Inspirational Stories

In June of 2020, I was on a hike with my family, and I had my first symptom. It felt like my lungs were closing. With the state of the world, I thought it was COVID. A month went by, and the struggle to breathe continued. The first weekend in July, I and my family headed up to Seattle to help me move into my college apartment. A few days later, I scheduled a virtual visit with my primary doctor in Seattle to check if I was dealing with allergies or possibly low iron. This was when the night sweats started. I will forever be grateful for my doctor who took my symptoms seriously and sent me in for bloodwork. A day later, I got the report back showing that absolutely everything on my chart was out of sorts. She immediately set me up with a hematologist in Seattle, but by that point, my parents were worried and wanted me to come home. Within those few days, I got really sick. I had a fever and could barely take care of myself. My night sweats were drenching, and I could barely eat. My sister had to come up to Seattle to drive me home. Once there, I went to urgent care where they did an X-ray on my lungs and found that I had bilateral pneumonia. My immune system was shutting down.

I had my first visit with my hematologist/oncologist at home once the pneumonia was gone on July 27, my mom's birthday. I went to this visit by myself due to the state of the global pandemic. This was the first time I heard the word “cancer.” Although I was a healthy, active 21-year-old, this word didn’t sink in too much. I went home and tried to convey all of the information from the doctor. Following this visit, she scheduled my first CT scan. With the lack of better words, my body lit up like a Christmas tree even though I had no visible swollen lymph nodes. This was when I was told I had stage 4 something. Some kind of disease. Being told the stage of the diagnosis without anything else is a very strange thing to process. This led to my first procedure, a bone marrow biopsy. If you’ve ever had a bone marrow biopsy, you know they hurt. Even though you’re sedated, it is so painful. Laying on my front side, I bawled my eyes out as the nurse held my hand and tried to calm me down. These tears weren’t solely from the pain but from the fear surging through my body. This was the first biopsy that came back clear with no cancer.

The next procedure was my lymph node biopsy. For this, I was going to be put under so that they could remove a lymph node and check for disease. I don’t remember much from that day except being visited by a friend's mom who was the lead nurse at the hospital. At this point, no one but my family knew what was going on. I was overwhelmed by emotions that someone knew that something was wrong with me. This was the first time I had to communicate with someone that I wasn’t okay. I felt so safe in her care but so broken by the worry behind her eyes as she held my hand. My procedure was done by the amazing Dr. Disher, who ended up being a core figure throughout my journey. Post-procedure, we found that the lymph node that they removed was completely normal. No cancer. This was perplexing news as it seemed as if my whole lymph node system had lit up with disease.

Around this time, I had a PET scan that showed that there was disease in my lungs. Not a good sign. I was scheduled for an appointment with Dr. Kotova, who was a boss lady, to say the least. I had an exploratory lung biopsy where they deflated one of my lungs to search for the disease. Waking up from this surgery is one of my most painful memories. Having your lung deflated is not fun. I stayed overnight in the hospital so they could monitor me. My dad stayed next to me on a cot, and we had a very sleepless night. Every hour or so, I was checked on by a nurse. The next morning was traumatic. Finally feeling hungry, I ordered some pancakes. But as I was eating, I started to choke, and I couldn’t sit up by myself to cough it out. I had to hit the emergency call button, and after some time, a random man came in to “help” me. He didn’t understand what was going on, and it took him some time to figure out that all I needed was help sitting up. Next, a nurse came in to take out the tubes that were placed in my side. All I’m going to say is “ouch.” And I will sadly never forget that feeling of them being pulled out. After this, Dr. Kotova came in to tell me that the biopsy was successful, and they found the disease. Good news, I guess. After this, they booted me out of the hospital to have an open bed right after the most traumatic morning and the worst news of my life.

I had a whole month of unknowns. I knew I was sick. I knew I didn’t feel good. But it wasn’t until the third procedure that they knew it was lymphoma. On July 24, 2020, I got the call from my doctor. I was numb and handed the phone to my dad. But no tears came until I realized I was going to lose my hair. That day is a blur. I don’t even remember picking up my camera, attempting to film a little of what was going on. At this point, no one knew but my family. In the next couple of weeks, I continued to feel more and more ill, as I had night sweats and fevers every day. Every time I entered a building, they took my temperature as a precaution for COVID and made a huge scene once they saw my raging fever. I then had to explain that it was cancer, not COVID. This was always an interesting conversation. I met with a lymphoma specialist in Portland who explained the disease, my chemotherapy options, and the risk of infertility. Luckily, I was told there was a low risk, but I was wrecked. I’ve always known that one day I wanted to be a mom. The thought of there being the slightest chance of infertility hurt my heart too much to think about. This led to conversations with fertility specialists about freezing my eggs. Long story short, I was too sick and had to start chemo ASAP. I also didn’t think my body could handle all of the hormones, ultrasounds, and procedures necessary for this process. I put my faith in the idea that everything would work out how it’s supposed to, even though it broke me to think about it. After this decision, I had to decide what chemotherapy I was going to do. As a communication and anthropology major in college, how in hell was I supposed to make this decision? I was given information packets about all three options. To me, it seemed as if they were written in another language. After talking with my doctors and my parents, I ultimately decided on doing a clinical trial. I wasn’t going to be a part of the trial, but they would use a drug that replaces one of the more dangerous elements of the traditional chemo concoction for lymphoma. I felt good about my decision but truly had no idea what was about to go down.

Throughout that whole month, ironically, they did find that my iron levels were low, like super low. So, in between all the testing and procedures, I was receiving iron infusions. This was my first experience in an infusion center. It was scary, lonely, and smelled like rubbing alcohol. But at least it made me familiar with the room that was about to be my part-time home for the next six months. After deciding on my chemo and getting my port (a procedure I again had with Dr. Disher), I promptly started my treatment on September 10, my dad’s birthday. Every other week for the next six months I met with my doctor for a checkup. My dad was able to attend the visits with me but not the chemo sessions due to COVID. Post-checkup, I sat in the infusion center for about three hours. Almost every session was the same, a lot of beeping, small conversations that I dreaded with the other patients who were much older and didn’t understand that I could have stage 4 blood cancer. I usually watched shows, talked with my close friends (who now knew), and had coffee and snacks. Each time, I attended these treatments without my family. This is one thing that I will always feel weird about, due to COVID, they never got to actually be there with me during chemo. They would hear about it, but they never saw me sitting in the chair, hooked up to the machines. The people who kept me company were my nurses. Each session I got closer and closer to them. They were my support system throughout the whole thing. They would make me laugh and bring me snacks and warm blankets. Lisa and I would talk about my NBA crushes, Kevin and I would talk about our favorite movie soundtracks (his was Flushed Away), Katherine and I would talk about college, and Andrea felt like a mom to me. I would wear different wigs and matching sweat sets that they always got excited about. It’s weird to say I miss being there with them. Of course, the chemo sucked and made me feel worse and worse every time, but they made it bearable. They literally held my hand throughout the whole thing.

Those six months were so up and down. Some weeks I was okay and could go run errands like a normal person. Other weeks I was so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed. I would talk to my friends on the phone and watch shows. I did anything and everything to dissociate from what was going on. I didn’t cry much. I felt numb. I had to shave my head about six weeks in, by my third round of chemo. I laughed hysterically because I couldn’t believe it was happening. My mom cried outside the door as my dad aggressively took the trimmer to my head. I captured this, like many elements of my journey, on camera. I have been making YouTube videos for six years, so this was nothing new. Editing was fun for me and felt like a creative escape. I started uploading often, sharing my story with anyone who wanted to listen. Mostly it was for me, my friends who could stay in the loop, and anyone who was going through the same thing, to remind them that they were not alone. This led to me starting a support group that now has over 30 girls from all over the world who are recently or currently fighting blood cancer. I got these connections from mutual friends, Instagram, and even from people who would find my YouTube videos. And even though I felt so physically lonely throughout the whole thing, I knew I always had them. They got it, through and through. There was nothing I could say to them that was off-limits or misunderstood. I will forever be thankful for them. These connections have now turned into the most beautiful and raw friendships that I am so grateful for.

By 12 treatments of chemotherapy, I was exhausted both mentally and physically, bald, 20 pounds heavier from the steroids, covered in scars, and probably radioactive from the number of scans I’d had over the past year. But I was cancer-free. I had my PET scan on March 15, 2021, following my last round of chemo on February 12. My oncologist, who was now like a second mom to me, called me the same day of my scan, which never happens. It usually takes at least 24 hours. But it was clear. I was cancer-free. That day was filled with so many emotions, but I was just relieved. Relieved of the stress and the sadness and the anger towards life over the last six months. I did it.

It’s been one year and two months since that phone call. To say the aftermath has been easy is the farthest thing from the truth. But every day I remind myself how lucky I am to still be here. I focus on the little things in life that are so good and so wonderful. The post-cancer journey could be a novel of its own, but I won’t get into it now. This is the story of me beating cancer and living to tell the tale