When Given Only a Year to Live: My Four-Year Battle with Sigmoid Colon Cancer and Ovarian Metastasis | Patient Story

In May 2021, as the lingering spring chill swept through Russia, Leibao awoke in the ICU's harsh glare. The sharp scent of disinfectant filled the air, and her abdominal wound throbbed beneath damp, cold gauze. Just three days prior, an ordinary bite of button mushrooms had unexpectedly triggered an acute bowel obstruction, rushing her into emergency surgery overnight. Back then, she could not have known that this unexpected operation was merely the beginning of a four-year battle with colon cancer.

In March 2022, the words "ovarian metastasis" on her follow-up report struck like an ice-cold hammer, shattering the fragile stability she had fought so hard to regain. Even more devastating was the prognosis: "You have at most one year left to live."

When life's hailstorms fall relentlessly, some still dare to clench their fists and walk forward through the snow. Leibao's story is a life expedition between illness and distant horizons—four years of fighting cancer, three open abdominal surgeries, and forty-two chemotherapy sessions. From being given only a year to live to now moving forward with a vibrant life, she has carried an unyielding resolve and a sun-seeking optimism, turning the distance from the hospital ward to the wider world into a journey chasing the light.

—————

Author | Zhong Lala

Editor | Xian Ning

Reviewer | Guang Guang

「 I. A Fierce and Challenging Medical Journey Abroad 」

A heavy, dragging sensation in her lower abdomen, like a damp, cold cotton ball lodged in her intestines, had tormented Leibao for a full month.

She was highly attuned to her body's warning signals—after all, she was a survivor of cervical carcinoma in situ. Due to her husband's work, Leibao had moved to Russia. On unfamiliar streets, the language barrier stood like an invisible wall, separating her from an accurate diagnosis. Initially, she suspected a recurrence of her old illness or even an ectopic pregnancy, but a negative pregnancy test ruled that out. It wasn't until a bite of button mushrooms triggered a sudden blockage from her throat to her lower abdomen that she realized the problem might lie in her intestines.

"I asked my husband's colleague to book an appointment at a hospital, and we navigated the whole visit using translation apps," Leibao recalled. The doctor ordered an ultrasound and gastroscopy, diagnosed cholecystitis, and prescribed some medication. "If you're still uncomfortable, come back in two days," he said.

Two days later, the abdominal heaviness hadn't subsided; it had worsened. Her intestines gurgled as if countless tiny insects were burrowing inside. She contacted the doctor again, who this time ordered a test for parasitic worms. Before she left, he instructed, "If it still hurts tomorrow, call me, and I'll send an ambulance."

That night, the pain from the obstruction erupted completely. Leibao curled up in bed, drenched in cold sweat. Her stomach churned violently, and even warm water became unbearable, causing her to vomit everything back up. The stomach acid burned her throat, making every breath sting. She called the doctor again, and soon the wail of an ambulance siren carried her to the hospital.

It was her third visit to this hospital, yet the doctor still did not order a colonoscopy. After a single X-ray, he declared, "You need surgery." Exhausted and desperate for relief from the obstruction, Leibao agreed without a second thought, hoping the operation would finally bring her peace.

For four days post-surgery, she lay in the ICU bed with no family by her side. Russian hospitals have a strict, cold rule: no family members are allowed to stay after surgery, leaving care entirely to nurses. The nursing was rough, almost like handling cargo. When changing her stoma dressing, waste suddenly sprayed everywhere, staining the sheets. Her wound quickly began to liquefy and become inflamed, sending piercing pain through her nerves to her limbs. Gritting her teeth, she used a translation app to look up "stoma care" word by word, teaching herself how to change dressings and disinfect, her trembling fingers taking a long time to steady.

[ Leibao in her hospital room in Russia after surgery ]

"At that time, I had no idea it was cancer," Leibao said. Half a month later, upon discharge, the doctor handed her a medical report. Using a translation app, she scanned the words "sigmoid colon" and "tumor." Her husband explained it was "benign, a minor issue, just rest and recover." The lie was a sugar-coated shell hiding a cruel truth. Despite the slow-healing stoma wound and the daily routine of changing dressings, the thought of a "benign tumor" gave her hope. She went home happily, waiting for her body to heal.

This peace was shattered the day she joined a WeChat group for booking flights back to China, pierced by a casual remark.

In the group, Leibao cautiously asked about flying with a stoma. A member quickly replied, "My dad also had a stoma for colon cancer. You don't need a stoma for a benign tumor."

Leibao immediately asked her husband, who finally told her the truth. "I cried that day," she said. "Not because I was afraid of cancer, but because I was terrified of chemotherapy as shown on TV—hair loss, vomiting until collapse, looking like a ghost."

Yet, the actual chemotherapy proved far more grueling than she had imagined.

At her post-op follow-up, the doctor classified her condition as early-stage (T2) but noted two high-risk factors: bowel obstruction and positive surgical margins. He recommended five cycles of chemotherapy using oxaliplatin and capecitabine. Fearing vein damage from the drugs, Leibao proactively requested a PICC line: "I don't care about the cost; I just want to suffer less." The doctor insisted, "It's early-stage with few cycles, so it's unnecessary."

The side effects hit fast and hard. Capecitabine felt like a red-hot knife scraping her intestines, causing severe diarrhea that forced her to the bathroom over a dozen times a day. Her weight plummeted to just 41.5 kg. Meanwhile, oxaliplatin's toxicity silently eroded her nerves. Her hands and feet went numb, as if wearing thick cotton gloves, and walking felt like stepping on cotton.

After her third chemotherapy session, Leibao was driving when an emergency situation arose. She tried to brake, but her limbs were completely disconnected from her brain. On the dashcam footage, her foot was pressed firmly on the accelerator for over twenty seconds.

"Bang!" The car crashed.

[ Car accident caused by numbness in hands and feet after three chemotherapy sessions ]

"Right after the crash, I didn't feel much and thought it was just a regular traffic accident. I even felt my reaction was quick, but in reality, my limbs were completely out of sync with my brain. My husband checked the footage and said I had been pressing the accelerator for over 20 seconds without letting go." This crash made Leibao realize that chemotherapy had already pushed her body to its absolute limit.

When the notice for her fifth chemotherapy session arrived, Leibao looked at her skeletal wrists and finally broke down. "No more. I really can't take it anymore." Four cycles became her limit, and she chose to stop.

At the end of the year, after evaluation, the hospital scheduled a stoma reversal surgery. Leibao underwent her second open abdominal surgery, which also removed the previously positive intestinal segment. The surgery was highly successful.

From her onset in June to the reversal in December, half a year had passed. Leibao felt like she had walked through the gates of death and reclaimed half her life. She thought the ordeal was finally over, unaware that the true test was yet to come.

「 II. Ovarian Metastasis: Returning to China to Face a Third Surgery 」

In late March 2022, just three months after the reversal surgery, abnormal signals returned—she had her period three times in over a month. Trusting her cancer-fighting intuition, Leibao immediately got an MRI. The results showed a mass of about 7 cm on her right ovary. The report did not initially indicate suspected metastasis, and her attending doctor suggested a CT scan for further evaluation before taking leave until late April, which only deepened Leibao's anxiety.

In mid-April, Leibao had another ultrasound. The results showed the ovarian mass had grown, and ascites had appeared in her abdominal cavity. Seeing her cancer history, the ultrasound doctor's expression turned grave. At that moment, any lingering hope vanished. Without hesitation, she booked a flight the next day and flew back to China from Russia.

Looking back, her initial colon cancer surgery, chemotherapy, and reversal surgery were all completed in Russia. She had well-differentiated adenocarcinoma, staged as T2 post-op. Without the bowel obstruction, she would only have needed regular monitoring, not chemotherapy.

Although the aggressive treatment experience in Russia still sends shivers down her spine, her intestinal recovery post-surgery had been excellent. Even at her current follow-ups, her intestines show no issues.

Therefore, Leibao never blamed the Russian doctors. Regarding this metastasis, she smiled and said, "Maybe it's just my bad luck."

Metastasis in colon cancer is fundamentally the result of the invasive nature of cancer cells combined with the failure of the body's own defense mechanisms. The "malignant nature" of cancer cells is the root cause of metastasis. While normal intestinal cell growth, division, and apoptosis are strictly regulated by the body, cancer cells harbor genetic mutations—such as in APC, KRAS, or p53 genes—that completely break them free from control. The body's "pathways" provide routes for cancer cells to spread. After breaking through the primary site, cancer cells utilize the body's own tissue channels, such as lymphatic, hematogenous, peritoneal, or direct extension. The body's microenvironment provides the "soil" for cancer cells to take root. Metastasis isn't just about "arriving and surviving"; it requires a suitable tissue microenvironment at the destination, which explains why metastasis has "preferred sites."

Additionally, late-stage tumors and delayed treatment significantly increase the probability of metastasis. Early-stage colon cancer is confined to the mucosal layer, making it difficult for cancer cells to breach the barrier. However, as it progresses to mid-to-late stages and penetrates the full thickness of the intestinal wall, the risk of metastasis rises exponentially.

By this time, Leibao had joined the "Panda Group" (a patient support community). Following advice from a fellow patient in Shenzhen, she went straight to Sun Yat-sen University Cancer Center. After a CT scan, she saw Dr. L in gynecology, who diagnosed the mass as colon cancer metastasis and recommended surgery, advising her to also consult the colorectal department. She then saw Dr. D in colorectal surgery, who agreed it was metastasis but told her to return to gynecology to schedule the surgery. Newly back in China, Leibao felt completely lost and overwhelmed.

[ MRI at the Shenzhen hospital ]

Guided by another group member, she found Dr. C. He diagnosed her with a Krukenberg tumor and warned that her survival might be less than a year. He recommended starting with eight cycles of chemotherapy to control the disease systemically before evaluating surgical feasibility—at that time, the CT scan at the cancer center suggested possible peritoneal metastasis.

A Krukenberg tumor is a special type of metastatic ovarian cancer. It refers to malignant tumors that have spread to the ovaries from other organs, most commonly the stomach and colon, followed by the breast, gallbladder, and biliary tract. Metastasis occurs via serosal surface spread, direct extension, lymphatic vessels, blood circulation, or iatrogenic routes. It predominantly affects women under 40, with an average age of 43.7, and 62% of cases occur between ages 30-45, possibly linked to active ovarian function and rich blood supply. The primary treatment is surgical resection combined with chemotherapy, tailored to the patient's condition. Common chemotherapy drugs include fluorouracil and oxaliplatin.

[ Enhanced CT at Sun Yat-sen University Cancer Center ]

During a consultation with Dr. W in the medical oncology department, he held the opposite view, emphasizing that surgery must come first to avoid missing the surgical window due to chemotherapy. Leibao was torn. She contacted her Russian attending doctor, who advised either returning to Russia for surgery or proceeding with chemotherapy using a four-drug regimen (bevacizumab + capecitabine + oxaliplatin + irinotecan), otherwise advising against chemo. They also noted that no cancer cells were found in the ascites and did not believe peritoneal metastasis had occurred.

This confusion over choosing between surgery and chemotherapy is a real dilemma many cancer patients face. On one side is the intuitive hope of "cutting out the lesion," and on the other is the fear of "chemotherapy killing a thousand enemies while losing eight hundred of your own." Add in medical jargon like "staging, typing, and tolerance," and anyone would lose sleep over it. This confusion isn't a simple "choose A or B" question; it's a dual weighing of "hope for survival" versus "quality of life," driven by an instinctive fear of the unknown.

Having just undergone reversal surgery in December, Leibao felt too weak to endure another operation immediately. Ultimately, she chose to trust Professor C, who patiently explained her condition, and followed his advice to start chemotherapy first (bevacizumab + capecitabine + oxaliplatin + irinotecan).

After enduring four more cycles, a follow-up with Professor L in gynecology showed, "The tumor is well-controlled, continue chemotherapy." After these four cycles, the ovarian tumor size stabilized at around 10 cm.

In October 2022, after half a year and ten chemotherapy cycles, Leibao followed Professor C, who had been volunteering in Lanzhou for six months, to Gansu Provincial Cancer Hospital. There, she underwent her third open abdominal surgery. Post-operative pathology revealed the tumor was moderately to poorly differentiated.

[ Ovarian surgery records and post-operative pathology ]

Leibao brought the fierce resilience she learned in the Russian ICU to Gansu. The very next day, she was out of bed walking. On the third day post-op, she visited a local park and a large shopping mall, astonishing the hospital staff with her remarkable vitality.

After surgery, the chemotherapy regimen was changed to bevacizumab + capecitabine. Adjusting the regimen became a negotiation with her body. Initially, the 21-day bevacizumab + capecitabine cycle caused unbearable peeling skin on her hands and feet, severe pain, and intense diarrhea. Later, switching to a biweekly fluorouracil regimen caused her white blood cell count to drop continuously, making it impossible to withstand the intensive treatment pace.

She decided to flexibly adjust the schedule based on how she felt, gradually extending the intervals to three, four, or even five or six weeks. "If I feel good, I go early; if not, I push it back," she persisted through this "patchwork" approach. Her Russian doctors had advised stopping chemotherapy after six months, believing she had no visible tumors and that continuing would only harm her body. However, having witnessed fellow patients relapse after stopping treatment, she remained cautious and unwilling to give up easily. Over two and a half years post-surgery, she completed 28 chemotherapy cycles on her own adjusted schedule, passing every MRD test with flying colors, carving out a path of persistence that balanced medical advice with her own concerns.

[ Nine consecutive negative MRD tests ]

「 III. A Migratory Bird Chasing the Sun 」

Leibao took flights back from Russia almost every three months. Like a migratory bird chasing the warm sun, she crossed borders not for leisure, but to reach the cancer center for comprehensive follow-ups. After her check-ups, she carried a stack of crumpled medical records, shuttling between several hospitals in the city to get her medications for Russia, carefully sorting and packing them. The grueling long-haul flights, endless waits in hospital corridors, the bitter taste of swallowing pills alone in a foreign rental, and the occasional dull aches in her body—she never mentioned a word of it to anyone.

[ Boarding passes for trips between China and Russia; Leibao has lost count of how many she has ]

Recalling this cross-border cancer journey during the interview, Leibao kept a smile on her face. The solitary Russian ICU did not swallow her; three open abdominal surgeries did not scare her away; forty-two chemotherapy sessions did not break her. She narrated her story in a calm tone, but when the topic turned to her most unforgettable experience, this girl who had smiled through all hardships suddenly reddened her eyes and broke into tears.

It was after her first chemotherapy session. Enduring the severe side effects of the four-drug combination, she flew alone to Beijing to consult Professor L. She traveled thousands of miles with high hopes for a turning point, only to return deeply disappointed. Since no beneficial advice was found, she immediately decided to return to Shenzhen and continue treatment under Professor C. But as soon as she landed in Shenzhen, before she could even recover from the chemotherapy fatigue, another bolt from the blue struck the next day—her mother-in-law was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer.

Since her illness, her husband had been absent from all major treatment milestones due to work. From Russia to China, every follow-up, chemotherapy session, and surgery was endured alone. Knowing she wasn't the perfect daughter-in-law in her mother-in-law's eyes, she still resolutely took on the caregiving burden upon hearing the diagnosis: searching for reliable hospitals, repeatedly consulting doctors, carefully arranging every step of the treatment, and taking on all the trivialities and hardships herself.

Even with her own mother, she always hid her true condition. During video calls, she would deliberately angle her pale, chemotherapy-weary face toward the window, using the sunlight to mask her exhaustion, and casually say, "It's just a small cyst, I'll recover with rest." She couldn't bear to see her mother's worried eyes, and even more, she feared the unspoken word: "cancer."

That half-year became the darkest time in Leibao's memory. She had to manage chemotherapy with her child, cooking warm meals for them despite nausea and numbness, while simultaneously shuttling between Shenzhen and Jiangxi to care for her critically ill mother-in-law.

"At my most exhausted, I'd just lean against a corner in a hospital corridor, my back against the cold tiles, clutching my mother-in-law's hospital admission slip and my child's daycare notice. I could fall asleep the moment I closed my eyes. Sometimes I'd only nap for two or three minutes before being jolted awake by a passing cart, then I'd jump up, quickly pull out my phone to secure a hospital bed, terrified that a moment's delay would mean losing the spot."

Even at her lowest, she never shed a tear in front of her family. Only late at night, after putting her child to sleep, would she open the "Panda Group" chat. Seeing someone post "Survived another chemo today," she would secretly type "I'm so tired today" under the phone's glow, only to quickly delete it and replace it with "Keep going, everyone." Only among these fellow patients could she occasionally drop her tough armor and reveal a moment of vulnerability.

Thanks to the Panda Group, Leibao felt she was never fighting alone on this cancer journey. Fellow patients, unfamiliar doctors willing to spend extra minutes answering questions, and even strangers who helped her with luggage became her companions. This group of strangers became her strongest emotional pillar. Some reminded her of stoma care details, some helped analyze pathology reports, and some stayed up all night helping her find expert consultations when she was diagnosed with suspected peritoneal metastasis.

"Friends in the group are more reliable than family. When my hands and feet peeled and I couldn't walk during chemo, a group member helped me get a wheelchair. When I needed to take medication abroad, a Shenzhen patient went to the hospital multiple times to get prescriptions for me." The kindness of these strangers became her foundation to fight the disease. "I often say, with Chacha on my left, Fugui on my right, Director Han above, and Brother Song below, what do I have to worry about? I have all four guardians!"

[ Every year for the annual meeting, Leibao flies back from Russia to attend ]

Between treatments, Leibao lived like a migratory bird chasing the sun. After four chemotherapy cycles, she traveled to Egypt with her stoma. Two months post-surgery, she celebrated New Year's Eve in Turkey from a wheelchair. Even when given only a year to live, she flew to the Maldives to see the sea, even though it rained the entire trip. "Since I don't know what tomorrow holds, I might as well make today count." She used imported drugs for chemo but would also travel across cities in the freezing Russian snow to save 3,000 RMB on infusion fees. She stayed in luxury hotels but also accepted 68 RMB hostels, spending her money on what she truly loved.

[ Leibao traveling during treatment breaks ]

「 IV. Life Is Not a Track, But a Wilderness 」

Today, Leibao has returned to her hometown in Jiangxi, living a vibrant life: getting facials, back massages, and scalp treatments, gathering with friends on weekends, and planning a winter trip to Harbin to see the snow. Her mother-in-law's treatment continues, with immunotherapy effectively controlling her condition. Leibao still helps contact doctors and adjust plans, but no longer strives to be the "perfect" daughter-in-law. Her child is growing up, and she no longer worries about grades, only hoping for her child's freedom and happiness.

[ A small handkerchief embroidered for Leibao by her daughter ]

Throughout this long cancer journey, the fellow patients cheering each other on through screens, the unfamiliar doctors who took extra minutes to answer questions, and even the strangers who helped her with a suitcase on the road all became her companions. Carrying an unyielding refusal to compromise with fate and guarding a sun-seeking warmth in her heart, she has walked a vibrant, free path of her own between the white shadows of the hospital ward and the myriad colors of the world.

Leibao has been a fan of Stefanie Sun for twenty-five years. During treatment breaks, she attended several of her idol's concerts.

When the intro to "Tian Hei Hei" (Dark Sky) played in the arena, time instantly rewound twenty-five years. Back then, she was a naive teenager, and this was the first song she ever loved. Stefanie Sun's clear voice had been the gentlest comfort in her youth. For twenty-five years, the music accompanied her, from cassette tapes to playlists, from youthful days to the grueling battle with cancer. The moment Stefanie Sun sang "Tian Hei Hei" center stage, Leibao looked at the sea of glowing lights and tears fell unexpectedly. Twenty-five years of memories and the bitterness of cancer all surged in the familiar melody. Before, she heard childhood and youth; now, she hears the profound gratitude of surviving.

At the concert's end, the intro to "Kai Shi Dong Le" (Starting to Understand) began. As the lyrics "Who would be willing to let go after loving so deeply" filled the air, she hummed along softly, tears flowing freely. The pain of treatment and the fear of the future all found an outlet in this song. She finally understood that life's storms are normal, and those days of gritting her teeth and pushing forward all hold the power to grow toward the sun.

Four years into her cancer fight, her eyes still shine. As the evening breeze brushed away her tears after the show, she clutched her crumpled ticket stub. She still "hopes for a stroke of luck and a thrill, crossing over mountains and layers of clouds, like a green light, cutting through life."

"Only after getting sick did I realize that life is not a track, but a wilderness," Leibao said. Now, what matters most to her is the daily sunshine, delicious meals, and time spent with friends. The pain of chemotherapy, the grievance of misdiagnosis, and the loneliness of seeking treatment alone have all become medals in her life. Just like the photos in her WeChat Moments, whether smiling with a shaved head during chemo or capturing scenery in a foreign land, they all tell the same truth: The length of life cannot be predicted, but its width can be defined by oneself.