Three cancer diagnoses. One family. And absolutely nobody handed me an instruction manual.

Hi! I'm Kari Monty.

I'm a wife, a daughter, a business owner, a dog mom, and apparently the person the universe nominated to manage an entire family's medical chaos.

I did not apply for this position. I'd like to speak to management.

But here we are.

It Started in 2023

In January 2023, my dad was diagnosed with head and neck cancer.

Suddenly, there were appointments, specialists, medications, treatment schedules, and medical terminology I had never needed to understand before.

Like most people thrown into caregiving, I figured I'd learn as I went.

What other choice did I have?

Dad went through months of chemotherapy and radiation. It was brutal. But in June, we got the news we'd been waiting for.

He was cured.

We celebrated. We exhaled. We thought we'd made it through the worst of it.

That was adorable of us.

Because in July 2023, my mom was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer that had already spread to her brain.

Her cancer wasn't curable. It was treatable.

And if you've ever sat across from an oncologist, you know those are two very different words.

Then, in September 2023, my husband, Paul, was diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma.

Yep. Dad, Mom, and my husband. All diagnosed with cancer within nine months of each other.

At that point, I was pretty sure someone had confused my family with a medical drama on Netflix.

Except there were no commercial breaks, nobody yelled "cut," and I was apparently responsible for keeping track of the entire plot.

Congratulations! You're Now the Caregiver.

Nobody actually said that, of course.

There was no orientation. No training. No helpful little binder explaining what the hell I was supposed to do.

There were just people I loved who needed help.

So I started learning.

I learned how to keep track of medications, appointments, test results, scans, treatment plans, and the approximately eleventy billion things that happen between doctor visits.

I learned how to ask better questions. How to read medical records. How to advocate when something didn't seem right.

And how to say "per my last message" without actually losing my mind.

Well. Most of the time.

I also learned that being a caregiver means having an impressive amount of information stored in your brain while simultaneously forgetting why you walked into the kitchen.

It's a special talent.

And somehow, through all of it, we kept going.

Just When We Thought Things Might Settle Down…

In April 2024, Paul was declared cured.

We were thrilled. After everything we'd been through, it felt like maybe we could finally get a little breathing room.

Unfortunately, cancer treatment doesn't always end when the cancer does.

Paul developed serious complications after chemotherapy, including neurological problems that eventually led to brain surgery.

Meanwhile, my mom was continuing treatment for her metastatic lung cancer, and life had become an endless rotation of appointments, medications, scans, and waiting for someone to call us back.

Normal life?

I vaguely remembered that being a thing.

Then, in November 2025, Paul's lymphoma came back.

Because apparently we hadn't met our annual deductible in emotional trauma.

During the biopsy, his left phrenic nerve was injured, leaving his diaphragm paralyzed on that side and seriously affecting his breathing.

Suddenly, we weren't just dealing with relapsed cancer. We were dealing with oxygen, lung complications, hospitalizations, and an entirely new set of medical problems.

The plan was additional chemotherapy followed by an autologous stem cell transplant.
Except his lungs had other ideas.

Despite treatment, surgery, and rehabilitation, his respiratory function hasn't

recovered enough to safely proceed with the transplant.
 

His oncologist has explained that, right now, the risk of respiratory failure or death outweighs the potential benefit.
 

That's a hell of a thing to hear.
 

The transplant isn't necessarily off the table forever. But for now, it's on hold.
 

So we keep working on what we can, asking questions, and figuring out the next steps.
 

Because apparently that's what we do around here.
 

And Then We Lost Dad.
 

In January 2026, my dad was diagnosed with cancer again.
 

This time, esophageal cancer.
 

He went through more chemotherapy and radiation, but his body had already been through so much with the first cancer.
 

In March 2026, we lost him.
 

There's no funny way to say that.
 

Losing my dad was devastating. And one of the hardest parts was realizing that the rest of life doesn't stop just because yours feels like it should.
 

There were still appointments. Still medications. Still people who needed me. Still insurance companies that apparently didn't get the memo that I was grieving and had absolutely no patience left.
 

I was trying to process losing my father while continuing to care for my husband and mother.

And some days, just getting through the day was enough.
 

I think that's something people who haven't been caregivers don't always understand.
 

You can be grieving, exhausted, angry, overwhelmed, and still have to remember that somebody needs their medication at 8 p.m.
 

There is no magical pause button.
 

Believe me. I've looked.
 

Somewhere Along the Way, I Got a Little Feral.
 

People often tell caregivers to take care of themselves, stay organized, ask for help, and make sure they're advocating for their loved ones.
 

Wonderful advice.
 

Now, could somebody please explain HOW?
 

Because when you're running on four hours of sleep, juggling multiple medical teams, trying to understand an insurance denial, and wondering whether the latest symptom warrants a phone call or an emergency room visit, "stay organized" isn't particularly helpful.
 

Neither is "just ask for help."
 

Help with WHAT? From WHOM? And do I have to organize that, too?
 

I spent an enormous amount of time trying to find resources that would actually make caregiving easier.
 

Not inspirational quotes.
 

Not another article telling me to practice self-care.
 

Actual tools. Checklists. Worksheets. Resources. Information I could use when my brain was operating at approximately 12% capacity.
 

And I kept running into the same problem.
 

The information was scattered everywhere, difficult to find, or written as though caregivers had unlimited time and functioning brain cells.
 

We do not.
 

That's when I realized something.
 

I wasn't failing. The system was.
 

Caregivers are expected to become medical coordinators, insurance specialists, record keepers, researchers, advocates, and emergency planners.
 

Usually overnight.
 

Usually without training.
 

And frequently while dealing with some of the hardest things they'll ever experience.
 

So I built what I couldn't find.
 

And That's How The Feral Caregiver Happened.
 

I didn't start The Feral Caregiver because I had some grand business plan.
 

I started it because I needed these resources myself.
 

I started creating the checklists, worksheets, and organizational tools that would have made my own life easier.
 

And the more I built, the more I thought about all the other caregivers sitting in hospital waiting rooms, staring at patient portals, fighting with insurance companies, and trying to remember what the doctor said twenty minutes ago.
 

Why should every single one of us have to figure this out from scratch?
 

So I bought the domain and started sharing what I'd built.
 

That eventually became The Feral Caregiver.
 

Today, the website includes a growing collection of free resources, including The Hub, where caregivers can find practical tools for managing appointments, medications, medical records, hospital stays, discharge planning, advocacy, emergencies, and all the other things nobody warned us about.
 

There's also The Feral Resource Finder, designed to help caregivers locate financial assistance, support programs, and other resources without spending hours searching the internet.
 

And The Feral Caregiver Club, a free community where we can ask questions, share experiences, celebrate the little wins, complain about the ridiculous stuff, and occasionally laugh at things that probably shouldn't be funny.
 

Because sometimes dark humor is the only thing standing between you and a complete factory reset.
 

And yes, the resources are free.
 

Not a free trial. Not free until you get to the good stuff.
 

Free.
 

I know how expensive caregiving can be, financially and emotionally. The last thing I want is to create another barrier between caregivers and something that might actually help them.
 

So, Why Feral?
 

Because caregiving changes you.
 

You become the person who knows every medication, remembers every appointment, questions every unexplained symptom, and can produce a three-page medical history faster than most people can find their car keys.
 

You learn to advocate. To push back. To ask for clarification. To document everything.
 

You learn that being polite and being persistent are not mutually exclusive.
 

And sometimes you learn that a well-timed sarcastic comment is the only thing keeping you from screaming into the nearest decorative pillow.
 

That's the feral part.
 

It's not about being angry all the time or picking fights with medical professionals.
 

It's about loving your people fiercely, refusing to be dismissed, and finding a way to laugh at the absurdity of a situation you never asked to be in.
 

It's also about admitting that caregiving can be really, really hard.
 

You can love someone with your whole heart and still be completely exhausted.
 

You can be grateful for the good days and furious about the circumstances.
 

You can be an excellent caregiver and still occasionally fantasize about disappearing into the woods where nobody knows your phone number.
 

All of those things can be true.
 

If You're Here, I'm Glad You Found Us.
 

I can't fix everything you're dealing with.
 

I can't make the diagnosis disappear, convince your insurance company to suddenly become reasonable, or give you back the hours you've spent sitting in waiting rooms.
 

If I could, believe me, I'd be doing that instead.
 

But I can share what I've learned.
 

I can give you tools that make some of this easier to manage.
 

I can point you toward resources you might not have known existed.
 

And I can help create a place where caregivers don't have to pretend they've got everything under control.
 

I'm still in the middle of this myself.
 

I'm still learning, still advocating, still building resources, and still occasionally wondering how one person can have this many medical portal passwords.
 

The Feral Caregiver isn't something I built after my caregiving journey ended.
 

I built it while living it.
 

And I'm still here, figuring things out right alongside you.
 

So take a look around. Grab whatever resources might help. Join the Club if you need people who understand.
 

And if all you accomplish today is getting through today?
 

That counts, too.
 

Welcome to The Feral Caregiver.
 

Stay feral. 🩷