Nutrition & Support

I’m not a dietitian. I’m a truck driver from Tennessee who had to figure out how to feed a body that didn’t want to be fed anymore. What’s below isn’t a clinical guide — it’s what actually worked for me, in the order things changed as treatment progressed.

The routine that kept me on track

My nurse set me straight early on — stop thinking about three meals a day. I ate five to six small meals every three hours, and I had my phone alarm set to remind me. Loss of appetite makes you forget to eat, and forgetting to eat when your body is fighting cancer is not an option. The alarm kept me honest even on the days I had zero desire to put anything in my mouth.

My daily calorie target was 2,000. Some days I only hit 1,400. But I never stopped trying to get there.

Early in treatment — soft and moist foods

The rule I lived by was soft and moist — if it required serious chewing or was dry, it wasn’t going to work. Eggs were my best friend. Scrambled, omelettes, egg salad, deviled eggs — naturally soft, high in protein, easy to dress up. My go-to was a two-egg omelette with cheese, made with heavy cream instead of milk to push the calorie count up.

Other things that made the rotation: chicken salad, tuna salad, any meat salad you can make soft and moist. Chicken pot pie. Baked fish. Meatloaf. Chicken and dumplings — which also purées beautifully when things got harder. Mac and cheese. Oatmeal made with whole milk. Cheesecake and pudding for dessert. Ice cream and milkshakes early on — until the cold became intolerable.

Heavy cream — the calorie secret nobody talks about

Heavy cream became one of my most-used ingredients. Add it to soup, omelettes, oatmeal — anything. It adds significant calories without adding much volume. Whole milk everywhere else — I was chasing calories, not watching them.

When things got harder — soups, purées, and broths

Potato soup was my anchor. Two cans cooked with heavy cream, thinned with whole milk, blended smooth, divided into four containers. That was my food for the day — four containers of pureed potato soup plus two boxes of Boost. Almost anything can be pureed. Cook it soft, blend it, thin it with chicken broth until it’s drinkable. Use gravy to keep mashed potatoes and soft foods moist enough to go down. Moisture is everything.

What to avoid

• Acidic foods — tomatoes, citrus, vinegar. Will light your mouth on fire.
• Spicy foods — anything with heat once the sores develop.
• Raw fruits — except bananas. Cooked and soft only.
• Raw vegetables — cooked and soft only.
• Dry, crunchy foods — toast, chips, crackers.
• Ketchup, sauces, condiments — most are acidic enough to cause problems.
• Extreme temperatures — room temperature becomes your best friend.

Two things that helped my mouth survive treatment

Baking soda and salt water rinse. One quart of water, three-quarters teaspoon of salt, one teaspoon of baking soda. I carried a quart bottle every single day when I went back to work.

Magic mouthwash. My saving grace at every meal. Small 1-2 oz bottles from Amazon, filled with the mix for individual servings. Insurance doesn’t always cover it — runs around $85. Talk to your pharmacist and care team. Worth every penny.

I wasn’t a supplement guy before this, and I’m still not. I didn’t take vitamins, pills, or powders. What I did was fight every single day to get enough calories in to keep my body fighting back. Nobody tells you how hard that battle is until your mouth won’t let you eat normal food anymore.

Boost — what actually got me through

My radiation doctor recommended Boost, and it ended up being one of the biggest pieces of how I survived treatment. My nutritionist kept pushing Ensure and the smaller drinks, but once I told her what I was actually doing, she admitted she wasn’t even aware Boost was an option. Sometimes you’ve got to advocate for yourself.

An 8-ounce box of Boost packs around 550 calories along with the vitamins and protein your body needs. Most other protein drinks only run about 300 calories — and when you’re struggling to choke down 8 ounces, the last thing you need is a drink that makes you work harder for less. Every ounce has to count.

I tried vanilla and chocolate and stuck with chocolate — though once treatment really hit, I lost my sense of taste and couldn’t have told you what I was drinking. It just became liquid I had to get down. I still drink Boost today. One more case left in the pantry.

One more thing worth knowing — Boost is SNAP/EBT eligible. If money is tight, that’s one less thing to worry about.

Temperature mattered more than flavor

When radiation tears up your mouth, you can’t tolerate hot or cold the way you used to. I drank everything at room temperature — and that habit stuck. To this day I still drink room temp, even though I can handle hot and cold again now.

Building my own smoothies

Early in treatment I was building high-calorie, high-protein smoothies. My go-to mix: blackberries, blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, banana, watercress, protein powder, sometimes peanut butter, and almond milk to fill it out.

The watercress wasn’t random — it scores a perfect 100 out of 100 on the CDC’s powerhouse fruits and vegetables list. I just knew it packed real vitamins and minerals into something I could drink.

That worked until my mouth couldn’t handle the cold anymore. A smoothie needs ice, and once that coolness became too much, I had to let them go and lean on Boost instead.

Here’s something they don’t talk about enough: the people sitting in the waiting room are going through it too. Barb never left my side. My daughters showed up in ways I didn’t even know to ask for. And I watched every one of them carry weight they hadn’t signed up to carry.

If you’re the one holding someone else up right now — driving them to appointments, managing their meds, trying to stay strong when you’re scared — this section is for you. You matter in this fight too.

I’ll be sharing more from Barb and me about what we lived through and what we wish we’d known. In the meantime, if you need more support than I can offer here, these are organizations I trust to point you in the right direction — even if it takes you off my site.

Real places to turn for support

• American Cancer Society — 1-800-227-2345 (24/7)
  Connects you with local resources, transportation help, and lodging support.
• CancerCare — 1-800-813-4673
  Free counseling, support groups led by oncology social workers, and financial assistance for caregivers.
• Help for Cancer Caregivers (Caregiver Action Network)
  Practical everyday guidance for managing appointments, medications, and the daily grind of caregiving.
• Family Caregiver Alliance — 1-800-445-8106
  Support groups and educational resources for caregivers of all kinds.

If reaching out to one of these takes you off my site and gets you the help you need — that’s exactly what I want for you.

I’m going to be honest with you about the mental side of this — not because I have a degree in it, but because I lived it, and I think that counts for something.

Fear and anxiety — what it actually looked like

I wasn’t afraid of the treatment. I knew it was part of the process to get better. I wasn’t afraid of not being able to provide for Barb — we’ve been blessed and I was comfortable there. What I was afraid of — the thing that sat heavy on my shoulders every single day — was the thought of leaving Barb and the girls behind. That one I can’t sugarcoat. It’s the hardest thing to carry.

What helped me was flipping the numbers. Somebody hears sixty percent survival rate and thinks about the forty percent. I heard sixty percent and thought — that’s better odds than the other side. You know how people look at a sixty percent chance of rain and say it’s going to be a miserable day? I look at that and say there’s a forty percent chance of sunshine. We’re in good shape. It’s all in how you look at things.

The fear of recurrence doesn’t go away when treatment ends. Even today, as my tongue heals, I’m watching for changes. I research it out, check with my team, and most of the time it’s part of healing. But you’re always watching. I’d rather you hear that from me now than be blindsided by it later.

Sleep — or the lack of it

It wasn’t insomnia exactly. It was just restless. No comfort, couldn’t settle, couldn’t find any real sleep. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and my mind would start running. For me those late nights weren’t filled with dread so much as memory — Barb and I on a cruise, taking the kids to the Florida Keys, childhood things. Mostly I just reminisced about days gone by and tried to get back to sleep.

The mental battle of not being able to eat

There’s something that messes with your head when people around you are eating fried chicken, a cheeseburger, comfort food — and you’re sitting there with pureed soup or a box of Boost. It wears on you. I won’t pretend it doesn’t.

Here’s what reframed it for me: I wasn’t fighting to eat what I wanted. I was fighting to avoid a feeding tube. That was my line in the sand. Period. End of story. Once I put it that way in my head, eating stopped being about enjoyment and became about survival.

What pulled me through the darkest moments

Pure faith. Prayer. Lots of it. Philippians 4:13. Psalm 23. And the Serenity Prayer — my daughter Pam got it for me, framed, and it sits on the drop leaf table in our hallway. Every time I walk past coming out of the bedroom, I see it. Still there. Still a daily reminder.

My faith isn’t the kind that pretends everything is fine. It’s the kind that says I don’t fully understand what’s happening, but I’m not walking through it alone. That anchor held when nothing else did.

I’ll tell you what I told myself on the hard nights: I look forward to the day I stand before Jesus face to face. But I am in absolutely no way, shape, or form in a hurry for that day to get here. I’ve got Barb. I’ve got my girls. I’ve got reasons to fight.

My fight was for survival. One day, one meal, one minute at a time. And if you’re in the middle of it right now — that’s enough. Just make it to the next minute. Then the next one after that.