My dad
When my father was first diagnosed with cancer, it felt like my whole world was turned upside down in an instant. I remember getting the call while I was driving down the street: he had been taken to the hospital. My siblings and I were so confused. All we knew was that he had gone to one of his favorite burger places, felt some pain in his side, and then gone to the hospital.
When we got there, the doctors said they had found a very aggressive form of pancreatic cancer. They would run more tests, but from their first assessment, it appeared to be late stage.
I felt lost. I didn't understand how the cancer could have grown so far without anyone noticing. I didn't even understand why the pancreas was such a big deal. My first reaction was: can't we just cut it out?
I was in my twenties. Hearing from a doctor I had never met that my dad might have only weeks to live felt like a knife in the heart. I couldn't breathe. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest with its full weight. I was angry, confused, and sad, overcome with feelings and memories, and with one overwhelming thought: what can we do?
As my siblings and I sat around his hospital room, it was so hard to see the person I had looked up to most looking so weak and vulnerable. It just hurt. He looked up at us, honest and sincere, and asked:
"What should I do? Should I let things take their course, or fight this thing?"
Without hesitation, we all agreed that he should fight.
Looking for answers
What followed were some of the hardest months of my life, filled with windows of hope and waves of setbacks. The ups and downs took a toll on all of us.
Knowing what came next, what to expect, and where to find answers was so much harder ten years ago. We could barely find resources on pancreatic cancer. It felt like there were few treatment options, and the disease wasn't well understood, even though it had become one of the deadliest cancers. Many people knew it only as the cancer Apple's founder, Steve Jobs, had, though his was a rarer kind. And the technology we have today didn't exist yet.
Today, for different reasons, the problem is almost the opposite: there's an overwhelming amount of information, and it's hard to know where to start. That's where I felt Cairn could help me give back.
This year marks ten years since my dad passed away. Soon after he died, I wanted nothing more than to help other people through what we had faced. I just didn't have the strength to do it then. I was still going through it.
My stepfather
A few years ago, my stepfather, who dedicated more than 43 years of his life to being a firefighter, was forced into retirement to battle kidney cancer. This time, I was better prepared. I used technology, AI, and everything I had learned in my years as an engineer to help him understand his options and the questions to ask. If nothing else, it brought some clarity to an already difficult and overwhelming time.
That's why Cairn focuses on pancreatic and kidney cancer: they're the ones I've come to know best.
My hope
Hikers leave small piles of stones, called cairns, along a trail to show the next person the way. That's what I hope this site can be. If nothing else, I hope it offers clarity and a path to good resources, and perhaps leaves the world in a little better condition than I found it.
In the final days of my dad's life, he said:
"Without your health, you have nothing."
It was short and profound, and it spoke to something very real. My hope is that this site can help at least one person have a better chance to overcome cancer. If it restores health to even one person's life, then all this effort will have been worth it to me.
Brandon Lippincott