the lump.

The decision to go to the emergency room

I was naturally anxious, so I was like, “Something’s wrong.” But there actually was a resistance to wanting to go find out what it was. I decided to just wait a little bit. I wasn’t having any other emergent symptoms — no fever, no nausea, no vomiting, no changes in my stool or bowel movements; I was still going to the bathroom regularly. I thought I’d give it a few more days. I started to try to rationalize what it could be — maybe a weird ovarian cyst, maybe a weird hernia. Cancer was in the back of my mind; I didn’t think about cancer.

It took about a week and a half, two weeks for me to finally say, “Okay, I need to go in and check this out. This isn’t going away. This isn’t getting better.” At one point, it actually did start to get more uncomfortable — there still wasn’t severe pain, but it was very quickly getting more uncomfortable. I have a degree in medicine; I’m a physician assistant. I knew I needed imaging. I didn’t want to go through my primary care provider — wait for that appointment, and then maybe get referred, maybe not, maybe be told nothing was wrong. So I decided to go to the ER about two weeks after I felt the lump. That’s when everything happened.

Normal labs, a CT Scan, and multiple liver lesions

I went and saw one of my fellow physician assistant friends — one of my best friends — and I know I’m very lucky in that way. She already knew what was going on; I had been texting her. She knew I specifically wanted a CT scan. First, we did blood work — the full panel. They checked all my blood counts: a CBC, a comprehensive metabolic panel (CMP), where they check your kidneys and liver function, my pancreas enzyme levels, my electrolytes — everything came back absolutely normal, within the normal range.

I’m going to fast-forward and tell you that I had multiple tumors on my liver, and my liver function was completely normal.

When they did the physical exam, nobody could feel the lump besides me. I realized I had to stand in a very specific position for someone to feel it, just given what I had eaten that morning and how things had moved. Nobody could feel the lump. My labs were perfect. I didn’t have a fever. I wasn’t vomiting. There was no real medical reason for me to be in the emergency room. But because it was my friend, she said, “We’ll still get the CT scan — I trust you.” She told me that if it had been anyone else, she probably would have sent me home. Which is so scary to think about.

The moment I heard “metastatic disease”

This part of the story is always traumatic for me to tell. My friend had gotten the call about the CT scan while she was still in the room with me, and I could hear the radiologist on the phone. My friend rushed out, and I was like, “Okay — it’s never good when the radiologist has to call.” That was my first indication that something was wrong. When she came back in, I could tell she had been crying. Her eyes were red-rimmed. I sat down on the bed. She sat with me, grabbed my hand, and said while crying, “Everything’s going to be okay.” And at that point, my heart just sank.

The attending doctor walked in and said, “We don’t see a mass in your abdomen on the CT scan, but there are multiple lesions on your liver that look like metastatic disease.” I remember just hearing the word “metastatic,” and my heart dropped even further. But there was also this denial — “No way. You’ve got the wrong scan. You’ve got the wrong person.” My mom was there with me. We looked at each other. She was out loud saying, “No way — she’s so healthy.” But yeah, that’s what they found.


Metastasis is when there is a solid primary tumor, and it has gone to another organ. That’s basically what it means — there is another tumor, or multiple tumors, in other places other than where the cancer originated.

Waiting for a diagnosis: From liver lesions to colon cancer (colon adenocarcinoma)

Initially, because they couldn’t see the mass on the CT scan — they could only see the lesions in the liver — they didn’t know what type of cancer it was or where it was coming from. The ER doctor started saying, “We’re going to have to do a colonoscopy. You’re going to need a PET scan, a mammogram, a full oncology workup.” And I was still thinking, “It’s parasites.”

The very next day, they set me up with oncology. I remember walking in and seeing “Cancer Institute and Parking for Cancer Patients,” and I’m just thinking, “This is just not my life. This is not real.” We saw a general oncologist first. She said, “Let’s biopsy one of the liver lesions. In the meantime, we’ll also get an MRI of the abdomen — maybe we can see this lump you’re feeling.” They got the MRI and were able to see the mass; it was in my abdomen, but at that point, they still could not tell exactly where it was coming from.

The biopsy results came back as adenocarcinoma. That’s when I found out it was cancer. My chart is a blessing and a curse — I still thought I was going to open it and get relief. When I clicked on it and saw “adenocarcinoma,” that is when everything really hit me.

I ended up having a colonoscopy and an endoscopy, and that’s where they confirmed it was colon cancer. When I woke up, my mom was sitting next to me. She looked at me and said, “It’s not pancreatic.” I tried to cry, but I don’t know if anybody knows this, but they give you medicine to dry you out during a colonoscopy, so I was sitting there trying to cry, but no tears came out.

Finding the right oncology care team


This was such a blessing — it just kind of unfolded naturally. I didn’t really have to go looking. It all started with going to that specific ER where my friend worked. From there, they referred me to a general oncologist within their system, and she referred me to their director of GI oncology — and he’s been my oncologist ever since. Right off the bat, I loved his bedside manner and his demeanor. He’s very compassionate, very knowledgeable, stays up to date on the latest research, and runs clinical trials. It was a blessing — it really unfolded. We didn’t have to go looking.

My colon cancer treatment timeline: From FOLFIRINOX to resections, Y-90, and recurrence

I started with getting my port placed, and then, within about three days from there, started chemo. I started on FOLFIRINOX, which is the most aggressive regimen for GI cancers — it consists of three different chemotherapies in one. I did that for three rounds before I had a really bad reaction: a rash that spread all over my body and hospitalized me. I had biopsies of my skin, and then we switched my chemotherapy regimen. I switched to FOLFOX at that point — I want to say six, seven, eight rounds; I don’t remember exactly.

Then I had a Y-90 procedure, which is where they put a small bead of radiation up through your femoral artery that goes straight into your liver to radiate part of the liver. Then I had an ablation, where they went in with a long needle to burn the tumor. Then another Y-90 procedure. Then we switched to FOLFIRI plus bevacizumab. I finished out my first 19 rounds with FOLFIRI and bevacizumab, and then I had a combined colon resection and liver resection, followed by another ablation.

Unfortunately, there was a recurrence. So that brings us to now — I’ve been back on FOLFIRI and bevacizumab for about seven more rounds. In the liver again — luckily, it’s only been the liver for me. After my big surgery in December, they declared me NED — no evidence of disease on scans. However, I ended up having a complication with my wound healing because we did an open surgery. I have a very long vertical abdominal scar, and it pushed back chemo. They think that the microscopic disease that we were going to get with the cleanup chemo — because we had to delay chemo — just kind of blossomed. And that’s where the recurrence came in.

Processing the emotional devastation of a colon cancer recurrence after doing everything right

Initially — I’m human — I was so distraught. I spiraled. I got pretty depressed for a while. To go from such an extreme situation to “You’re doing well, let’s see how things go,” and then suddenly there’s a recurrence and you were supposed to be done with chemo in May. Now I don’t know how much more chemo you’re going to need, and maybe you’re going to need a liver transplant. It’s just been wild.

Initially, I just really let myself feel all of the feelings. I was angry, I was scared, and I was obviously very sad. I let myself feel all of those things. But one thing that has anchored me throughout this entire journey has been finding reason in all of this. I know that’s not everybody’s perspective when they go through cancer, and that’s okay. But for me, it’s what has led me and anchored me. It’s what’s gotten me to the point where I’m at now. Once I was able to really feel all of those emotions, I went back to that belief of: “Okay — why is this happening FOR me? How is this going to serve me? There has to be a bigger reason that this is happening.” And I just leaned into that and trusted it.

“Building my dream life while living with cancer”: What that phrase really means

Before my diagnosis, I had all these dreams for my life — things I wanted to do and accomplish. But I just never got myself to do those things. I would say “one day,” or “I need to do this first before I do that.” I was never truly living what I call in alignment with what I really wanted and who I wanted to be.

When I got the diagnosis, one of the main things I felt right away was, “Oh my gosh — I just wasted my whole life. I wasn’t doing the things I wanted to do.” I was terrified that I wasn’t going to get to do the things I wanted to do. Initially, I actually ended up going into more of a hermit mode — this bubble where I felt like my life had completely stopped. I was just so overtaken by fear. “I don’t know what caused the cancer, so I need to stay away from all these things.” “Am I going to get sick if I go out to a public place? Am I going to get sick even if I see my nephews because they’re kids and they’re in school?” So I just started secluding myself and staying in.

And then there was this point — as I started to do more healing work — where I just remember sitting there, and I said to myself, “No. I’m not doing this anymore. This is not how I’m going to do this.” It was like flipping a switch. And I said, “I’m going to live my life, and I’m going to start living.” From there, it was small steps. But since then, I have truly been taking action and living my life.

I can tell you right now that I am living the things that I had dreamt about before my diagnosis — things that I had never gotten myself to be able to do. But I’m doing them now. I have stage 4 cancer, and I’m living my best life. It’s crazy.

The isolation of a colon cancer diagnosis in your 30s — and how it feels when the world keeps moving

When I got the diagnosis, it would all start with that feeling of: the world stops for me. There’s this feeling of, “I can’t do anything or go on with my life until I have answers, until I’m cancer-free, until I’m in a better place.” And because you don’t know when that’s going to happen, you’re technically putting your life on pause indefinitely. That started the isolation.

Mine came from a lot of fear — I just remember feeling paralyzed. This compounded fear grew from not knowing what caused the cancer, which made me scared to do everything, because what if it makes it worse? What if I don’t heal? I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my life even more. And that was very, very isolating.

But there is also the feeling of: “This isn’t fair. How did this happen to me? Why did this happen to me? I was seemingly healthy. I did all the right things, I thought.” And there’s an isolating feeling of: “I’m having to go through this, but there are all these other people out in the world who just get to go on with their lives and never have to experience cancer.” That’s a very isolating feeling, too.

How I found community: From resisting support groups to building one online


Initially, I was very opposed to any kind of support group. I was overtaken by fear. I did not want to hear any horror stories. I didn’t want to hear anything about people’s complications because I just couldn’t take it. So initially, my support really came from the people in my life — my friends and my family. I am blessed with such a beautiful group of people around me. It actually wasn’t until, say, six or seven months in that I started to share my journey online — before I shared my big story, which is when I think a lot of people found my page. I was starting to connect, especially with young women in their early thirties who had been diagnosed with colon cancer.

Now I do have a couple of friends — we chat around the world, even — who are going through the same thing. And sometimes it’s even nice to say, “Hey, I don’t want to talk about cancer right now. Let’s just be.” My support has been my friends, my family, my healthcare team — which has actually been a huge support — and then, since sharing my story and getting more traction, definitely a huge community online of just the most supportive, loving people, whether they have cancer or not.

They say: “The cancer club is the worst club to be a part of — but it’s got the best people.”

The mindset shift: Finding purpose in the colon cancer diagnosis, and “Why is this happening FOR me?”


I’m a completely different person today than I was one year ago. I can tell you that I had been trying to make these changes for years in my life, and it wasn’t until cancer that I started to make them. One of the beliefs I hold so dear to my heart — and something that grounds me, and it did before even this diagnosis — is the belief that everything in this life happens FOR you. I know that some people have a hard time believing that, especially when they’ve gone through really hard things. But for me, that is the overarching belief that has helped me get to this point and become who I am now.

When I got the diagnosis, that was kind of the first thing that entered my mind — “Okay, well, if everything in life happens for you, why is this happening for me?” It didn’t give me an answer right away, but it started to shift my perspective on how I looked at everything. Even when I had the really bad drug reaction rash and had to switch chemo regimens — when I had had an incredible response, and it was really scary to change — I could have gone to, “Oh my gosh, but why? I’m so angry, and I’m so scared.” But again — why could this be happening for me? Maybe the universe or God knew something about this chemo that I didn’t know, and I needed to stop it. Maybe it’s saving me differently.

The “why”: How colon cancer forced me to finally become the person I always wanted to be


For me, the “why” is that it has helped me become the version of myself I always knew I could be. I hate that it had to come from something like this. I don’t think everybody needs something like this to become that version of themselves. But for me, I look back, and I was on a trajectory where there were so many things I wanted to do in my life, and I wasn’t getting there. I think it did take something this big for me to flip — really fast — and to become this version of myself and to live this life that I’m loving, where I’m helping people, inspiring people, encouraging people. I’m doing all the things I’ve always wanted to do.

Not to be morbid — and, trigger warning: I’m going to bring up mortality here — but when you’re given a cancer diagnosis, you can’t help but think about mortality. I have a lot more peace around that now because I’m living the life that I’ve always wanted to live. If things were to go south — and I don’t think they will, and I don’t want that — I feel so much more peace because now I have become that version of myself I’ve always wanted to be. There’s no regret anymore.

Learning to love my body again: Reframing body image during colon cancer treatment


When I got the diagnosis initially, I actually didn’t feel betrayal from my body. There was more of a fear of — can I trust my body? I thought I was really in tune with my body, but here I had cancer growing. It was more like distrust of myself — of being able to feel what was going on in my body. There was no feeling of betrayal.

I have done a lot of work around understanding trauma and how the body carries trauma and emotion. My perspective initially, when I got the diagnosis, was: “Oh my gosh — I actually felt really sad for my body. You’ve been carrying all of this for me. And I didn’t even know. And you’ve been carrying this while I’ve been going to the gym, traveling, hanging out with my friends — all the things. And you’ve been carrying this for me.” That was the perspective I had initially.

Since then, it’s been the same thing: “Oh my gosh, my body has not only been carrying cancer and keeping me going, it’s been carrying my trauma, it’s been carrying my emotions. And it’s been healthy otherwise.” There’s just been so much love for my body and how much it’s done for me.

I actually have rituals I do before chemo where I will stand — sometimes naked — and just love on my body. Really look at it and say: from my feet to my fingers — “My feet: thank you for holding me and letting me walk. My legs: thank you for letting me walk, sit, and dance. My arms: thank you for letting me hug.” I am so grateful for my body and for all that it’s enduring through treatment.

And I just want to add to that: a lot of times, we associate body love with how our body looks. But for me, it has nothing to do with how my body looks — it’s what it can do for me. The whole reason I get to experience life is through my body. This is the vessel I get to live my life through. So when you get to hug the people you love, when you get to taste really good food, when you get to laugh, when you get to cry, when you get to watch a movie that you love — all of that is happening through your body. That’s when I’m looking at it in the mirror and saying: “Thank you for letting me do those things. Thank you for letting me live.”

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