Hepatoid Adenocarcinoma of the Stomach Is Not to Be Feared: A Family's Unity Turns the Cancer Journey into a Reunion Dinner | Patient Story

In the summer of 2024, Mona’s father experienced stomach burning and shoulder pain. Misjudgment and reluctance to undergo gastroscopy delayed his diagnosis. By February 2025, he was diagnosed with rare and aggressive hepatoid adenocarcinoma of the stomach. His AFP level reached 1800, far exceeding the normal range of 0-13.4 ng/ml, with a T4N2 staging indicating a critical condition. Guided by his father’s simple yet powerful words, “Either have ability or money, but you must work hard yourself,” the family united to navigate the cancer journey.

Author | Zhong Lala
Editor | Xian Ning
Reviewer | Guang Guang

「 Father Diagnosed with Hepatoid Adenocarcinoma of the Stomach 」

My father is 60 years old, a silent and resilient farmer who has worked the land his whole life. I never heard him complain of fatigue, nor have I ever seen him brought down by illness.

In the summer of 2024, he began complaining of stomach discomfort and a fiery burning sensation rising up his esophagus. We took him to a local clinic for anti-inflammatory injections and tested positive for H. pylori. After taking the quadruple therapy, he seemed to improve.

We all thought it was just ordinary gastritis.

By autumn, he frequently complained of bloating and back pain, along with left shoulder pain that had lasted over a year. We assumed it was frozen shoulder or a chill from driving with the windows down, never suspecting anything serious. Looking back, those seemingly unrelated symptoms were actually distress signals from his body.

I have always prioritized my parents' health, taking them for annual full-body checkups. Last summer, when his stomach first felt uncomfortable, I arranged a full-body MRI, which came back normal except that we skipped the gastroscopy. I suggested getting one later, but the moment he heard "uncomfortable," he refused, saying, "I'm afraid even of the painless one." Out of concern for his age, I let it go. Now, I realize this was my biggest regret. If I hadn't indulged his stubbornness back then, we might have caught the problem earlier and avoided so many detours.

2025 is my zodiac year. At the beginning of the year, a friend reminded me while checking my fortune: "Pay extra attention to your father's health this year." Those words stuck in my heart like a thorn. Remembering his postponed gastroscopy and persistent discomfort, I could no longer sit still. When I went home for the Spring Festival, I gently but persistently persuaded him to finally get the gastroscopy after the holidays.

On February 28, accompanied by my mother, my father underwent the gastroscopy. Midway through, the doctor suddenly stepped out to ask if he had ever had one before. Upon learning he hadn't, the doctor said gravely, "The situation might not be good." A massive protrusion in his stomach had already ulcerated, and a biopsy was taken on the spot. A week later, the pathology report came back: malignant tumor.

At that moment, I was at work in Urumqi. The instant I received my mother's call, my mind went blank. I never imagined that the word "cancer," which I had only seen in the news, would strike my own family so closely. I cried first, but quickly pulled myself together and immediately contacted a friend at the Xinjiang Cancer Hospital, sending over the test results.

On March 4, we brought my father to Urumqi. The cancer hospital performed another gastroscopy and biopsy, ultimately confirming the diagnosis: “hepatoid adenocarcinoma of the stomach.”

[Hepatoid adenocarcinoma of the stomach (HAS) is a rare subtype of gastric cancer characterized by hepatocyte-like differentiation in tumor tissue and the production of alpha-fetoprotein (AFP). HAS exhibits highly aggressive biological behavior, with a high propensity for lymphatic and liver metastasis, typically leading to a poor prognosis. It accounts for only 0.3% to 1% of all gastric cancers. Due to its low incidence, clinical awareness remains limited, making it prone to missed or misdiagnoses in practice.]

What worried us even more was that my father's AFP level had soared to 1800, far exceeding the normal range (0-13.4 ng/ml). The attending doctor told us that this type of stomach cancer is rare and aggressive, but fortunately, it wasn't discovered too late, leaving room for treatment. In that moment, I had only one thought in mind: no matter the cost, I had to save my father.

「 From Chemotherapy to Surgery: Every Step Was Heart-Stopping 」

After diagnosis, my father was admitted to the Xinjiang Cancer Hospital. Our staging was T4N2, meaning immediate surgery wasn't an option. The doctor devised a neoadjuvant chemotherapy plan, using a four-drug regimen of oxaliplatin + sintilimab + oral S-1 combined with apatinib, administered in 21-day cycles. We would complete four cycles first, then reassess for surgical eligibility.

As the eldest, I naturally took on the role of the family's pillar. The three of us siblings agreed to "contribute money or effort as we can." I coordinated the treatment plan and liaised with doctors, my brother assisted me in Urumqi, and my sister stayed in Bole to handle daily care and follow-up tests between chemo cycles. My mother managed his diet and daily routine, preparing varied nutritious meals daily, supplemented with Wangyuan camel milk from Xinjiang and Nutren (a doctor-recommended nutritional powder). With clear roles, we ensured my father could focus entirely on treatment without worrying about anything else.

During that time, I barely slept through the night. I worked during the day and spent my evenings scrolling through Douyin and researching, frantically searching for any information on gastric cancer and hepatoid adenocarcinoma. I followed Director Han and learned about the "Panda Group," but couldn't find a way in. It wasn't until after my father's fourth preoperative chemotherapy cycle that I accidentally found the entry link in a comment.

After joining the group, I realized how incredibly lucky we were. Many doctors are actually unfamiliar with hepatoid adenocarcinoma, yet we had started on the right regimen from the beginning: oxaliplatin + sintilimab + S-1 + apatinib, a four-drug combination. This protocol has only been widely promoted in the last two years, and my father's response to treatment was unexpectedly excellent.

After the first chemotherapy cycle, his follow-up AFP dropped from 1800 to just over 600—a decrease of 1200. The doctor said the tumor was "highly sensitive," which greatly boosted our confidence. Evaluations after two cycles showed that the previously thickened stomach wall had noticeably thinned, and the lymph nodes wrapping around the aorta had shrunk.

After the third cycle, his AFP and tumor markers had basically returned to normal. Throughout chemotherapy, his weight increased from 72 kg to 77 kg, his complexion was rosy, and his spirits were high.

My father was always highly cooperative. Although he felt unwell for a few days after each chemo session and occasionally said, "I don't want to live anymore, I don't want treatment," I knew he was scared inside. So, I always told him the truth about his test results and treatment plans, but I downplayed the severe parts and magnified the positive ones. I downloaded the patient handbook from the Panda Group, printed it out, and read it repeatedly. I learned to interpret blood tests, tumor markers, and CT reports, then explained them to him bit by bit: "Platelets are low, let's eat some organ meat to boost them." "White blood cells dropped, keep warm and avoid infections." He listened attentively like a schoolboy, occasionally nodding.

I told him, "Dad, with such a late stage, being eligible for surgery and responding well to chemo is like winning a 5-million-yuan lottery. You've been given a second life. From now on, you need to live differently."

He was silent for a long time, then softly said, "Okay."

After four cycles, the evaluation confirmed he met the criteria for surgery. However, the surgical approach posed a dilemma. Because the tumor was located at the gastric fundus and lymph nodes still wrapped around the left artery, the doctor recommended a total gastrectomy to prevent recurrence from incomplete removal. Initially, my father resisted a total removal. I patiently explained, "We discovered it at a late stage, and the risk of recurrence is high. At your age, you couldn't withstand a second round of treatment. A total gastrectomy is the safest choice."

To ensure the surgery went flawlessly, following recommendations from Panda Group members, I also consulted Dr. W at Beijing Cancer Hospital, who specializes in hepatoid gastric cancer, via an online consultation. He gave a definitive "surgery is feasible" response. I originally wanted to take my father to Beijing Cancer Hospital or West China Hospital, but friends advised us "not to put him through the hassle." The gastroenterology department at Xinjiang Cancer Hospital ranks among the best in the northwest, and Surgical Director Zhang Wenbin is a renowned expert. Considering the difficulties of traveling for care and my father's physical condition, we ultimately decided to proceed with the surgery at Xinjiang Cancer Hospital.

On July 8, my father was wheeled into the operating room. For those few hours, my mother, brother, and I waited anxiously outside, each minute and second feeling like a century. In the afternoon, the surgery concluded successfully. When the doctor came out and said, "The surgery went very well, and it was completely removed," our suspended hearts finally settled.

On the second day post-surgery, my father could drink rice water. By the fourth day, he could take a small bite of steamed bread and stewed meat. His recovery speed far exceeded expectations. After a ten-day hospital stay, he was discharged to recuperate at home. Soon after, he could eat soft noodles and small pieces of meat, a dietary progression so fast it even surprised the doctors.

「 Electrolyte Imbalance: An Unexpected 'Tough Battle' 」

We originally thought that after a successful surgery, everything would only get better. Unexpectedly, the postoperative chemotherapy caught us completely off guard.

The postoperative chemo regimen used the same drugs, but the oxaliplatin dose was reduced by 25% to prevent severe side effects. Although the dosage was lowered, my father's physical tolerance noticeably worsened. He experienced body aches, fatigue, and loss of appetite, and even developed a low-grade fever during his first post-op follow-up. After completing treatment in September, he could only drink plain congee for over a month, couldn't stand the smell of any oil or meat, and his weight plummeted to 60 kg.

For a while, we didn't know the cause until a mid-October checkup at a local hospital revealed "electrolyte imbalance." Severely low potassium and sodium levels caused his weakness, leg fatigue, and anorexia. Once the cause was identified, the doctor administered potassium and sodium infusions for three days, plus a two-day course of fat emulsion. He was also prescribed vitamin B12, folic acid, and ferrous succinate for nutritional support. Following the doctor's advice, I also gave him medroxyprogesterone to improve his appetite, but this medication requires dietary fat to work effectively. Since he previously couldn't tolerate the smell of meat, he hadn't taken it. Only as his body gradually improved did he start taking it regularly.

During that period, my father's morale also hit rock bottom. Numbness in his hands and feet, along with numerous calluses on his soles, affected his walking. Combined with his inability to eat and overall discomfort, he became very negative and even resisted taking medication. Seeing this pained me deeply, but I had to stay calm, video-calling him three times a day (morning, noon, and night) to patiently encourage him.

My father has always been a strong person. When I was young, he taught me how to start a fire and cook, telling me, "If the fire won't light, it's not that you can't do it; it's that your method is wrong." Now, I returned those words to him: "If the illness isn't healing, it's not that you're failing; it's that we haven't found the right method yet."

I told him, "You've survived the surgery, and chemo is almost over. This is just a temporary hurdle; once your electrolytes are replenished, you'll be fine. Look, you're slowly able to eat again—that's progress. Just hold on a little longer, and everything will get better." I also kept his favorite fruits and nuts nearby, encouraging him to take just one more bite, even if it was a tiny one.

Gradually, with medication and our encouragement, my father's appetite improved, and he began feeling hungry again. He could eat meat, drink camel milk, and enjoy fruits and nuts normally. His weight slowly rebounded, and his spirits lifted. Although the numbness in his hands and feet persisted, he could slowly move around on his own. The doctor explained that recovering from this neurotoxicity takes time, ranging from six months to three years, and advised regular movement and keeping warm.

On October 15, my father had his first comprehensive post-op follow-up. Enhanced CT and gastroscopy results were all normal, the anastomosis healed well, and there were no signs of recurrence. At that moment, our entire family breathed a sigh of relief. This nine-month cancer battle had finally achieved a phased victory.

「 Family Unity: No One Fights This Battle Alone 」

Looking back on these nine months, my deepest realization is this: the companionship and support of family are the most powerful forces in overcoming illness. This cancer battle was never my father's fight alone; it was a joint charge by our entire family.

My mother was the most unsung yet hardest-working person in this campaign. From the day of his diagnosis, she devoted herself entirely to his care. During chemotherapy, she traveled back and forth between Bole and Urumqi with him, meticulously managing his diet and daily life. She cooked whatever he craved, never complaining even when exhaustion bent her back. When he suffered after chemo, she stayed by his bedside all night, bringing water, administering medicine, and massaging him. When his mood dipped, though she secretly cried herself, she still forced a smile to comfort him. She said, "You must focus on getting better; I still want to go back to our hometown with you."

My younger brother and sister also held up their own parts of the sky in their own ways. Working in Urumqi, my brother always took leave in advance for each chemo session, accompanying me to take my father to the hospital, running errands for paperwork and prescriptions. My sister stayed in Bole, handling follow-ups and daily care between chemo cycles, ensuring biweekly blood draws were never missed, and constantly updating me on his condition. The three of us siblings created a WeChat group to share daily updates on his diet and health, discussing any issues together without ever arguing or clashing.

My husband has been my most solid backbone. His workplace is 200 kilometers from Urumqi, so he couldn't be by my side every day, but he supported me through actions. Financially, he uncomplainingly covered most of the treatment costs, always saying, "Tell me if we run out of money; don't let your parents suffer." Whenever he had free time, he would drive over to help care for my father and share my burden. He often comforted me: "Don't put too much pressure on yourself. I'm here; we'll carry this together."

Then there's my son, only 11 years old but remarkably mature. Upon learning his grandfather was ill, he didn't cry or demand my company; instead, he said, "Mom, go take care of Grandpa. I can look after myself." Sometimes, when I was busy accompanying my father for treatment and left him with his grandparents, he never complained. He would proactively call his grandfather, saying in a childish voice, "Grandpa, eat well and get better soon." Once, he asked me, "Will Grandpa die?" My heart ached like it was being cut by a knife, but I smiled and told him, "No, Grandpa is getting treatment and will recover soon." His innocence gave me immense courage.

In this campaign, every one of us gave our all. I handled planning, doctor coordination, and learning about cancer care; my mother managed daily care; my siblings provided support and coordination; my husband handled logistics; and my son brought us warmth with his innocence. It was precisely this united family strength that carried us through the hardest days.

「 Mindset Transformation, Role Reversal, and a Hopeful Future 」

In the early days after diagnosis, I nearly broke down. I dared not shed tears in front of my father; all my grievances and fears could only be quietly released in the dead of night.

After crying, I told myself, "I cannot fall. I am my father's reliance and the family's pillar. I must be strong." Since childhood, my father taught me, "Stay calm when things happen, and figure out a solution first." Now was the time for me to put those words into practice.

I explained every step of the treatment to him, letting him know we weren't "treating blindly" but had a clear plan and hope; I magnified the improvements in his test results, telling him "a drop in AFP is a victory" and "shrinking tumors mean progress"; I also shared other patients' cancer-fighting stories with him, so he knew he wasn't fighting alone.

This illness swapped our roles and allowed us to truly see each other anew.

Before, he was the authoritative father, and I was the daughter who feared him. Now, we are more like friends and comrades. He follows behind me like a child, calling me the moment he feels unwell. I patiently guide him like I would a child, shielding him from the wind and rain.

In the past, he was the mountain I looked up to, teaching me composure, calmness, and the courage to face life. Now, I have become the sea he relies on, using tolerance, patience, and unwavering guardianship to buoy the small boat of his life.

We swapped roles, yet we understood each other's love more deeply. A father's love is like a mountain, silent and profound; a daughter's love is like the sea, deep and enduring. Mountain and sea, interdependent, journeying together through the rest of life.

This Spring Festival, we originally planned to return to our hometown in Jiangsu. But since my father hadn't fully recovered, we decided to stay in Urumqi for the New Year. Here, there is heating, a home, and reunion.

My father said, "When spring comes, we'll go back then."

I said, "Okay, we'll take it step by step. I will take you back to see the spring blossoms in Jiangnan."

Life is a relay race. When I was young, he taught me to walk, cook, and face life. Now, I accompany him through treatment, recovery, and facing illness. We are both learning, both growing.

If this illness has taught me anything, it is probably this: cherish the present, face challenges bravely, and forever believe in the power of life.

Images featuring the patient's portrait in this article have been authorized by the patient. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

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