From Facing Sphincter Loss to Achieving cCR: A Close Battle with Ultra-Low Rectal Cancer | Patient Story

“Even now, whenever the phone rings late at night, my heart instinctively tightens, as if I’m back in that chaotic early year. That stark red on the toilet paper became a cruel watershed for our family’s life. Before it, the world was ordinary; after it, every single day felt like a prolonged trench war against an invisible enemy.”

Editor’s Note: This article is written from the first-person perspective, documenting the cancer journey of Teacher Li Xuefeng’s mother. Mr. Li is both a patient’s family member and a dedicated volunteer in the Panda Group. We thank him for his great love and courage, and wish his mother lasting health and longevity!

Author | Zhong Lala
Reviewer | Guangguang
Editor | Xianning

「 I. Mother Diagnosed with Ultra-Low Rectal Cancer 」

I am a “Beijing drifter.” After getting married and having a child here, my mother, like many other “migratory bird” parents, followed me to Beijing to wholeheartedly care for my child at home. Our family was her entire world, and I was her “sky.”

My mother’s rectal bleeding was clearly identified during the Chinese New Year in February 2025. In reality, the storm’s warning signs had been brewing in the shadows for months. Looking back half a year earlier, her body had already sent out alerts—occasional abdominal pain, increasingly frequent constipation, and irregular bowel movements. These seemingly minor “ailments,” like tiny ripples on a calm lake, did not raise alarm in our family. True to the traditional mindset of the older generation, my mother feared spending money and dreaded troubling her children. Even when she noticed the bleeding, she casually said, “It’s nothing serious. I probably just ate too much spicy food at your sister’s place recently, and my hemorrhoids are acting up again.”

What truly alarmed the family was an episode of rectal bleeding during the New Year holiday. We had already returned to Beijing for work, but my mother stayed behind for a few more days. While hiking with relatives, she went to the restroom and found blood mixed within her stool, not just on the surface. This made her alert, as a relative had previously experienced gastrointestinal bleeding causing bloody stools. She worried she might be bleeding internally. My cousin then took her to a local hospital for a gastroscopy and colonoscopy.

I clearly remember the date: February 11. The doctor performing the colonoscopy was a relative back home. Right after the procedure, he called me immediately, saying, “Your mother’s condition doesn’t look good.” The expedited pathology results came out the next day: “Rectal adenocarcinoma, moderately differentiated.” The doctor then told me, “Hurry and take your mother back to Beijing for treatment. We definitely cannot preserve the sphincter here; the tumor is located very low.”

All my self-comforting hopes were completely shattered. Ten years ago, my father passed away suddenly from a cerebral hemorrhage, leaving us devastated. Even though a decade has passed, I still sometimes struggle to accept that he is gone. I was terrified of experiencing the loss of a loved one all over again.

Without a second thought, I told my mother to pack her bags and return to Beijing immediately. “We must go to Beijing right now, to the best hospital! I absolutely cannot lose my mother!” This was the most instinctive and resolute thought of a son in that moment.

「 II. Seeking Treatment in Beijing: The Painful Days of Chemotherapy and Radiotherapy 」

In the narrative of Chinese families, Beijing embodies all the imagination and trust in top-tier medical resources. Yet, the path to these premier hospitals is often fraught with thorns.

Initially, I booked an appointment with Director Du Xiaohui at the First Medical Center of the Chinese PLA General Hospital (301 Hospital). In my mind, this was already the pinnacle of colorectal cancer treatment. However, a relative who was part of the Panda Group advised against it and instead recommended the Cancer Hospital of the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences (also known as “Dongzhong”). At that time, I was still very confused about this disease, constantly searching on Baidu and Xiaohongshu, piecing together fragments of knowledge bit by bit.

After my mother returned to Beijing, I took her to Dongzhong for a series of examinations. From scalpers to security guards, from appointment window staff to random passersby, I seized every opportunity and tried every possible way to speed up the process.

On February 19, just the 8th day after diagnosis, we had already completed immunohistochemistry, CT scans, MRIs, and other tests. I was incredibly fortunate to receive help from a security guard twice, which allowed us to get a CT scan the very next day and secure a consultation with Professor Sun Yongkun on the 22nd.

My mother’s tumor stage was T3N1a, measuring 1.5 × 2.13 cm. Like a vicious seed, it had taken root just 3 cm from the anus. The doctor calmly pointed to the imaging scans, analyzing the condition and various possibilities. The number “3 cm” became our initial beacon of hope—it meant there was a strong chance of sphincter-preserving surgery.

After carefully reviewing our test results, Professor Sun noted that bed availability in Beijing was tight, requiring a wait of over a month. Fortunately, he had ward space at the Langfang campus, where the queue would be shorter. He asked if we were willing to go to Langfang. I answered without hesitation: “As long as I’m under your care, I’d go to Hainan.” We didn’t want to wait a single moment longer and immediately traveled to Langfang. Miraculously, we secured a chemotherapy bed that very same day. From diagnosis on the 11th to admission on the 24th, after navigating countless tests and rushing around, we finally officially began treatment.

Next came the choice of treatment plan.

Professor Sun’s exact words to my mother were: “I see your mental state is quite good, and your physical condition is strong too. Let me prescribe some ‘strong medicine.’ With a stronger regimen, we can aim for surgery sooner.”

I initially wondered how “strong” this medicine would be. I hadn’t heard of this regimen before, so I went to the Panda Group to ask. I learned it was the most aggressive FOLFOXIRI regimen, a “three-drug combination chemotherapy” (oxaliplatin, fluorouracil, irinotecan). Through “neoadjuvant therapy,” the goal was to maximize tumor destruction before surgery, potentially shrinking it completely to create the best conditions for sphincter preservation.

The chemotherapy process was a slow, agonizing ordeal, an extreme test of my mother’s body and will. The drugs waged war inside her, attacking not only the rampant cancer cells but also mercilessly eroding healthy ones. Vomiting, loss of appetite, and profound fatigue became daily routines. After the sixth cycle, she experienced bone marrow suppression with a white blood cell count of 2.2 and neutrophils at 0.7, accompanied by persistent pain from radiotherapy. We frequently rushed to the emergency room at night, yet these side effects never broke my mother’s resilient spirit.

My mother’s only breakdown occurred after the first chemotherapy cycle. About 10 days after returning home, her hair began falling out in large clumps. I walked into her room and saw her sitting on the bed, holding a handful of fallen hair, her eyes hollow, tears streaming down silently. She murmured, “How… how did it all fall out…” My mother was crying, and my wife cried with her. Yet, for the first and only time, I lost my temper with my mother, saying, “What’s there to cry about? It’s just treatment. Losing some hair doesn’t mean it won’t grow back.”

My wife bought wigs and hats for my mother while gently scolding me for not understanding how important hair is to a woman. For a woman who loves beauty, the loss of her dark locks was not just a physical wound, but a blow to her dignity and self-identity. Looking back, I deeply regret not comforting her and instead losing my temper. It was truly wrong of me.

Later, I borrowed a pair of scissors from the nurse station and offered to cut my mother’s hair myself. During those few minutes, my mind was filled with images of her before she fell ill, dancing in the square with a ponytail. Her dark hair bounced with her steps, like a happy butterfly. Now, she was enduring the torment of disease. I slowed my movements, terrified of causing her pain. With a final “snip,” the last few strands fell to the floor. This time, my mother didn’t cry, but I was the one in tears.

[ Mother wearing a wig after chemotherapy ]

After 3 cycles of chemotherapy, a re-evaluation showed excellent results. The tumor had shrunk from 1.5x2.13 cm at diagnosis to 1x1.6 cm. I consulted Director Liang Jianwei from the surgical department at Dongzhong, who advised continuing with two more cycles of chemotherapy. Sphincter preservation was highly likely, though functional outcomes couldn't be guaranteed. I also consulted Director Tang Yuan from the radiotherapy department, who recommended returning to the medical department to continue chemotherapy under Professor Sun Yongkun. So, we proceeded with two more cycles of the original regimen.

After 5 cycles, I began struggling with which surgeon to choose for the operation. I visited Friendship Hospital and consulted Director Yao Hongwei, who suggested long-course radiotherapy plus PD-1 immunotherapy. However, Friendship Hospital’s radiotherapy was conducted at an affiliated medical alliance, not on-site. I then consulted Dr. Geng Jianhao at Peking University Cancer Hospital and Director Tang Yuan at Dongzhong. Both recommended long-course radiotherapy, noting that after 5 cycles of the strong FOLFOXIRI chemotherapy, adding PD-1 might not be necessary. Ultimately, due to bed availability, Director Tang Yuan advised us to go to the Dongzhong Langfang campus to seamlessly continue after the 5th cycle, undergoing radiotherapy under Director Zhang Wenwen.

25 sessions of radiotherapy required my mother to stay alone at the Langfang hospital for a period. That was one of the most agonizing times of my life. Every Monday and on my days off, I took the high-speed train to the hospital to accompany her. Daily, unwavering video calls became our lifeline. On screen, she always tried to smile, saying, “I’m fine, don’t worry.” Her optimistic and cheerful nature quickly helped her bond with patients from all over the country in the ward.

In the later stages of radiotherapy, side effects began to appear. Radiation proctitis and aggravated hemorrhoids, accompanied by anal fissures, caused her unimaginable anal pain. Every bowel movement felt like torture. Her voice on the phone was slightly strained from holding back the pain. On my end, my heart ached, yet I felt powerless. I could only frantically research, consult doctors and fellow patients, and search for any way to relieve her suffering. Then, over the phone, I would repeatedly offer the only pale yet steadfast comfort: “It’s almost over, Mom. Hold on. We’re almost there.”

「 III. A Difficult Choice: Surgery or Watch & Wait 」

All our perseverance and endurance were for that final “judgment day”—the post-radiotherapy efficacy evaluation.

When the imaging report stated, “Slight roughness in the lower rectal wall, no obvious thickening,” I was so excited that I chain-smoked three cigarettes, my hands trembling uncontrollably. A long-lost, genuine smile finally returned to my mother’s face. It felt as if the dark cloud that had hung over us was finally torn apart by sunlight.

However, medical rigor can sometimes feel cruel. The subsequent pathology biopsy report poured cold water on our boiling joy: “A few atypical glands are seen within the intestinal mucosal tissue, accompanied by fibrous tissue proliferation and inflammatory cell infiltration, consistent with adenocarcinoma with post-treatment changes.” Because I had doubts about the report, I specifically visited the pathology department to speak with the reporting doctor. He explained that he had spotted two extremely tiny cancer cells.

Hope and disappointment tossed us like a rollercoaster, lifting us high only to drop us hard.

We stood at an unprecedented crossroads. Based on the doctors’ comprehensive opinions, we faced two paths: First, surgery—radical resection to eliminate the threat permanently, but my mother would have to endure surgical trauma and the risk of poor postoperative anal function. Second, “watch and wait”—continue chemotherapy for 2-3 more cycles with close monitoring. This might spare her the knife, but it meant bearing the risk of recurrence.

This decision was incredibly difficult. Choosing surgery felt like a high-stakes gamble on my mother’s recovery and future quality of life. Choosing observation meant we would forever live under the Sword of Damocles named “possible recurrence.”

During those days, I couldn’t sleep. I consulted experts in the “Panda Group,” visited various internal medicine and surgical departments across Beijing, reviewed scans, and sought second opinions. Group members joked that I was trying to visit every hospital in Beijing from east to west, north to south.

Ultimately, we decided: postpone surgery, adopt watch & wait.

This decision wasn’t about right or wrong. It was simply the choice our family felt best aligned with my mother’s interests and wishes at that moment. We learned that coexisting with cancer and uncertainty is perhaps a lesson we must all master in modern cancer treatment.

「 IV. Reflections on This Cancer Journey 」

Looking back over these past months, while fighting cancer head-on, we also struggled on multiple invisible fronts.

The battlefield of information. I was forced to rapidly transform from an ordinary office worker with zero medical knowledge into a “rectal cancer expert,” taking full charge of my mother’s disease management. Terms like “neoadjuvant therapy,” “pathological complete response,” and “watch & wait” became part of my daily vocabulary.

Knowledge is the best light to dispel fear.

“Relying on others is less reliable than relying on yourself. For your own illness, either take responsibility yourself, or have a dedicated family member manage the disease course. Even in the best hospitals, complex cases can be delayed if not managed well. Effectively integrating quality medical resources is a comprehensive test of a family’s cognitive ability, human resources, and financial level. China offers great freedom in seeking medical care; it doesn’t cost much to book an expert at a top specialized hospital. But how much of what the expert says can you absorb and digest? How do you cross-verify and implement it? It all depends on the patient/family’s own cognitive level and execution ability.” This was a quote from Director Han of the Panda Group, and it remains my deepest takeaway from this journey.

The battlefield of finances. Fortunately, years of striving in Beijing had laid a solid financial foundation. My wife chose to support me unconditionally in covering treatment costs. Additionally, thanks to my sister working in insurance, the critical illness and medical insurance policies purchased for my mother, combined with national health insurance, played a massive role in this battle. They acted as a solid logistical force, allowing us to focus more on treatment efficacy rather than being constrained by costs. This made me realize countless times how crucial it is to prepare for a rainy day.

The battlefield of psychology. Treatment was not smooth sailing. At one point, a CT scan report suspected “abnormal small nodules in the liver,” raising fears of liver metastasis. Those few days waiting for confirmation were like purgatory. I dared not show a hint of it in front of my mother. I could only stand alone on the balcony late at night, smoking cigarette after cigarette, as if only those tiny sparks could fight off the boundless darkness. Only when an enhanced MRI ruled out metastasis did I feel alive again.

And my mother, just as I had imagined, remained incredibly strong. From initial fear and denial to later calm acceptance and active cooperation, her mindset only improved. She even began comforting us. She became the bravest warrior in this campaign and the warmest lighthouse guiding our way forward.

「 V. The Dawn of Victory: cCR/nCR 」

During the final consultation with Director Yao Hongwei, he said, “Your CCR is basically confirmed. There’s no need for surgery anymore.”

Today was originally scheduled to be the day of my mother’s final chemotherapy cycle. However, after extensive consultations, I have decided not to proceed with the 8th cycle. We all hope for a temporary end to this incredibly arduous journey.

Next, life will enter a new pattern. Regular follow-up MRIs, colonoscopies, digital rectal exams, and tumor markers will act like sentinels, guarding against future risks. Our lives can never return to the carefree “normal” of the past, but we have learned to cherish each other and every ordinary day even more under this new “normal.”

This war is far from over. It has shifted from a fierce, all-out offensive to a long, patient, and vigilant garrison phase. But we are no longer as panicked as we were at the beginning. Because we know that while cancer cells may erode the body, they cannot break the defense line built by love and faith.

My mother’s hair is slowly growing back, fine yet resilient, like grass reborn after a disaster. And I, through this baptism of blood and white coats, have also undergone my own growth. I have learned that filial piety is not merely about joyful companionship, but about standing up without hesitation when the storm of fate strikes, to hold up the tilting sky for your parents.

Having survived the chaos of the emergency room at dawn and kept watch in the dim morning light outside the outpatient building, we have finally grasped that beam of victory that belongs to us.

[ Mother happily making a "peace sign" with her newly grown hair ]

「 Bonus: My Story with the Panda Group 」

On February 15, the 4th day after diagnosis, I joined the Panda 30 Group and the Low-Position 1 Group. I began reading guidelines, learning knowledge, and observing group members’ questions and chats, gradually gaining a comprehensive understanding of this disease. Throughout my mother’s treatment, friends in the group never hesitated to extend a helping hand. They not only answered my countless questions in the group, but when my mother suffered from hemorrhoid pain during radiotherapy, teachers like Da Cong, VV, and Youwei even mailed me ointments. With every step, the Panda Group accompanied us.

Every comrade and family member in the “Panda Group” has been my most solid backup. We have never met in person, yet we can share our deepest fears and most detailed experiences late at night. This feeling of “we are in this together” is the warmest support outside the official medical system. The Panda Group witnessed the ups and downs of my family’s journey from diagnosis to CCR, and finally, we welcomed the dawn of victory.

Later, I printed a T-shirt featuring pandas and friends. I wore it proudly around the hospital, recommending this professional and warm organization to fellow patients, hoping they could receive help like I did and avoid detours. Eventually, I officially signed up as a volunteer for the Panda Group, continuously enriching myself while answering questions for fellow patients.

The cancer journey is like a Long March. This march is about life, but even more about love. The road ahead remains unknown, but I firmly believe that a single spark can start a prairie fire, and love and perseverance can bring hope; keep moving forward, let hope never fade, and even the light of a firefly can illuminate a corner.

Special thanks to Director Han and all the teachers in the Low-Position Group. I love you all.

To protect patient privacy, names used in this article are pseudonyms.
Images containing patient portraits have been authorized by the patients. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

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