I remember the day my life changed as if it was yesterday. It was Super Bowl Sunday 2010, Saints vs. Colts. At the time I was a 14-year-old football fanatic. I looked forward to the Super Bowl as much as I looked forward to Christmas. But this year was different; I spent the entire day in bed with stomach pains. My mom knew something was really wrong when I did not even get up for kickoff. She could feel I had a fever, so she took my temperature. The expression on her face went from calm to concerned as soon as 102° appeared on the thermometer screen. My mom’s first instinct was to take me to the hospital. Little did I know this would be the first of many trips to come.
The following 72 hours would later be known as the longest three days of my life. It consisted of me being poked and prodded more times than I could count.
Day one was detection day at the hospital. Nurses and doctors were in and out of my room running test after test to figure out what was wrong. Finally a nurse suggested that I get a CT scan of my abdomen. When the results came back, she said that they saw a tiny mass that should not be there. I proceeded to get my first sonogram, which confirmed that I had a cyst on my right ovary. When I returned to my room there were three doctors waiting for me. In very serious voices they told my mom and I that I needed surgery to remove this cyst but that there was a 1% chance of it being a cancerous tumor. I could feel the color escape my face when I heard those two words, “cancerous tumor”. My mom made the smart decision to deny surgery right then and there, and instead get a second opinion the following day.
Day two was inquiry day with a second opinion. Dr. Davidson was the nicest man I had ever met. He approached my case with such sensitivity because he knew I was scared. He understood that I was a teenager with a mindset of invincibility. But he too had bad news to deliver, sadly that news was for me. His assistant brought us into his very cozy office filled with impressive plaques and diplomas. When Dr. Davidson entered, I knew something was wrong by the look on his face. He sat down behind his giant desk and explained that the doctors at the hospital were correct. I did have a cyst on my right ovary that needed to be removed. And then in his serious voice he proceeded to add that the chances of it being a cancerous tumor were actually 50% not 1%. And there were those two words again that weighed on me like a boulder, “cancerous tumor”. While I sat there trying to fight off the tears that wanted to come out, Dr. Davidson explained how he would not be performing the surgery. Instead he referred us to an oncologist that we could see the following day. I’ll never forget Dr. Davidson.
Day three was comprehension day with the oncologist. When I arrived at Dr. White’s office, I had this unusual positive attitude that I did not have in the last few days. I knew I needed to take care of whatever was going on, and that Dr. White was the only one that could make that possible. After getting examined and having blood tests done, it was time to talk to Dr. White. Instead of an assistant coming to get us and bring us to an office, Dr. White herself came and brought us to this big open room with comfy chairs and no desk. I found it strange how she sat next to me instead of my mom. Unlike other doctors I had met, she did not read off of my files. She put her chart down and looked me straight in the eye. She explained to me how it was not a cyst on my right ovary, but rather a tumor. In order to find out whether this tumor was cancerous or not she would have to perform a complicated surgery. I immediately asked what percent there was of it being cancerous. She replied simply in a calm voice that there was a 75% chance of it being a cancerous tumor. Those two words “cancerous tumor” didn’t affect me at all this time. I was ready to fight this head on and not let fear overcome me.
For the 4 months that followed that appointment, my life was put in survival mode. It began with the surgery that not only removed the tumor, but also removed my right ovary and fallopian tube. After a six-week recovery filled with pain and suffering, it was time to face my fears. Was the tumor cancerous or not? Dr. White sat us down in the big open room with comfy chairs again, but this time she sat next to my mom. She picked up her chart and proceeded to read off the procedure she performed six-weeks prior. The last thing I remember hearing her say before I zoned out was “I removed a malignant cancerous tumor the size of a football from you.” I could feel the room immediately shrink around me. My stomach was twisting and turning so much that the only thing I could do was stand up and face the wall. So many things were going through my mind at once, I did not know how to process anything. When I finally gained the courage to turn around and face Dr. White, I had tears streaming down my face. The only words I could manage to say were, “Will I be able to graduate junior high school?” To this day, I am still not sure why I chose to worry about school first of all things, but I am glad I did. In Dr. White’s original plan for my chemotherapy schedule, I would not have been able to graduate on time with my classmates. After begging and pleading to begin treatment as soon as possible she finally agreed. Even though I ended up getting my way and graduating on time, I will always remember this day as the worst day of my life.
The memories from my three months of chemotherapy have all combined into one giant nightmare. A nightmare that consisted of numerous needles, scans, blood tests, and trips to the hospital. In a matter of three months I spent over 35 days in Sloan-Kettering Memorial Hospital. The worst part about chemotherapy was not the treatment itself or being imprisoned within the hospital, but the aftermath of it all. By aftermath I mean the hair loss, the hearing impairments, and the energy loss. Losing my hair made it evident to the world that I was sick, and in a way, helpless. My temporary hearing impairments prevented me from leaving the house most days because even the sound of car brakes would make me cringe. And the energy loss that still affects me today has prevented me from living each day to its fullest potential. But every poke and every prod was worth it on May 15th, 2010. This was the official day of my remission.
In the last three years of being cancer free, I have learned to let go of the anger I once had about my original diagnosis. Instead I have embraced all the knowledge my disease has given me. I now know as a 17 year old that life is too short to waste it on something that does not make you happy. And what makes me happy is helping others. I have volunteered and shared my story with so many incredible people over the last three years. Most recently I participated on a five-day service trip to Camden, New Jersey. It was there where I met with 11 amazing individuals that inspired me to share my story with The Gilda’s Club of New York City.
Being a cancer patient has given me the opportunity to be inspired, and also to inspire others to fight and chase their own dreams. I would not change a thing about my cancer journey because it made me who I am today, a survivor.