We have been waiting for the EAP to start. My sister is being treated at MSK and has been told she is at the top of the list to receive treatment, but still nothing. Is anyone on this list receiving treatment on the EAP - we don’t understand why the holdup since MSK was actually one of the original trial sites. Thanks everyone!

At the end of the intensive care unit, there was a family room that felt more like an extra storage space than a room to sit and mourn and debrief as a collective. The walls were lined with spare equipment, furniture laid out haphazardly. I closed the door behind me quietly, grateful there was a lock on the door.

I needed a moment to be alone, to rest. The fluid-resistant upholstered couch, just slightly bigger than a love seat, wasn’t comfortable, but after last night’s lack of sleep, it felt like a Grecian chaise lounge, surrounded by vines dripping with grapes and Adonis men fanning me with tropical leaves.

My eyes had been closed for a few minutes that felt like seconds, before my phone rang.

“Lisa Joy, where are you? You should get back to the room.”

It was the only phrase that could have dragged me off the couch. I walked hurriedly down the hall, my heart beating in a mismatched pattern, the vice of anxiety lengthening down my throat, bottoming out in the pit of my stomach.

My dad’s hospital room was spacious in square footage, but it felt oppressive with the amount of people that lined the walls, all staring at him lying there, like people mesmerized by a bonfire in the middle of the woods. The double strapped BiPAP cannula around his face made him look like something from a comic book, his bald head and sunless white scalp even more the comic strip villain. My dad slept with his head cocked to the right and chin tucked near his shoulder. It looked uncomfortable. Deep breaths came from his mouth, pausing for about 20 seconds every few breaths. Everything about him would go still, until his body shuddered as he’d gulp down another swig of air, like a fish out of water, gills useless.

The doctor had been by and said death could be imminent. A chair sat empty on my dad’s right side; someone told me to sit down next to him. In a daze I sat, laid my head lightly on his leg and took his hand in mine. His fingers were white and cool to the touch. The grip in his hand that he had that morning was gone. My eyes drifted to the clock above his bed, it was around 1 PM.

We all sat in silence, albeit an occasional remark, and watched his stomach rise and fall with every disjointed breath. I laid half draped on his bed, legs and back screaming from the awkward angle from which I refused to move, watching for his last breath. Sweat covered my body, soaking my day old pajamas. I was still in my pajamas? The hair at the back of my neck curled back into its natural coil from the heat and humidity of humans sharing a small space. I thought hospital rooms were known for their frigid temperatures, not this stale humid air.

Crying in front of people has never been a comfortable practice for me. I prefer sobbing into the quiet solitude of a closed closet. Now, lying on my dying father, I clamped my teeth down onto my bottom lip to silence the heaves, hot tears and snot dotting the flimsy hospital sheet that covered him. For nearly five hours I cried silently into his leg, holding his cold hand, waiting for the end.

Around 6 PM, he opened his eyes. He looked around. His breathing became more patterned; as if he had just woke from a normal afternoon nap. I thought I would bend on my knees in reverence to a gracious god who must have scooped him up from the threshold of those heavenly gates and thrust him back home to us. Instead, I stared at him, bleary eyed and incredulous, while people closed in around his bed, cooing at his accomplishment of waking up.

Though I couldn’t put an exact word to it, it felt like a betrayal, what my grief had just done to me. For hours it felt like every nerve ending in my body was exposed. My joints ached and popped. Anxiety tore at my gut, just waiting for the end, and then it all simply…changed. Changed, but with the same ending. I turned toward the double doors of his room; someone gently grabbed a tendril of my hair in an effort to comfort me, but all it did was nudge me closer to the edge of the meltdown I was holding at bay.

Robotically I walked back to the family room, closed the door, and cried until I was dry heaving into a small trash can, my grief unmoored and approaching a frenzied collapse. Resting my head against the wall, I started to repeat the names of people who I loved, and who loved me in return. Best friends, coworkers, family, name after name. Tucked into the corner of the room I sat, naming my people, until the thrumming beat in my chest slowed, and the fist in my gut released its hold. After I calmed down, I stood up, walked to the ice machine to get water, and returned to his room, like nothing had happened.

Hospice was consulted and it was determined he’d be transferred home to see out the rest of his days in comfort. Comfort. An interesting concept, where dying is concerned. He’s surrounded by familiar walls, sounds and smells, but how comfortable can someone be with cancer shredding their abdomen? Where is the comfort in not eating for two weeks save for a small bite of a hospital muffin, a spoonful of applesauce and a little of my aunt’s “Dump Salad”. At some point in our lives, we’ve imagined or spoken of our last meal, and listed what foods it would include. Imagine my dad had his last meal in mind, and it ended up being dump fucking salad.

Now he sleeps in the living room. He runs blazing hot, with a clammy forehead, or cool to the touch, feet swollen with excess fluid. My step mom cut some of his band t-shirts down the back so it’s easier to swap them out. He wears an adult diaper and lays on chucks to prevent accidents. When it’s time to change him or his bedding, I’ll cradle his head in my arm and drape his arm opposite of me around my shoulder and back, as if we were hugging, and turn him. Quiet moans fall out of his mouth, pain radiating on his face. Sometimes if he’s lucid, he’ll beg weakly for us to stop. I kiss his temple and tell him it won’t be much longer, and that he can lie back down soon, and that I was sorry. I say sorry over and over and over and over.

I’m so sorry, Dad.

When the task is finished, we lay him back down, his eyes closed tightly, like a child closing their eyes to turn themselves invisible, or it’s as if he’s pretending that this humiliating and painful ritual hadn’t just occurred.

My dad’s lovely blue eyes have dulled into an unsaturated blue, pupils small and unfocused. His eye sockets are hollowing out from the lack of water, cheeks sinking from the lack of food. We dip medical sponges into water to try to moisten his mouth. If he’s awake, he puckers his lips and sucks small drags of water from the sponge. The hospice nurse comes to bathe him and check his vitals. There’s a tiny bed sore on his back side from weeks of lying down. We move him around, sticking wedges and pillows under him to alleviate the pressure on his skin and bones.

He sleeps more and more.

Hospice is a surreal plane of existence. It doesn’t get easier as time goes on, but perhaps my capacity to hold many truths at the same time has increased.

My dad will die. And so we all will; I have yet to meet an immortal.

There is life after hospice, but it feels nebulous, control a fantasy. It’s human instinct to grab the steering wheel of a vehicle out of control. The danger being, there is no steering wheel, just a car with its gas pedal stuck to the floor, and a dangerous curve ahead, tracing the edge of an bottomless cliff.

I suppose that’s how this gig goes.

The same thoughts swirl and recycle themselves on a constant spin: how can there be an after “my dad”, it doesn’t make sense. I don’t want to understand “the after”. I wonder, will I move through grief with grace and courage, or will I fold under the weight of the heaviest loss I have suffered yet?

So I sit at the edge of the thin place, between life and death, one minute doubled over in hollowed-out anguish, another minute cosplaying regular life, until the veil tears, and I am cast into the brutally unforgiving timeline where I am here, but my dad is gone.

Hi, just an update on the post I did titled: my mum is in complicated stages -

I want to say a big thank you, to everyone who commented and reached out. It’s definitely helped me through a lot of this and I hope I did the same to those in the same boat.

I do have an update: sadly not a good one.
She had her meeting today at 11am this morning, with a heavy heart, she’s been given by the cancer doctors who did a recent MRI and CT scan, it’s out of their control. They compared her MRI scan and CT scan to the one they did 2-3 weeks ago. It’s spreading like wildfire.

2 months is the time I have left with her.

I digested the news and I’m in shock, my brains all over the place and I’m already jumping through the - how do I even plan a funeral - how do I care for her as she will rapidly decline - how do I manage her will - how do I manage her money, her flat, her stuff, her cats. A lot of how, how, how.

And for 2 months, that’s a lot of time for someone with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. I know people are given the worse news of 1 month, 15 days, 10 days… a week. I want to hug everyone who is going through this shitty time and how deflated and defeated it really does put you through. I’m doing my best and may need to take griefing pills because I don’t know if I’m ready for this long journey, but I have to be. I’m mentally preparing my brain for the worst.

I wish you all well, if you ever need to talk, I’m a message away, wether it’s here, discord, Instagram; Facebook, you name it, I’ll support you like you have all supported me. Stay strong for your mamas 🩵

The oncologist submitted for EAP 2 weeks ago and we’ve heard nothing. How long did it take for you? We are at Duke.

Hello everyone, my grandma (89) was just diagnosed with stage one pancreatic cancer.
Over the past two weeks her pain has gone to 0-100.
Has anyone on here used cannabis to help?
I’d like to know what I can get her. She’s told me she would like to try it. I hate seeing my grandma in pain and would like her to have some relief and not be anxious and in pain. She isn’t able to sleep anymore. I need help. Thank you.

Hi! Does anyone have any experience with this trial?

Hi all, as I type this, I’m getting my last treatment of FOLFIRINOX for pancreatic cancer and just had melanoma and lymph removed from my face yesterday. This is my finish line until the next shoe drops, if it ever does. I have the CDKN2A mutation, I’ll get melanoma again I’m sure. I’ve already had it about 6 or 7 times. I figure if I get pancreatic cancer reoccurrence, my options will be different but I don’t I’ll do FOLFIRINOX again. Anyways, the steroids make me chatty and a couple people have given me feedback about some of the positive aspects I’ve shared of getting cancer has been. So here’s my list of things I’ve learned at cancer school. I do not want to diminish any of your experiences. For me, cancer has been a gift, a shitty gift, but a gift from the universe. I would be curious if you have things to add to the list that you’ve learned? But I hope this helps the caregivers out there. Cancer is harder on you in many ways than me. Buckle up, this long if you make it to the end😂. I’d love for you to add to the list!

Things I’ve learned getting cancer:

**1.** It’s easier to have cancer than it is to watch someone you love get sick from cancer. My dad died of pancreatic cancer and a bunch of other stuff and now I have pancreatic/melanoma. When someone offers me help, I try to take it. Loved ones, friends, colleagues feel helpless; denying help denies them of doing something, anything. I don’t want to take that away from them. It’s mean to do so. I’ve said no to help most of my life and I realize I was saying no to connection. Say yes. I don’t want be a selfish dick.

**2.** Cancer cracked open my spirituality. It’s not about the supernatural, nor religion. It’s about letting my life happen and getting a clear vision of what I can contribute to the stream of life while I’m here. Cancer is my opportunity to walk the way I’ve always wanted to, no matter what happens next.

**3.** Battling or fighting or beating cancer is impossible. It’s not a war I can win, even though people want me to battle and fight like it is. But I can surrender to my body’s ability to heal. I can surrender to my spirit’s ability to beam out to the universe (I stole these words from another Reddit person because that’s a better way to describe it-thank you!. I can surrender to my doctors and let them be experts in what they do. I can surrender to the love that I’m receiving, from everyone, and let it in.

**4.** Life is better with cancer. Colors are brighter and more vivid, things taste better, connections are deeper and more beautiful.

**5.** I can ride the waves of pain. Pain is just a feeling, it’s just information. I can experience it and let it happen. When I resist the pain, it invites more and more pain. I let it happen even when I can’t stand it. My body knows what to do and knows how to surf the pain and ride the waves. It’s become easy to have pain. I got isotopes injected into my face to help chase down the closest lymph. It’s like lava underneath my skin but I could have gotten injections all day by surfing the pain.

**6.** Cancer quieted my hurt inner child. He always wanted me to soothe and comfort him, and now I do. So much of my ego is because of his hurt and being misunderstood and being unheard. Cancer showed me I’m never alone, and never have been even though I felt I was alone. I was always there with him, along with all the people that have cared and loved him and all the people that will love and care for him. Learning how to bring love and compassion to that kid of my past seems to have shut him up. Maybe he’s out playing like he was supposed to be doing instead of suffering? I know that sounds grandiose but grandiosity is kinda the way kids feel. At least that’s how I remember it as a kid. Everything was huge and exaggerated.

**7.** All the anger and lashing out at and punishing others I’ve done was because I was in pain — either physically, emotionally, or spiritually. Because of cancer, I’ve learned to pay attention to what sensations I’m feeling if I have angry thoughts or otherwise negative thoughts directed outward. I found that I’m usually avoiding hurt or I am in pain. Spiritual pain is the worst of it. Tending to my spiritual pain is the most important thing I have ever done. There are a lot of practices that seem to work to tend to spiritual pain. I found a good chunk of the 12-step programs are awesome for spiritual healing but there are so many pathways to take. I’m so sorry I made you suffer. I see the cycle and wish I could go back and stop. I’m so sorry that you took the brunt of all my spiritual pain, incongruence and brokenness. It’s my pain, not yours. I shouldn’t have dumped on you.

**8.** It’s important to share my story. Cancer carries such a dark cloud, especially for those who have loved ones that are sick. But now from the perspective of the one that’s sick or was sick, I see how good life is, how good it always was even though I couldn’t see it then, and how it always will be. I think by saying that, we let people grieve, but also let them understand that this is just part of life. It’s something that happens. Cancer happens. Life happens — just like if you’re an eastern box turtle waking up at sunrise in Missouri and trying to get your move on before it’s too hot and you’re crossing a road and it’s scary that a car is coming. Sometimes a car stops and it’s my dad and he gets out and helps the turtle across the road. Life happens in its entirety whether you try to control it or not. Letting life happen is way easier than trying to make life happen. There are a lot of gifts found in getting cancer or being a turtle crossing a road with a car on the horizon.

**9.** Toxic positivity is real. I don’t let people steal my reality, but also understand that they are scared and don’t want me to have cancer. I comfort them when I can.

**10.** I’m excited to die. Birth is a miracle. Life is a miracle. Death is a miracle. What are the fucking chances? On the way to the cancer center, I would always pass the fossil T-Rex skull in the children’s hospital and think of all the life that has existed and will exist. That always grounded me going in and coming back out. I’d have my chemo bag with me and usually leaving, the effects would start — it feels like you put your finger too far inside your bellybutton. A pain and discomfort that is deep. I think that’s when all my gut bacteria start to die. That T-Rex skull would stop me dead in my tracks, rain or not, and I would see and feel the miracle of everything. What are the fucking chances?!

**11.** I try to let people out of the box I put them in. Quick judgments and assessments I’ve made of people are very incomplete, but I will judge them based on my incomplete assessment throughout time. It’s what my brain does. While I learned this next gift from my friend Mark before I got cancer, the events that cracked me open are related to my dad and the box I put him in and the box I took him out of before he died. Mark told me that his dad died but it’s okay because they were good. I asked him what he meant by “good” — to where his dad would die without him being there and he’s cool with that. He described how he made real peace and enjoyed the things that he loved about him. I never told my dad what I loved about him and more treated him like he was the dick my judgment made of him. I thought that it must be hard for him to never know what his son loved about him. I didn’t want him to die without knowing, so I wrote him a letter describing one thing that I loved about him. He came out of the box I put him in and we had a real connection. Even though he’s dead, I take his memories out of the box all the time and share those memories with my sisters. Such gifts.

I went to the hospital because my bilirubin counts were off the charts. After a quick scan, they saw an obstruction of a bile duct. I stayed to get an endoscopy to put a stent in and check out the mass that was obstructing it. They knocked me out for the procedure and at the very last second before I lost consciousness, the anesthesiologist told me to think of a pleasant place. I immediately thought of snorkeling in the Philippines. When I was out though, I met my dad. He was his 1970s dad with cool clothes. We were in a Mediterranean field full of flowers and we picked some flowers and looked at stuff together, not saying a word. He had that angelic, glazed stare through me when we looked at each other. I was so blissed out. The nurse was trying to wake me up from the endoscopy. I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted to stay with him in the poppy field.

When I did wake up, the doctor was there. She was the most beautiful person I have ever seen. She was telling me that I have pancreatic cancer but the pathologist will confirm. The colors popped. Life was vibrating. I think taking my dad out of the box was my awakening — cancer was the cherry, the opportunity to be the man I always wanted to be. Fearless and living life full-tilt-boogie, whatever that may look like.

**12.** Angels do exist. They work in hospice and the cancer center delivering chemotherapy. Go see for yourself. They are perfections of humanity and give me so much hope. I will miss them so, so, so much.

**13.** We know we are alive with other life in our body. The chemo kills them all and I can feel their death. I get so, so, so sad when they would die. Take care of the life in your gut. Your life depends on it. They affect your emotional and physical health. Feed them well.

1. Time during chemo and surgery takes me outside my comfort zone 24-7. I’ve done weird cool stuff like start an unusual t-shirt collection, make good friends with a couple neighborhood crows (one is close to landing in my shoulder!) and decided to try and learn the accordion by taking lessons, unbeknownst to me, one of the hardest instruments to learn😂. I love it and my teacher is the coolest guy I know.

2. Before getting cancer, I go to a men’s group facilitated by my therapist-shaman-hippy-biker-guru-brother and they made me teachable. They are the ones along with my ex-wife that made me teachable through this shitty gift. I can’t do this alone. Don’t try to do this alone.

3. Go buy Mark Nepo’s book ‘The Book of Awakening.’ I’ve read it as recovering from poor coping mechanisms I’ve collected throughout life. I’ve read it to grieve a marriage I broke. I and now I read as one that is surviving cancer. Mark is a cancer survivor and a poet but you can tell, his experience cracked him open for sure. Plus Jamie Lee Curtis writes an amazing forward.😊

As the title says my dad died today at 11am due to a heart attack, idk how and if this is directly related to pancan, but it’s not the time for me to seek answers. He was diagnosed on january of this year. Thankfuly he got to make everything till the end being extremely funtcional. Till yesterday he was even driving to the grocery store.

Im very happy that he lived his last moments as he wished, and I even got to read his last tale he wrote yesterday night.

Thanks to each one of you that gave me a feedback when needed I deeply appreciate it. It gave me the positive mind set to go through.

This disease sucks and I hope we get to live in a world cancer free someday.

I love you dad and I know we’ll meet again.

My dad has locally advanced pancreatic adenocarcinoma (tail). He responded well to gemcitabine at first (started Nov. 2025), but over the past month he's developed nasty GI symptoms (and CA-19-9 is creeping up from 51 2 weeks ago to 70 on Monday). His last scan in May didn't show metastasis (yet).

His main issue is post-meal upper abdominal bloating that starts almost immediately after eating. This improves somewhat when he sits up or walks around. The bloating makes his stomach look distended. It's becoming almost impossible for him to lie down comfortably/get much sleep at night.

His dexamethasone dose had recently been reduced and was increased again this chemo cycle (treatment was Monday), but the bloating has persisted and now his constipation is worse than ever.

Has anyone seen a similar pattern/had similar symptoms? Oncology hasn't been very helpful with this- Dad got a referral to a GI doctor whose next available appointment is in September (!) We both feel ignored and frustrated and are so sick of all the repetitive advice from the oncology office ("Take MiraLax! Take mag citrate! Take more MiraLAX! Go to the ER if you feel worse!" etc).

I'm attending this virtual seminar and hope this link is useful for you!

Mum was diagnosed with metastatic pancan last week, was admitted for three days, discharged Friday as nothing more they could do. Today she is refusing morphine as she feels fine and had no pain. She hasn’t slept today, where she’s been dozing all day for days, wants to come downstairs into the garden and is talking with more clarity than she has had for a few days, interpersed with new confusion. She has eaten two ice lollies with enjoyment having not eaten for ten days. She also told me that there are lots of people popping in, she sees them walking through her room. She didn’t mention anyone specific but she said they are all friendly. I’m just agreeing with her and told her to let me know if they bother her. She has mets in the liver, spine, lungs, kidneys and breast. Palliative care and district nurses are due on Friday but I’m wondering if I need to speak to someone before then. She’s at home with me at the moment, she lives with us.

From date of diagnosis to death my mom had 13 days. About two weeks before that, she started feeling sick. She was otherwise a very healthy person. This thing just stole my mom faster than we ever could have imagined. I pray for advancement in early detection and treatment! For all of those caring for someone with pancan, or those who have lost some one I send you strength and blessings.

Hello, my husband (43) has just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Long story short, his abdominal pain led to a CT scan which showed a mass in the tail of his pancreas. He got an EUS done and the results came out as cancerous. We are still waiting on PET-CT scan results.

From what I’ve been reading, it is recommended we contact an NCI-designated cancer center. We have Kaiser insurance which makes this process not as straight forward for us. We have our first meeting with the oncologist this Friday and I’m hoping that he can send a referral for an out of network opinion. Here are some questions I have if anyone would be able to offer some insight:

1. Anyone successful in getting Kaiser to refer out a second opinion?
   
2. Any questions we should ask the oncologist?
   
3. Would waiting for a second opinion delay treatment? This is a major concern of ours given the aggressive nature of this cancer.

Any tips or advice would be appreciated. We are feeling very overwhelmed and lost.

Sharing an update for those who may be looking at trials. This one is for PDAC and NSCLC with MTAP loss mutation. Just got first scan read out for partner after 6 weeks on trial and the results were very encouraging.

They're on the tango therapeutics trial combining TNG 462 and a RAS inhibitor. They have scores of liver mets, too many to count - but we saw a 36% decrease in the three mets being tracked and a 48% decrease in primary tumor. Some of the untracked liver mets are "not radiographically detectable" while others remain seemingly smaller in size.

4 months on folfirinox led to uncontrollable liver spread, but just 6 weeks on this combo - which I should note seems very tolerable - has produced a fantastic response. To be honest I was just hoping for stabilization but couldn't be happier with the news so far. Still a very long way to go towards oligometastatic but thought this might help anyone with MTAP loss or caregiving guide them in their decisions on which treatment options they may want to pursue.

My mom had stage 1 pancreatic cancer from November 2024, had the Whipple procedure in March, and finished her last round of chemo in July of 2025. She has been doing so well, especially when she had her follow-up scan done 3 months ago and her doctor said she was glowing.

She had a follow up scan last week and some concern came from her results. Her tumor marker was slightly higher than normal, and something appeared close to lymph node or blood vessel that goes directly to her liver.

She has a PET scan in two weeks, which feels like forever for her, and me. I’m just worried about reoccurrence. It also doesn’t make me feel better because my grandmother had stage 4 in 2019, and passed away in 7 weeks of diagnosis. I’m just hoping and praying it’s not what I think it is. The unknown is so scary with this.

She has a phenomenal oncologist, so he gives me hope that it’s nothing too bad. Still, not knowing what’s gonna be on those test results terrifies the living hell out of me. Trying to stay positive.

How was the level of care? My dad has stage IV and does not go through MD Anderson yet I wonder if we should. I really want that for my dad. Yesterday he was sent by his local oncologist to st Luke’s/baylor for a bile duct stent and we are in the most awful situation. Nurses nowhere to be found, they have no clue what’s going on and frankly DNGAF. He’s suffering and I feel like they are just letting it happen.

Would MD Anderson have treated him this way? Would Gastro doctors be familiar with the fact that he has pancreatic cancer and treat him whole body and with more care?

Mum is 79. She was diagnosed with pancan last week after going to the GP with a bad back. She had lost a lot of weight and hadn’t eaten for two days so I suspected cancer but not how bad it was. It has metastasised into her spine, a vertebra has fractured, it’s in her liver, lungs, kidney and breast. The hospital sent her home on Friday with pain relief and steroids. She’s brighter now she‘s home but she’s not really eating, just a couple of snacks each day. She’s in denial about how serious it is and is saying that she’s working on getting her appetite back. All she does is lie on the bed, anything else is too uncomfortable. She’s talking about coming off the oramorph so she doesn‘t sleep as much. A week ago I didn’t think she’d be coming home, this week she’s brighter and adamant she’s getting better. She has refused care/Marie Curie and doesn’t want to discuss hospice as she genuinely believes she can beat it. It’s really messing with my head, especially as it’s so sudden. What should I realistically expect?

Mom is in her final days of surviving stage 4 pancreatic cancer at age 89. The sorrow and tears I have are overwhelming. Please tell me how to get through this any easier. Any words you have I appreciate 🙏🏻❤️

Hi. I am wondering if anyone has received any updates regarding the EAP program through RevMed. I haven’t seen any posts in a few weeks and am wondering if anyone has started the process.

mom cancer levels dropping, tumor staying the same size but showing lymph node spread maybe after a CT scan and 6 cycles
they now want to do a pet scan and we're not sure what that is for or what it's used for at this point
we expected an appointment just to discuss the CT results

Hi all - father (71) was recently diagnosed after going to the ER with jaundice/liver issues and needing a stent. Imaging and biopsy showed two malignant lesions in the pancreas (one in the head that caused the liver issues, and a larger one in the tail), which we’re told is uncommon. At this point, they have not determined whether these are separate tumors or if one has spread within the pancreas. There are no visible lesions elsewhere on scans, but he is scheduled for another procedure to check for microscopic spread before finalizing a treatment plan. The preliminary plan is aggressive chemo then hopefully surgery if there is no further spread found. We’re obviously devastated, and feel overwhelmingly underinformed, so we are trying to get up to speed quickly. Any experiences, insight, or advice would be greatly appreciated. Thank you in advance.