June is Cancer Survivors Month. For Stacy Martin, the other 11 months are, too.

"I know I saved my own life."

In the fall of 2017, Stacy Martin was living in Atlanta – she'd soon move to Chattanooga – when she got the news: her mom was diagnosed with stage IV uterine cancer.

During treatment, doctors discovered her mom carried a rare genetic mutation called CDH1.

And CDH1 is genetic.

"There was a 50% chance my brother, sister and I could have it," Stacy said.

The bad got worse. CDH1 increases the risk of stomach cancer to 80% and the risk of breast cancer to 60%.

Stacy, 40 at the time, was neck-deep in a robust career, with clients, traveling and a full social life centered around the table.

"I love food," she said. "I'm a foodie."

So, would you get tested? If there was a 50% chance of having a genetic mutation that caused an 80% chance of cancer, would you want to know?

"I had an amazing life," she said. "I didn't want to lose it."

What if knowing meant giving up – food, drink, the very organ that made it possible – what you loved most?

In January 2019, a CHI Memorial nurse drew a vial of blood for genetic testing that can reveal, like reading the pages of a book, Stacy's genetic DNA, including the presence or absence of a mutated CDH1.

On February 6, 2019, she was working from home.

"There was a ding on my phone," she said.

A notification. She opened the app.

You are CDHI positive.

"I started bawling," she said.

Immediately, Stacy was drowning in this new CDH1 reality: she has an 80% chance of developing stomach cancer and a 60% chance of breast cancer. At the time, the odds of having the mutated CDH1 gene were thought to be one-in-nine million.

"I thought I was going to die," she said.

Cancers like this are invasive, growing not as pronounced tumors, but hidden in the organ lining and membranes. The death rate is so high because the ability to detect is so low.

"Like if you had a handful of salt and threw it on the beach. Now, 'go find the salt,'" she said. "That's what this cancer is like."

Stacy had three options.

Do nothing.

Begin surveillance with endoscopies every six months.

"Or I could have my stomach removed," she said.

She was 41 years old.

In the stages of grief, Stacy began to bargain: some reiki, Googling trips to Switzerland for gene replacement, maybe roll the dice that she didn't have the mutated gene.

In the spring of 2019, she traveled to Chicago for a stomach cancer symposium.

"It was the first time I met someone without a stomach," she said.

She stayed near the corner of the lobby and hotel conference rooms, watching. At happy hour, everyone seemed ... normal.

"They were chewing a lot," said Stacy. "Lot of small bites."

She met survivors, researchers, heard about the New Zealand doctor who first discovered this cancer was genetic. Met with nonprofits like No Stomach for Cancer and families who, before genetic testing, had very few relatives over 50.

"They thought they were cursed," she said. "This [genetic testing] has changed their entire family tree."

In mid-2019, she made her decision, signing up for surgery as a participant in a longitudinal study with the National Institutes of Health (NIH) and Dr. Jeremy Davis.

"I would have my stomach removed," she said.

The surgery was scheduled for three months in the future: September 12, 2019.

"So, I created a food bucket list," she said, laughing. "I also started taking classes at Orange Theory."

Lobster rolls for breakfast at the Plaza Hotel. The most expensive lunch at Peter Luger's in Brooklyn. Hot dogs, Italian beef and chocolate cake at Portillo's in Chicago with her dad. Well-past-midnight dinners with friends. Searched high and low for Halloween Oreos. In Freedom, Maine, where Erin French runs The Lost Kitchen, thousands of folks mail in postcards for reservations. Some have been trying for years.

The restaurant picked Stacy's.

"My sister and I went," she said. "It was one of my last suppers."

French signed a cookbook. (Stacy gave it to Dr. Davis.) She and her sister were the last to leave.

On the night before she lost her stomach, Stacy enjoyed one of the best meals of her life.

"Rose's Luxury in DC," she said. "Michelin-star."

It was a nine-course chef's tasting menu with brisket, lobster bisque with popcorn, a lychee salad. Stacy ate with an IV in her arm, already prepped for the next day's surgery.

Doctors told her to return – Cinderella-like – by midnight. On September 12, doctors started an epidural that would last five days. She awoke from the surgery without a stomach.

"My esophagus is now attached to my small intestine," she said.

She spent weeks in the bed and on the couch, only able to do three things.

"Wake up, eat, sleep," she said. "I was like a newborn."

It was like a rebirth to a new life.

Here are Stacy's new, post-stomach rules:

"I eat every two hours," she said.

She has to chew – and chew and chew – every bite, since food moves from throat-to-esophagus-to-small intestine, without stomach enzymes to break it down.

"I have to chew food to a puree," she said.

"I fought very, very hard for my life."

Doctors intentionally severed part of her vagus nerve; she does not feel hunger sensations the way she used to. Instead, she looks for signs: shakiness, that crashing feeling "like a kid running out of batteries."

"I eat every two hours," she repeated, with preset alarms on her phone and watch.

And, lots of protein. A 1 pm snack might be a single chicken wing and some berries or a protein shake.

But very little sugar.

"I have a three bite-rule," she said. "I can eat three bites of birthday cake."

She takes bariatric vitamins, calcium chews and iron supplements. Oysters are weird; soup is good; protein shakes are great. Water, with its high-surface tension, has to be mixed with electrolyte powder, what she calls "dust." Otherwise, she gets nauseous.

Wait, you can get nauseous?

Yes.

Can you vomit?

"No," she said. "There's nothing to make it move. Just heaving and gagging."

She no longer has an esophageal flap, so the potential for bile reflux forces her to sleep upright.

She has snacks with her at all times. Flying at the airport? That protein shake is coming, TSA officer. Stuck in traffic? There's a box of snacks in the backseat.

In the early weeks after her surgery, she went to the grocery store for the first time without a stomach.

"It took four hours," she said. "I looked at every label. I had to eat a snack because I was there so long."

Alcohol and drinking? ("I'm from Wisconsin," she smiled. "We start as children.")

"I process it differently," she said. "After three sips, I have a buzz. But then 20 minutes later, I'm fine."

A few months after having her stomach removed, she began to taste normalcy again. She and her sister traveled to New York, getting reservations at Dan Barber's Blue Hill at Stone Barns.

"It was a 18-course meal," she said. "I made it through 16."

For New Year's, a steak in Vegas.

"I was chewing and chewing and chewing," she said, "and chewing and chewing."

She counted.

"I got to 80," she said, "and still wasn't done. Just me and this steak took three hours."

Months after the surgery, she traveled to a central American jungle two hours away from any store or town.

"If it looks like I'm wearing the same clothes in every photo," she said, "it's because my 35 pounds of luggage had 34 pounds of snacks."

"But it was a great way to prove to myself: I can do this. It was a celebration of myself and my life."

She would later have a double mastectomy. (And her mom is alive and well.) And the stomach biopsy? At some point during her recovery, doctors called with the news.

"They found 17 spots," she said. "I know I saved my own life."

Soon, she discovered nuts: easy to snack on, filled with protein, fit perfectly in a bag or pocket.

She daydreamed: can I just bake my own?

She ordered 10 pounds of nuts and spices from Penzey's in Milwaukee and began baking them on a sheet tray in her kitchen. Started keeping notes:

First recipe

Burnt, not super flavorful

More garlic ... more salt ... more honey ... less oil. Maybe black pepper.

She kept baking, experimenting. Shared with friends: you should sell these, they said.

Hmm, can I?

She needed a name.

There are two animals – the seahorse and platypus – that don't have stomachs.

"Can I even spell platypus?" she laughed.

In 2021, Seahorse Snacks was born.

Seahorse Snacks are almonds, cashews, pistachios and pecans. There are different combinations and flavors – like Chili Turmrific and Maple Chaitastic – each one defined by a particular blend of spices and oils.

The recipes are delicious, protein-rich and portable.

In May 9, 2021, Seahorse Snacks debuted at the Chattanooga Market.

Today, Seahorse Snacks can be found at more than two dozen retail stores, four different states and the Chattanooga Lookouts games.

"Curveball Crunchies," she said. "It's a play on 'buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks'."

She's gone viral on TikTok, auditioned for Shark Tank – she didn't make the cut; Mark Cuban, you're missing a hell of a good story here – and has seen sales steadily increase, sometimes doubling, since her debut.

Seahorse Snacks leases a kitchen with walls painted purple – "the color of stomach cancer awareness" – inside the Hamilton County Business Development Center in the same spot that once held Cocoa Asante.

"I want people to know our name," she said, "to know about stomach cancer and genetic testing and eat great snacks."

She perfectly describes the entrepreneurial experience.

"It pays me no money," she said, "but there is literally nothing else I'd rather be doing."

She champions stomach cancer awareness and genetic testing; recently, the state of Tennessee and city of Chattanooga both proclaimed November as Stomach Cancer Awareness Month.

She's lobbied Washington, travels to stomach cancer symposiums, speaks to people she sees watching cautiously from the edge of happy hour.

"Whoever I can, wherever I can," she said.

She is stand-up comic and Sunday morning inspiration. Pack the Tivoli Theater to hear Stacy tell her story; we promise: the evening would be unforgettable.

Her business card reads: chief amazement officer. She is entrepreneur, patient advocate, cancer awareness champion and an independent-servant-hearted-kickass-cancer survivor.

All while eating every two hours and working another full-time job at WestRock.

"I fought very, very hard for my life," she said. "I owe it to me to live it the best way possible."

At some point in this journey, Stacy got two tattoos.

The first?

"It's on my middle finger," she said.

The tattoo: Find the Gift.

When you want to middle finger whatever life throws ... find the gift in it.

"The callouses have started to rub off 'Find'," she said.

The second tattoo?

Three little birds around her left wrist.

In college, Stacy flew to Europe for a semester abroad. She landed in Lyon, France, all alone. Things quickly fell apart. Her housing plans never materialized. Didn't have any money. She was essentially homeless.

"It was terrifying," she said.

Should she trust life? Trust that things will work out? Or pack it up and go home?

Then, she heard music. A musician on the street corner with his guitar playing Bob Marley's Three Little Birds.

"The song was exactly what I needed to hear," she said.

'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright.

"I had a choice to either curl up in a ball or trust that everything would be alright," she said.

"And I did."

"I made a decision to trust."

Every little thing turned out alright.

All photography by Sarah Unger (sarah@foodasaverb.com)

All design by Alex DeHart

All words by David Cook (david@foodasaverb.com)

Story ideas, questions, feedback? Interested in sponsorship or advertising opportunities? Email us: david@foodasaverb.com and sarah@foodasaverb.com

This story is 100% human generated; no AI chatbot was used in the creation of this content.