I was 8-years-old when my paternal grandfather, then 76-years-old, finally taxied to our farm to inform us he was dying (of colon cancer but it wasn't certain when it started) -- he lasted another three years and had no chemotherapy. When my mother died last year, I tried calling my uncle to let him know the oldest, and last remaining, of his four older siblings had passed. Shock upon shock, my aunt informed me that my uncle, 80-years-old, recently had his annual physical and, although he said he was feeling fine, he was told he had cancer and they wanted him to start chemo right away. He died about a week after diagnosis and chemotherapy. I must contend that his almost immediate death was not from the cancer -- it was from the chemo! Chemo directly bombards the cancer but we suffer peripheral damage; effectively, we now have another assault to confront. The older we get, the less effective our body is in repair, maintenance and defense; regardless of age, there are many variables: we are not all exactly the same in these abilities and there is a such thing as unintentional suicide.
Only 1½ years ago was I finally told cancer was suspected but the most notable symptoms started in 2014. There have been times I was so fatigued I slept through most of two days, except when I staggered my way to the toilet and back. I'm feeling better right now, was out in the sunshine a while today, but there's still some weariness. I have no intention of ever accepting chemotherapy. I may have to deal with cancer, perhaps put it in total remission (as a taxi driver recently told me she did) -- but I'll live on for quite some while, even in spite of it.
I wish all of you good health and the best of choices.