Support Our Heroes

Support a Veteran's Journey

Helping veterans overcome cancer through support and donations while building a brighter future for those who served our country.

My Story

Join our mission to support veterans battling cancer. Shop or donate to make a difference and honor their sacrifices.

Veteran's Journey

Supporting a veteran's fight against cancer and building a future.

My story by Andrew & Jeciel Poulson

The short summary of my Daddy, Mommy and daughter

Daddy’s summary

In 2003, I took an oath to serve my country by joining the U.S. Army, strong and healthy, unaware of the journey ahead. During my time in Iraq for Operation Iraqi Freedom, my body began to change. At first, it was just two lipomas on my left arm, but soon after, they multiplied. By the time my last tour was over, I had lost count. Over 500.

Endless deployments left their mark—traumatic brain injuries from IED blasts, the relentless weight of PTSD, and then, the daily struggle with diarrhea no one could explain. Yet through all the physical trials, what stung the most was the lack of care I received from those who should’ve had my back.

They sent me to the reserves, shuffling me into a system that seemed to forget me. But I refused to be forgotten. Even when my disability rating was reduced, I fought, appealed, and eventually regained my 100% status. In the midst of it all, I built a life with my wife and children, far from the battlefield, yet never far from the scars.

In 2024, my life took another unexpected turn. A routine workout led to excruciating pain and blackouts. A CT scan confirmed my worst fear: cancer. As I processed the news, the weight of the world crashed down on me. But I didn't crumble. I couldn’t—my family, my children, and the love for my country kept me going.

Now, standing on the cusp of a new battle, I am preparing for treatment. My mission remains clear: to secure a home for my family, continue working on Admin Andy IO, and face whatever comes next with the same resilience that’s carried me through. This is not just my story—it's a testament to survival, love, and an unwavering belief that no matter how dark the road, there’s always light ahead.

My Mommy and Daughter’s summary

On February 24, 2024, I faced one of the hardest battles of my life. My wife was pressured by doctors to terminate our pregnancy at 32 weeks, but I fought back. I said “No,” demanding they simply monitor her blood pressure, just like we had done with our other children. But they didn’t listen. They put our daughter’s life at risk, and when she was born, they placed her in a life-support incubator. My heart shattered as I watched them manually bag her to breathe, but even worse, their negligence caused her heart to stop multiple times. Each time, they brought her back, but the damage was done—those moments of weakness exposed her to illnesses from other babies in the NICU. My little girl, barely in the world, was already in a fight for her life.

Somehow, by grace or sheer will, we brought her home in early April. But the trauma didn’t end there. My wife, my rock, had gone through her second C-section and was left in daily, crippling pain because of inadequate care. She suffers, day after day, and the uncertainty of what’s to come weighs heavily on both of us. She deserves answers—about her health, about our future. She’s still young, and we’ve talked about having more kids, but we don’t even know if that’s possible now.

Our daughter, too, needs help—real help, the kind you can only get from skilled, compassionate doctors who know what they’re doing. I can’t stand to see her struggle like this. She deserves better. They both do.

Every step of this journey has been a fight, but it’s one I’ll never back down from. My wife and daughter are my world, and I’ll do everything in my power to get them the care they need—to keep my family safe, together, and whole.

The long story beings.

I joined the U.S. Army in 2003, full of hope and determination, with no idea of the battles I’d face—both on and off the battlefield. Back then, my body was strong, unmarked. But that would change during my deployment to Iraq for Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF), where I first noticed something—two small bumps on my arm. They were lipomas, benign but unsettling, and they were just the beginning.

War changes you. It leaves marks that can’t be seen, but sometimes it leaves ones that can. By the time I returned home, those two lipomas had multiplied into ten or more. I went to Tripler Army Medical Center in Hawaii, hoping for answers, and they sent me to the "Thursday Bumps and Lumps" clinic. But my gut told me it wasn’t just about the bumps; something deeper was happening.

As the years passed, deployments piled up, and so did the lipomas—hundreds of them. I couldn’t keep count anymore. Guard duty on burn pit towers, the smell of burning waste clinging to my uniform, felt like it was eating away at me from the inside out. My body was breaking, but I didn’t stop. In Germany, I had several hundred lipomas removed, hoping to find relief. But the real pain was yet to come.

Throughout my deployments, I was frequently assigned to stand guard on burn pit towers, which may have contributed to the condition. By the time of my last OIF tour, the number of lipomas on my body had grown significantly—so much that I lost count, possibly having over 500.

During a visit to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany, I had several hundred lipomas surgically removed from various parts of my body.

After my last tour in Iraq 2008-2010, I began experiencing persistent daily diarrhea. I repeatedly asked Army doctors for answers, but none could explain why it wouldn’t stop. In addition, I was dealing with several other medical issues, including traumatic brain injury (TBI) from multiple IED blasts that struck my truck, as well as PTSD and other conditions that don’t seem relevant to this story. Although my headaches didn’t go away either, I wondered if there was any correlation.

Instead of providing the care I needed under the Obama administration 2012, the Army suggested that I transfer to the Reserves for a medical board evaluation. They even offered me a bonus to take this route. So, I returned to the U.S., but upon arrival, I discovered no one knew about my medical board case, and I was referred to the VA for my disability claims.

At that time, I was married and living with my wife in the Philippines, where we owned a home 2010. I asked my new Reserve unit if I could be transferred to a unit closer to my residence after completing the VA disability process in 2014.

I’ve been deeply involved with a club in the Philippines, where we pour our hearts into helping the community in the southern region where I lived. Our mission has always been to bring kindness and support to those who need it most. We’d travel to rural schools, carrying bundles of new slippers and school supplies, knowing how much those small gestures could brighten a child’s day. Sometimes, we’d even offer haircuts, just to make them feel seen and cared for.

One of our proudest moments was with the Tuna Central Eagles Club when we laid 2 kilometers of water line to bring fresh water up a hillside to a school bathroom. I remember the joy on the children’s faces—it wasn’t just about the water; it was about dignity and hope. We even organized a blood drive, but because I have rare B-negative blood, I couldn’t donate. Still, they’d keep my number on hand for those times when my blood type might make all the difference.

Through all of this, I’ve come to realize how powerful it is to be truly connected to your community. They say you should get involved, but it’s more than that—it’s about feeling the pulse of the people around you and knowing you’re part of something bigger, something that really matters.

After I separated from my reserve unit in early 2016, I no longer had to fly back and forth. At the time, I didn’t even know that VA Manila existed. I had informed VA Denver about my move to the Philippines, so I continued making plans to travel back for VA appointments. Unfortunately, I missed some appointments, and by late 2018, my rating was reduced to 70%. I had to fight hard to challenge that decision. During that process, I discovered that there’s a VA in Manila, which was a game-changer for both me and my family. I appealed the 70% rating in early 2019, but it wasn’t until 2021 that I finally got a hearing with the appeals board. Thankfully, after that, I was restored to 100% P&T with SMC.

In 2021, I traveled back to the U.S. due to some issues with my storage unit and my 2020 vote. To my surprise, my mail-in ballot had been altered, and I made sure to report it.

After returning to the Philippines, August 2021, I was involved in a motorcycle accident and suffered a burn on my leg. While visiting the local doctor for outpatient care, I mentioned that I had been dealing with daily diarrhea, just in case it impacted my treatment. After listening to my situation, the doctor suggested it might be due to a parasite or bacteria and prescribed antibiotics. Within a day, my diarrhea cleared up completely.

Early in 2024, I started noticing mucus in my stool. In hindsight, I could have noticed it much earlier if I wasn’t using a toilet bidet. Had I been wiping with toilet paper, I would have seen it sooner.

On February 24, 2024, my wife was pressured into terminating our pregnancy at 32 weeks. I had said "No!" and insisted they simply monitor her blood pressure, which is how we managed our other children’s pregnancies to full term. But instead, our daughter's life was put at risk. After she was born, she was placed in a life-support incubator and needed manual bagging to help her breathe. Due to negligence, there was a blockage in the tubing, and they accidentally stopped her heart multiple times, though they revived her. Each incident weakened her and exposed her to multiple illnesses from other babies in the NICU. Thankfully, we were finally able to bring her home in early April.

In May 2024, I was at the gym doing my physical therapy, working through some light abdominal exercises. Mid-workout, I suddenly felt like I had just triggered another "ass destroyer" — a hemorrhoid, or as I like to call it, an asteroid.

I believe that this next incident happened around the same time or maybe a week later. May or early June, I came home from the gym late one night and was holding Adaline. I moved the wrong way and felt a sharp pain in my abdomen, to the right side of my belly button. I thought I was either herniating myself or my lipomas were being pulled through my abdomen. I quickly set Adaline down and called out, "Jeciel, I hurt myself, Jeciel!" Then I blacked out, collapsed, and passed black liquid stool. I briefly regained consciousness, only to black out again, followed by more black stool. This happened a of three times, but eventually, I regained full awareness, though I was still passing black stool.

Once I had somewhat recovered, I made my way to the bathroom, soaked in our Japanese onsen bath, and continued to recover while washing up. I took my TBI meds for the pain. My wife, understandably freaked out, called my mom, and together they insisted I seek medical treatment. I sort of let it go accidentally.

The next morning, we headed to the SM mall in GenSan, using our driver to get there. Once we arrived, we all got out of the car, and I grabbed the stroller for baby Addie. As we made our way from the parking lot to the walkway, I collapsed again, but this time it was controlled. After about 10 minutes, I recovered, and some of my club brothers came over to help me back on my feet.

In early 2024, we made plans to move to the U.S. the following year. My role was to travel ahead, establish a new home, and raise funds for my business software, AdminAndy.io. Securing seed funding, the most challenging stage of investment, was a key focus. I had a strategy in place and intended to use my VA home loan to secure our new residence. Everything was progressing within the expected parameters of this plan.

Everything has changed, and it’s hard to wrap my head around it. We have to temporarily move to America for my treatment, and it's shaking up all the plans we had for our future. I was supposed to be searching for that perfect piece of land, so we could finally build our Barndo custom home—our dream, right there in the heart of Texas, in the countryside where life felt simpler, quieter. But now... all of that is on hold.

We’re being forced to buy a home when we’re not ready, and it hurts. What do I mean by ‘not ready’? Our whole life is in the Philippines—our home, our car, our businesses, and the real estate we haven’t even flipped yet. Everything we’ve worked for is there. And now, I still need to figure out how to build our new house/warehouse so that our rice business can be run from the same place where we live. But we won’t be there. Instead, our in-laws will be watching over everything, and thank God for Merce. She’s been with us for 15 years, managing our businesses with so much care.

It feels overwhelming, but there’s a sliver of hope. Once the cancer treatment is over—and I believe I will survive this—we’ll rent the house out and let a property management company handle it. I’ll have to send that letter, request my VA home loan eligibility to be reinstated, and when the time is right, in 2 to 3 years, I’ll come back to America. We’ll restart the dream, buy that land, and build the life we’ve always imagined. But for now, we have to pause... and wait.

Part of that preparation included heading to Manila to complete baby Addie’s report of birth and to get our military ID cards as 100% disabled veterans. We left for Manila on July 23, 2024, but there were two cyclones on either side of the Philippines—one to the east and one to the west—both heading toward China with a vengeance. Even the weather seemed to have a distaste for leftist politics communism, LOL. The storm was so intense that we missed our embassy appointment due to flooding. However, one dedicated embassy employee managed to make it to work, and of course, he was American. I spoke with him over the phone, and he assured me they would try to fit us in that week.

Two days later, we got a call asking if we could be there within the hour. We dropped everything and rushed over. The same gentleman I had spoken to on the phone ended up being the one who conducted our interview for the report of birth. And now, Adaline Jeziel Poulson is officially an American citizen.

My wife started noticing I looked really unwell. I told her, 'I feel like the walking dead.' Still, the kids wanted to visit the boardwalk behind the SM Mall of Asia, so we went. As we walked maybe 50 feet in, I turned to my wife and said, 'I feel like death.' She looked at me and replied, 'You look like it.' Our 17-year-old then took charge of the kids while my wife and I headed to the hospital with baby Addie, so the rest of the kids could still have fun.

Once we reached the hospital, after some back-and-forth, I got admitted. My wife called her good friend Nikki, who came over to the condo we were renting to watch the kids so my wife could join me at the hospital. I gave a stool sample and went through other tests. A few hours later, they came back with the results—food poisoning, a common cold, and, to top it off, the dreaded 'hemorrhoid,' or as I jokingly call it, 'asteroid.' I really thought I was dying for a moment there! Thankfully, after they gave me some meds, I started feeling much better within an hour.

On August 2, 2024, I flew back to America, while my wife and the kids returned to GenSan.

America! Oh yeah, I’m back," the words rolled off my tongue, the rush of excitement surging through me as I stood there, soaking in the moment. My chest swelled with pride. There’s something about this place, this land, the people—the most genuine, kind-hearted people I’ve ever known.

You don’t realize it until you leave, not truly. I’ve been everywhere, seen things you only hear about, but I’ve also felt things most people wouldn’t believe. There were moments where hate hit me like a punch to the gut—moments that clung to me long after the day was done. I’ve been the one they pointed their fingers at, eyes narrowed, judging. Bigotry leaves a mark, but even as it burned, I found myself forgiving their ignorance. I had to.

But there’s one memory I can’t shake. The worst of it came when I was serving. Active duty, boots laced, uniform crisp. You never expect it from the ones in charge, the ones supposed to have your back. I felt a knot tighten in my chest at the thought of those days. Three men. My leadership—three black men—my platoon sergeant, first sergeant, and command sergeant major. It was in Germany, far from home. They made me go to a field training event less than 24 hours after surgery I was out of the hospital. Hundreds of lipomas removed, stitches still fresh, and they shoved me back out there like I didn’t matter.

I wanted to hate them for that. Forgiving wasn’t easy. My fingers clenched, recalling the weight of that betrayal. But no matter how hard that memory weighs on me, it doesn't change one thing. I love this country. I breathe it in, and not even the ignorance of a few can take that from me.

Through it all, I held onto one truth: I love this country. No matter how many times I’ve been failed, no matter how many scars it has left on me, I will always love this country. I’ve seen the worst of humanity, felt the sting of bigotry, of betrayal. But I’ve also seen kindness, resilience, and a spirit that can’t be broken.

My dad was planning a camping trip with my brothers, sisters, and stepmom to Yellowstone National Park. My stepmom is an amazing person, and I helped them prepare for their trip. While we were getting ready, I turned to my dad and asked if he’d ever had a stubborn hemorrhoid that lasted 3-4 months. He said no, not that long, but suggested we go to the store to get some Preparation H.

When we got back, I weighed myself on his scale and realized I’d lost about 20 pounds—probably from the food poisoning and what I thought was another "ass destroyer" hemorrhoid, but now we know it's cancer. Since then, I have put 15 pounds back on.

My dad is incredible. He also shared a natural anti-parasitic remedy made with wormwood, so I used both the Preparation H and the wormwood. After just one day, I felt so much better. I started a carnivore diet, and within three days, the hemorrhoid was gone, and no more mucus! I stopped using the Preparation H and then the wormwood, and I felt healthier than I had in ages—like a billion dollars. I got everything in order, including registering my truck, and even started making some money doing handyman work.

On August 22, 2024, I headed to Texas to help my brother Dan, aka Dino, with his new shop. He needed some mini-split A/C units installed. While working on that, I noticed the hemorrhoid symptoms creeping back, but I kept up with my physical therapy at Anytime Fitness, a worldwide gym franchise.

On September 7, 2024, it felt like all hell broke loose. That morning, I hit the gym for a leg, shoulder, and ab workout. I finished, but something felt off, though I wasn't in pain at the time. After showering and getting ready for the day, I was heading to my truck when a sharp pain hit me, similar to when I had blacked out before. I rushed back to my brother’s place and told Dan, “I’m in pain,” explaining what had happened. I assured him it would pass, but in case I blacked out again, I wanted him to know. His immediate response was, “NO! You need to get help. Go to the hospital.”

The VA system failed me again. Hours of waiting, pain that seemed endless. I told myself I could make it through, that I’d fought harder battles before. But it was hard to believe that when my body was breaking under the weight of something I couldn’t see, couldn’t fight.

Right then, my mom overheard the conversation and joined in, urging me to seek help. As if the universe was in sync, my wife Jeciel called me in the middle of the chaos, insisting I go to the hospital as well. Reluctantly, I gave in and called the VA. They told me what steps to take and who to contact.

7SEP2024 I headed to the closest hospital, Witcher Hospital in Clifton, TX, and explained what had happened. They ran a CT scan, and that’s when the bomb dropped: “This looks like cancer.” My wife was on a video call with me, and I felt my world crashing. I managed to hold it together with just a tear slipping out. It was a Saturday.

By Monday, September 9, I woke up and started making calls. After being bounced around by the VA, I decided to go in person to the VA in Waco, TX. After going through the check-in process, I made it to primary care. But when the nurse came out, she told me they couldn’t help because I was enrolled with the Philippines VA.

In pain, I walked outside, found a bench, and just lay down. I went live on Facebook, even though I hadn’t wanted anyone to know yet. My mom had already told the world I had cancer, so the secret was out.

I stayed on Facebook Live for over an hour before my phone battery started to die. Several vets stopped by, trying to help, but no one could get the VA to assist me.

The VA police came by and asked if I was okay. I told them, "No, I’m not." I explained what had happened earlier at the VA and what I might be facing. Like others before them, they came up with a plan. The VA police helped me get to the VA in Temple, TX. Following their advice, I walked into the ER, asked for help, and shared my story.

9/SEP/2024 They processed me quickly and took my vitals. I handed them the CT scan and report from Witcher Hospital. The guy processing me said, “Oh, that’s what I had last year. Mine was stage 4, but it looks like you’re only at stage 3 cancer.” My jaw dropped—what?! He reassured me that it’s treatable, finished up my intake, and sent me back to the waiting room, where I stayed for hours. At least there was a phone charging station.

Later that night, I was placed in a room with another cancer patient named Mark. He was really nice to talk to, and by the next morning, they had started me on a clear liquid diet. Then came the colonoscopy—did I just agree to be violated by a camera? Exit only, guys!

After the biopsy, I went through more tests during the week—PET scan, CT, MRI. Each time, they bombarded me with questions, and no matter how many times I told my story, it never seemed to come out right. New words were always being put into my mouth.

When I arrived at my dad’s house in Salt Lake City, Utah, I decided to fully embrace the carnivore diet. Then, at the VA hospital in Temple, Texas, things took a turn I never saw coming. A man, dressed as a woman, walked into my room with an attitude that screamed he didn’t want to be there. He barely looked at me before sneering, “I’m here about the menu. What will you eat?”

I calmly told him I’m a carnivore, and without a word, he turned and walked out. As he was leaving, I tried to get out, "No pork!" but he was already gone. After that, all I got was a measly three-ounce patty at every meal. Three ounces. That’s it.

I told the doctors what was happening, and they said I should file a complaint. I explained that my diet includes anything from animals—meat, milk, butter—and that I can also eat things like berries. It took two days, but my meals finally got sorted out.

But the madness didn’t stop there. Later, the chaplain came into my room and, right off the bat, made some smartass remark. I told him, flat out, that what he said wasn’t okay and he needed to stop being so insensitive. But he couldn’t help himself. He just had to say something smart again. I had enough, so I told him to leave.

It felt like I was trapped in some kind of nightmare. Hell, hath no fury like being "helped" by people who seem hell-bent on making you miserable. Am I in the Twilight Zone? Why would anyone treat me this way?

When it was time to discharge, I realized I needed to find a place to live and get my wife and kids here. My plans had changed. I told them this place was too far from where I planned to buy a house, but they insisted on setting up more appointments. I told them, "No thanks, I’m going to Houston, TX, for further treatment."

September 16, 2024—It was a grueling 15 hours in the ER at the Houston VA. No food, no water. My painkillers were wearing off, and I was sitting there helpless, trying to hold on. Hours passed like they were dragging through mud, and when I finally got a painkiller, I thought maybe—just maybe—it would get better. But by 3 a.m., when they moved me to a room, the pain came back hard. I begged for relief, but the nurse vanished. The pain was overwhelming—I felt like I was going to pass out or throw up. I kept telling them, "If you’re not going to help me, I’ll walk across the street to MD Anderson myself." I was at my limit, frustrated and exhausted.

And as if my pain wasn’t enough, I was constantly thinking about my family. I told them, if my wife and kids got here too soon, they’d have to stay back in Phoenix with my mom while I try to figure out this mess—finding a new home, making things right for all of us.

While they were briefing me on the plan, explaining how they were mapping out my cancer and deciding the best way to treat it, my mind kept wandering. Why can’t we do a better job of protecting my balls? I want to have more kids if I make it through this. But what if I can’t even get my wife here? I need her support more than anything right now. I want to live.

I’m about to be discharged from the VA hospital, but there’s so much to do and barely any time. It’s September 20, 2024—I'm standing on the edge of being released, yet my mind is racing. We’ll be back on October 9, 2024, but before that, I need to finalize the house purchase, make sure everything’s in place. And Admin Andy IO is still sitting in the back of my mind—I'll squeeze in work on it whenever I can. There’s just so much uncertainty, and I’m trying to keep it together.

And then there’s my daughter. She needs medical treatment here in the U.S., and my wife—she’s been through so much herself. She’ll need care too. Everything feels so heavy, and there’s no time to breathe. But I have to keep moving forward, for them, for all of us.

Now, as I face yet another battle, I do it with the same determination that carried me through the warzones of Iraq. I’m preparing to move back to the U.S., to fight for my life, my family, and my business—Admin Andy IO. My body may be weak, but my will is stronger than ever. I’ve come too far, survived too much, to let this stop me.

This is my story. It’s one of pain, of survival, but more than anything, it’s a story of resilience. I’ve been knocked down, beaten by forces seen and unseen, but I’m still here. Still fighting. Still standing. And I will keep standing, no matter what comes next.