“I was just a bloke living life — then came stage 4 bowel cancer. I didn’t choose this fight, but I’m damn well showing up for it.” – Jacob Usher
Jacob Usher – From Offshore To Stage 4
Before Diagnosis: Just a Bloke Living Life
I’ve always seen myself as a pretty average Aussie bloke. I grew up in regional WA — Harvey as a kid, then Exmouth from age 14. Sun, surf, fishing, whale sharks. After school, I became a chef, but the split shifts and low pay weren’t for me, so I headed offshore.
I worked on deck out of Dampier for nearly a decade. The 4-weeks-on, 4-weeks-off life was intense, but it gave me the chance to travel — through Europe, Southeast Asia, Mongolia, the Pacific Islands. The most life-changing trip, though, was to the US, where I met my wife on a Contiki tour.
Eventually, we settled in Perth. That move probably saved my life — though I didn’t know it at the time.
The Diagnosis: Reddit, Gut Feelings, and a Wake-Up Call
In August 2022, I was 33 and living what felt like a normal life. I was at work one day, scrolling Reddit, when I came across a post: “I’m going to the toilet 4–5 times a day — is that normal?” Most of the comments said: See a doctor.
That hit me. I’d been doing the same. I also had an itchy bum. I’d been putting off going to the doctor — figuring I’d wait until something was “really” wrong. (Terrible idea, by the way.)
I saw my GP that week. I mentioned the itch, and before I could even bring up the toilet stuff, he said he was referring me for a colonoscopy. I thought he was overreacting.
Two weeks later, I went in. I watched other people go in and out of the theatre — quick procedures, then sandwiches and home. Mine wasn’t quick. When I woke up, they were taking bloods.
The doctor came in and said they’d found a large tumour — 30cm up my colon — so big they couldn’t even get the camera past it. I was stunned. But my brain kicked straight into fix-it mode: Okay. What’s next?
What came next was a CT scan, a referral to a colorectal surgeon, and the scariest phrase I’d heard yet: “It’d be best if your wife came with you.”
That’s when it really hit.
When she picked me up, I held it together until we stepped outside. Then I broke. I told her I probably had cancer. She barely blinked — just said, “Right. What do we do now?”
The Rollercoaster Begins: Surgery, Scans and a Sudden Shift
On 9th September 2022, I had surgery to remove the tumour — a lower anterior resection. There was a 50/50 chance I’d need an ileostomy, but thanks to an incredible surgeon, I avoided it.
Six days in hospital. Walking within 24 hours. Then home for six weeks to recover and prep for a planned liver resection — because scans had shown two suspicious lesions.
But right before that surgery, we got new scans. The two lesions had increased to 14.
Surgery was off the table. We had to hit it with chemo — and fast.
Chemo: The Brutal Grind
I started FOLFOXIRI plus bevacizumab in October 2022. It’s one of the strongest regimens they throw at bowel cancer. Six hours in the chair, then home with a chemo pump for 46 hours. Every two weeks.
The worst days weren’t during chemo. They were the Friday, Saturday, and Sunday after — when the drugs were still in my body but the meds that softened the side effects had worn off.
After 12 rounds, scans showed a miracle: the 14 liver lesions were back to two, and shrinking. That opened the door to micro ablation — they burned the remaining ones from the inside out.
In March 2023, I got the words every patient hopes for: no active cancer on scans.
Not remission. Not cured. But a kind of peace in the storm.
The Ongoing Grind: Maintenance and a Confronting Claim
I stayed on maintenance chemo — round after round, 48 in total — before finally taking a break in October 2024. Somewhere along the way, I shifted to three-weekly cycles. Not as intense, but still bloody relentless.
In January 2024, I made a successful claim on my life insurance. And while that claim was a huge financial relief — taking massive pressure off me and my wife — the process was confronting in ways I didn’t expect.
To be approved, I had to provide letters from both my oncologist and GP confirming that I likely had less than two years to live.
It’s hard to describe what that feels like — reading that sentence in black and white. Seeing your own life expectancy written in a report. Even when you already know, it still hits different.
The Stuff No One Talks About
Chemo wrecks your body. I’ve had neuropathy, reflux, chest pain, fatigue so bad I’ve slept through entire days. I had a mouth infection that meant removing three wisdom teeth, and a perianal abscess that made it painful to sit, stand, walk, or lie down. Honestly, that abscess was worse than chemo.
Mentally, the hardest part wasn’t treatment. It was making the phone calls. Telling my mum and dad I had cancer. Telling my best mate — I had to text him because I couldn’t say the words again.
And I made the mistake of looking up survival stats. Stage 4 bowel cancer. Five-year survival rate? 14%. That number crushed me for two straight days. Then I decided — fine. I’m going to do everything I can to be part of that 14%.
Support, Privilege, and Perspective
I’ve had incredible support. My wife has been by my side from day one. My friends, family, employers — all amazing.
And I’m aware that’s a privilege. Not everyone gets that. I’ve met people who’ve had to keep working through chemo. People who’ve been misdiagnosed, delayed, dismissed.
I’ve also had the safety net of insurance, sick leave, and a GoFundMe that helped with the out-of-pocket costs. Without that? I honestly don’t know how we would’ve coped.
Why I Speak Up
Since the start, I’ve documented my story on social media — mainly TikTok, under Grinding Chemo. I’ve had strangers message me to say they booked a colonoscopy or finally saw a GP because of something I shared. That makes every post worth it.
I’ve spoken at Bowel Cancer Australia’s Never Too Young: Call on Canberra events in 2023 and 2024. I’ve appeared in multiple TV and newspaper stories, guested on podcasts, and recently gave a presentation at my local Rotary Club.
I also published a children’s book, Hope Avenue, to help parents talk to kids about cancer — because these conversations matter.
This isn’t about sympathy. It’s about awareness. Advocacy. Action.
Don’t Wait. Don’t Settle.
If you’re young and something feels off — get it checked.
If your GP dismisses you, get a second opinion. Don’t wait. Don’t assume. Bowel cancer doesn’t care how old you are.
And if you’re in the fight already — I see you. You’re not alone.
I’m still here. I’m still going. And I’ll keep going — for me, for my wife, and for everyone who deserves a better chance at catching this early.
“I was just a bloke living life — then came stage 4 bowel cancer. I didn’t choose this fight, but I’m damn well showing up for it.” – Jacob Usher
Before Diagnosis: Just a Bloke Living Life
I’ve always seen myself as a pretty average Aussie bloke. I grew up in regional WA — Harvey as a kid, then Exmouth from age 14. Sun, surf, fishing, whale sharks. After school, I became a chef, but the split shifts and low pay weren’t for me, so I headed offshore.
I worked on deck out of Dampier for nearly a decade. The 4-weeks-on, 4-weeks-off life was intense, but it gave me the chance to travel — through Europe, Southeast Asia, Mongolia, the Pacific Islands. The most life-changing trip, though, was to the US, where I met my wife on a Contiki tour.
Eventually, we settled in Perth. That move probably saved my life — though I didn’t know it at the time.
The Diagnosis: Reddit, Gut Feelings, and a Wake-Up Call
In August 2022, I was 33 and living what felt like a normal life. I was at work one day, scrolling Reddit, when I came across a post: “I’m going to the toilet 4–5 times a day — is that normal?” Most of the comments said: See a doctor.
That hit me. I’d been doing the same. I also had an itchy bum. I’d been putting off going to the doctor — figuring I’d wait until something was “really” wrong. (Terrible idea, by the way.)
I saw my GP that week. I mentioned the itch, and before I could even bring up the toilet stuff, he said he was referring me for a colonoscopy. I thought he was overreacting.
Two weeks later, I went in. I watched other people go in and out of the theatre — quick procedures, then sandwiches and home. Mine wasn’t quick. When I woke up, they were taking bloods.
The doctor came in and said they’d found a large tumour — 30cm up my colon — so big they couldn’t even get the camera past it. I was stunned. But my brain kicked straight into fix-it mode: Okay. What’s next?
What came next was a CT scan, a referral to a colorectal surgeon, and the scariest phrase I’d heard yet: “It’d be best if your wife came with you.”
That’s when it really hit.
When she picked me up, I held it together until we stepped outside. Then I broke. I told her I probably had cancer. She barely blinked — just said, “Right. What do we do now?”
The Rollercoaster Begins: Surgery, Scans and a Sudden Shift
On 9th September 2022, I had surgery to remove the tumour — a lower anterior resection. There was a 50/50 chance I’d need an ileostomy, but thanks to an incredible surgeon, I avoided it.
Six days in hospital. Walking within 24 hours. Then home for six weeks to recover and prep for a planned liver resection — because scans had shown two suspicious lesions.
But right before that surgery, we got new scans. The two lesions had increased to 14.
Surgery was off the table. We had to hit it with chemo — and fast.
Chemo: The Brutal Grind
I started FOLFOXIRI plus bevacizumab in October 2022. It’s one of the strongest regimens they throw at bowel cancer. Six hours in the chair, then home with a chemo pump for 46 hours. Every two weeks.
The worst days weren’t during chemo. They were the Friday, Saturday, and Sunday after — when the drugs were still in my body but the meds that softened the side effects had worn off.
After 12 rounds, scans showed a miracle: the 14 liver lesions were back to two, and shrinking. That opened the door to micro ablation — they burned the remaining ones from the inside out.
In March 2023, I got the words every patient hopes for: no active cancer on scans.
Not remission. Not cured. But a kind of peace in the storm.
The Ongoing Grind: Maintenance and a Confronting Claim
I stayed on maintenance chemo — round after round, 48 in total — before finally taking a break in October 2024. Somewhere along the way, I shifted to three-weekly cycles. Not as intense, but still bloody relentless.
In January 2024, I made a successful claim on my life insurance. And while that claim was a huge financial relief — taking massive pressure off me and my wife — the process was confronting in ways I didn’t expect.
To be approved, I had to provide letters from both my oncologist and GP confirming that I likely had less than two years to live.
It’s hard to describe what that feels like — reading that sentence in black and white. Seeing your own life expectancy written in a report. Even when you already know, it still hits different.
The Stuff No One Talks About
Chemo wrecks your body. I’ve had neuropathy, reflux, chest pain, fatigue so bad I’ve slept through entire days. I had a mouth infection that meant removing three wisdom teeth, and a perianal abscess that made it painful to sit, stand, walk, or lie down. Honestly, that abscess was worse than chemo.
Mentally, the hardest part wasn’t treatment. It was making the phone calls. Telling my mum and dad I had cancer. Telling my best mate — I had to text him because I couldn’t say the words again.
And I made the mistake of looking up survival stats. Stage 4 bowel cancer. Five-year survival rate? 14%. That number crushed me for two straight days. Then I decided — fine. I’m going to do everything I can to be part of that 14%.
Support, Privilege, and Perspective
I’ve had incredible support. My wife has been by my side from day one. My friends, family, employers — all amazing.
And I’m aware that’s a privilege. Not everyone gets that. I’ve met people who’ve had to keep working through chemo. People who’ve been misdiagnosed, delayed, dismissed.
I’ve also had the safety net of insurance, sick leave, and a GoFundMe that helped with the out-of-pocket costs. Without that? I honestly don’t know how we would’ve coped.
Why I Speak Up
Since the start, I’ve documented my story on social media — mainly TikTok, under Grinding Chemo. I’ve had strangers message me to say they booked a colonoscopy or finally saw a GP because of something I shared. That makes every post worth it.
I’ve spoken at Bowel Cancer Australia’s Never Too Young: Call on Canberra events in 2023 and 2024. I’ve appeared in multiple TV and newspaper stories, guested on podcasts, and recently gave a presentation at my local Rotary Club.
I also published a children’s book, Hope Avenue, to help parents talk to kids about cancer — because these conversations matter.
This isn’t about sympathy. It’s about awareness. Advocacy. Action.
Don’t Wait. Don’t Settle.
If you’re young and something feels off — get it checked.
If your GP dismisses you, get a second opinion. Don’t wait. Don’t assume. Bowel cancer doesn’t care how old you are.
And if you’re in the fight already — I see you. You’re not alone.
I’m still here. I’m still going. And I’ll keep going — for me, for my wife, and for everyone who deserves a better chance at catching this early.