Special Edition: My 25th Cancer-Free Anniversary

Being Myself

The Story

This week, I’m officially 25 years cancer-free. Since I am currently 42, that means I was 17 when I had my first clear scan (although I had no way of knowing, at the time, if it would remain clear). Although I’ve alluded to my cancer in the past, this week, I’m going to give you the full story.

At the end of my eighth grade year, my parents took me and my sister to the pediatrician for a yearly wellness visit. During the exam, the doctor felt a lump on my thyroid gland (the butterfly-shaped gland that sits over the windpipe). She had to tell me what a thyroid gland was; I hadn’t taken a biology course in school yet. I was sent to an ENT (ear/nose/throat) doctor.

I remember that exam very clearly. He probed my neck, and within five minutes, I was going to have surgery. In retrospect, I know that a biopsy would have been a typical first step, but this doctor believed it to be a waste of valuable time. As soon as his hands felt the lump, he knew it was cancer.

It was early July. The surgery was scheduled for July 21, three days before my fourteenth birthday. I had never had surgery before. My mom knew it would be very scary, going in by myself, so she reached for a family communal comfort: music. The surgical team gave permission for me to wear headphones before and during the surgery, and I made a mix tape of songs I loved (at the time, it was very Broadway-heavy, with a few pop songs mixed in). I remember being wheeled in, and the anesthesiologist counting down.

I woke up to pain and nausea. By the time my birthday came, three days later, I wasn’t yet able to go home. My parents gave me a party in the teen lounge of the pediatric wing, and I managed a few bites of pizza. The next day, they and a doctor told me that I had cancer, and my entire thyroid had been removed. They had known since the surgery, but wanted me to have one last, cancer-free birthday.

A month later, instead of going to marching band camp, I went to Westchester Medical Center for a week of radioactive iodine treatment, a treatment unique to thyroid cancer. I drank a literal radioactive milkshake, then was quarantined in a room covered in plastic tarps the color of school busses and made to stay there for four days, until the geiger counter registered safe levels of radioactivity.

So, to sum up: I was fourteen. In my mind, I was nearly grown-up, but of course in retrospect, I was still just a child. I was told I had a deadly disease. I was isolated for a period of time. My parents and sister had to deal with all of this on both a practical and emotional level. For years, I blamed myself for their trauma, even though I knew, logically, it wasn’t my fault. I made up for it by being the best patient I could be: doing just as I was told, not complaining, sometimes being the one to tell my parents that it was going to be okay. I also compartmentalized everything. When I was in school, I refused to think or talk about the cancer. My closest friends knew, especially my best friend Laura, who was (and still is) an extraordinary light in the darkness for me, but we didn’t talk about it. To be honest, most of them probably didn’t know what to say, and that was fine by me.

Over the next three and a half years— almost the entirety of my high school experience— I had three more surgeries to remove lymph nodes. I had two more treatments and scans, which involved not only quarantine but a restrictive diet that triggered disordered eating. I learned how my body reacted to Synthroid, the synthetic thyroid hormone that I still take to this day. I also got good grades, acted in plays, did three seasons of marching band, played in the wind ensemble and orchestra, had a large circle of friends, got a driver’s license, and dated my first serious boyfriend. Real life, mixed in with cancer.

One of my high school graduation photos, complete with quintessential 90’s chenille striped sweater and cord necklace!

Why am I writing about this now, twenty-five years later?

After several years of therapy and the soul-searching that comes with reaching midlife, I recently realized that there was a lot I did not properly process about the cancer’s impact on me and my family. I went straight to college after it was over and tried to put it all behind me. I told myself and others that it happened for a reason; that it made me stronger; that I was moving on. But of course, having cancer at such a formative age was traumatic for me and my family, and trauma doesn’t go away unless you address it. There are things I’ve been stuck on, loops I’ve been caught in, for a long time, and finally, after twenty-five years, I am facing all of it head-on. I’m going back to my old journals and talking to my family members. I’m writing about that time— a few flash pieces, and what may become a memoir— because that’s how I best process things. I’m going back, so that I can better move forward.

This is my focus for 2024. Becoming me, without letting cancer define me. Putting it, finally, where it belongs: as an important piece of my past, a part of my story, but not who I am now.

The Character Traits

I was so unlucky to have cancer, and so lucky to have people who had the strength of character to care for me.

My mom and dad were conscientious enough to take me to the wellness check that uncovered my cancer in the first place; determined to get me the best care possible, and resilient enough to deal with parenting a teenaged girl (their oldest) with a serious disease. They are also both incredibly kind and loving, which got us through a lot of hard times.

My sister dealt with the fallout by becoming even more imaginative and humorous. She always did her best to bring a grounded voice to our family. I still feel a deep debt of sorrow for the impact on her childhood. She was only ten when I was diagnosed.

My best friend Laura had the empathy and understanding to give me exactly what I needed whenever I needed it: conversation, distraction, lightness. She was also tenacious and devoted. If I’d lost my hair due to chemo, she would’ve shaved her head so I wouldn’t have to go to school bald, alone.

My other friends extended their friendship and trust so that I could become the version of myself that existed outside the cancer.

My grandparents supported my family (with characteristic stoic and feisty behavior) with care and pragmatism.

After the cancer, while I was healing, my husband (whom I started dating when I was twenty) gave me the calm and centeredness I was craving and the adoration and freedom to be myself through many growing pains. My in-laws gave me a whole new family to love and support me. They are wonderful listeners and bring a sense of lightness and joy to my life.

My doctors thoughtfully scheduled all my surgeries and treatments around the school calendar; my teachers were driven to ensure my education wasn’t disrupted, and gave me the time I needed to stay on track.

This isn’t everyone. I could write a whole book about how people with Good Character showed up for me.

I AM writing that book. Stay tuned.

Something To Do

If you’re so inclined, in honor of this anniversary and on behalf of all the people who got me through the last twenty-five years, please consider donating to either St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital, the American Cancer Society, or the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

Also, if you have a friend or loved one impacted by cancer, please share this post with them.

Here’s to us, in all of our imperfect, striving goodness.

Keep hoping. Keep caring. Keep trying. 

And thank you all for being here with me.