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Metastatic Thyroid Cancer in College: Grace’s Story of Self‑Advocacy and Softball

Metastatic Thyroid Cancer in College: Grace’s Story of Self‑Advocacy and Softball

Grace’s experience with metastatic thyroid cancer (papillary thyroid carcinoma) began quietly during her sophomore year of college, long before anyone said the word “cancer.” She was a lifelong multi‑sport athlete and then a collegiate softball player, used to pushing her body and knowing what it could do. Then came a rapid, unexplained weight gain of around 45 pounds, profound fatigue, and a sense of being weighed down that seeped into every part of her life. The physical changes triggered a mental health spiral so intense that Grace came close to quitting the sport that had always been her anchor.

Interviewed by: Taylor Scheib
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

On the outside, she kept showing up to practice seven to 10 times a week, but inside, she felt shame and confusion. She blamed her symptoms on a past diagnosis of polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), cut out gluten and dairy, and tried everything she could to fix what was happening. Nothing changed. She describes feeling as if her brain knew exactly what she needed to do on the field, but her body just would not follow. That disconnect deepened her sense that her body was betraying her and left her emotionally exhausted.

Grace B. thyroid cancer

Eventually, Grace reached a breaking point. An OB‑GYN visit suggested a thyroid issue, but “normal” TSH labs (the hormones that normally tell your thyroid to release it’s own hormones) sent her home with more questions than answers. Refusing to settle for that, she dug into medical articles, found an integrative medicine practitioner, and requested a more complete thyroid panel, including thyroglobulin. Those results, and a follow‑up ultrasound showing two highly suspicious nodules, finally set her on the path to her thyroid cancer diagnosis. Even then, endocrinology appointment cancellations and long waitlists delayed her care until a university connection with the Vanderbilt-Ingram Cancer Center allowed her to get a biopsy and diagnosis.

Surgery revealed spread to a lymph node, shifting her diagnosis from papillary thyroid carcinoma to metastatic thyroid cancer and reshaping her treatment plan and long‑term monitoring. She later started thyroid hormone replacement and worked through the daily realities of scars, sun protection, “scanxiety,” and a body that no longer felt predictable. Through therapy and deep self‑reflection, Grace rebuilt her sense of self, stayed in softball, and now speaks directly to others: listen to your body, keep asking questions, and know that advocating for yourself can change everything in your metastatic thyroid cancer experience.

Watch Grace’s video and read through the edited transcript of her interview to learn more about her story.

  • Listening to persistent symptoms, even when tests appear “normal,” can be crucial in getting a thyroid cancer diagnosis.
  • Shame around weight gain and fatigue can silence conversations in sports and beyond, but naming those changes out loud can open doors to support and care.
  • Self‑advocacy – researching labs, requesting a full thyroid panel, and seeking integrative perspectives – played a pivotal role in Grace’s path to answers.
  • A universal truth: Patients know their own bodies best, and respectfully insisting that something is wrong is not overreacting; it is essential.
  • Grace’s transformation from nearly quitting the sport she loves to feeling mentally stronger and more grounded shows how honoring your experience can reshape your life, even while living with metastatic thyroid cancer.

  • Name: Grace B.
  • Age at Diagnosis:
    • 21
  • Diagnosis:
    • Metastatic Thyroid Cancer (Papillary Thyroid Carcinoma)
  • Symptoms:
    • Significant and unexplained weight gain
    • Persistent fatigue
    • Brain fog
    • Bloating
  • Treatments:
    • Surgery (Subtotal thyroidectomy with central neck dissection)
    • Watch and wait/active surveillance
Grace B. thyroid cancer
Grace B. thyroid cancer
Grace B. thyroid cancer
Grace B. thyroid cancer
Grace B. thyroid cancer
Grace B. thyroid cancer
Grace B. thyroid cancer

This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make informed treatment decisions.

The views and opinions expressed in this interview do not necessarily reflect those of The Patient Story.



Who I am

I’m Grace. I was diagnosed with metastatic thyroid cancer last year in November. I’m originally from Maryland, but I go to school in Tennessee.​

My first thyroid cancer symptoms as a collegiate athlete

The first time that I knew anything was a little bit off was my sophomore year of college. I had gained a lot of weight really rapidly, around 40 pounds, I would say. I’m a collegiate athlete, so it was affecting me in a lot of different ways. Not only did I gain weight, but I also wasn’t feeling well. I was constantly tired, just feeling super weighed down all the time. It got to a point where I knew that I needed to start looking into it. It was really affecting my mental health and also my physical ability to play. That summer is when I knew that I needed to start looking into what was going on with my health.​

Hiding symptoms and shame around weight gain in college sports

I was practicing seven to ten times a week. I was honestly embarrassed, and I didn’t talk about it much. Nobody really addressed it. I would talk about being tired. At the time, I thought that I had PCOS because I was diagnosed when I was really young. I would say, “My PCOS is flaring up this week, I’m not feeling well.” But for the most part, I wouldn’t talk about the weight gain, so it wasn’t really a conversation that was being had.​

Mental health breaking point: almost quitting sports and feeling unrecognizable

There were a lot of other things going on at the same time. In general, I was at the worst mental place that I’ve ever been in my entire life. Sports have always been the biggest part of my life. I genuinely don’t remember a time before sports. I played five sports growing up, all the way until high school, when I switched to three.​

It got to a mental point where I was going to quit, and I never saw myself doing that. It got so bad that I thought my only option for my mental well-being was to quit. My coach doesn’t even know this, but one night I was at my breaking point. I wasn’t understanding what was going on. I was so upset with myself for not being able to perform the way that I wanted to. I had dialed my coach’s phone number, and I was going to call and quit. As I was about to hit call, my club coach from high school texted me. We had a game the next day. He had no idea what was going on. He just said, “Good luck tomorrow. Go be you.” It switched something inside of me where I was like, “Okay, I’m not feeling well, but that isn’t going to define who I am as a person or as an athlete.” It was hard.​

I didn’t even recognize myself. I look back at pictures now, and I don’t recognize myself.​

Feeling “body betrayal” and making lifestyle changes that didn’t help

I felt 100% that my body was betraying me. It was so frustrating. I changed so many things that I was doing. I cut out gluten and dairy completely. I still am gluten-free, because I eventually figured out that it is what works for me with my health. At the time, I was doing everything in my power to make changes, and I wasn’t feeling the changes. It was so frustrating that my brain wanted to do things to get better, and it just wasn’t happening.​

Softball is so mental. When my brain knew what I needed to be doing to perform correctly, but my body wasn’t doing it, it was so frustrating. There’s no other way to describe it other than it was just frustrating.​

Lack of an obvious thyroid lump, and PCOS confusion

Honestly, I couldn’t feel my nodules even after I knew they were there, and I would look for them. I couldn’t feel them.

I had previously been diagnosed with PCOS, so for the most part, I was just blaming it on that, because the symptoms were the same. Other than fatigue and weight gain, there was nothing so crazy.​

OB-GYN visit, “normal” TSH, and turning to integrative medicine

That summer was my breaking point, but I was thinking that it was PCOS-related, so I decided to schedule with a new OB-GYN. I hadn’t had great experiences in the past with my previous one, so I wanted a fresh start. I found a new one, but it took a couple of months to get in, so I wasn’t able to see her until winter break of my junior year.​

That December, I got in, and she mentioned that she didn’t think I had PCOS, but instead that it was maybe something like hypothyroid. She ordered blood work. The blood work confirmed that I no longer had PCOS. There could have been a time when I did earlier in my life, but I had either grown out of it or healed it, which is more common than I knew it was. She tested my TSH as well, which came back completely normal. I left that appointment, honestly feeling pretty frustrated again. I felt like I had been waiting so many months for the appointment, and then I left with fewer answers than I had going into it.​

That is when I started doing research. I found a couple of peer‑reviewed articles that talked about getting tested not only for TSH, but also for T3 and T4. I looked into an integrative medicine practitioner who was able to order a full panel of blood work for me that included thyroglobulin as well. That is what ended up coming back elevated for me. I took that to my PCP, who ordered an ultrasound for me. Through that ultrasound, they found two nodules, one on the right side of my thyroid and one on the left. The radiologist scored them both a five in terms of suspicion.​

Delay in biopsy, canceled endocrinology appointments, and Vanderbilt fast-tracking diagnosis

After that, I was referred to an endocrinologist back home in Maryland. They had a bit of a waiting time to get in for the biopsy. At this point, it was summer before my senior year. By the time I was able to get in and see this doctor, my appointment was canceled three times.​

I finally was able to see her, but it ended up being ten days before I was supposed to go back to school that fall. The appointment wasn’t for the biopsy yet. It was just for getting into their system before they could schedule the biopsy. They scheduled the biopsy for late October, which was the first time I could get in. That was really hard, because I go to school 12 hours away from home, and I really didn’t want to go back to school not knowing what was going on.​

I came back to Tennessee, and I sat down with my coach and told him what was going on for the first time. He got me in to talk to the athletic trainer right away. We had just established a new relationship with Vanderbilt, thank goodness, because Vanderbilt has been so amazing in this whole journey. They got me in immediately to see our sports medicine doctor, who then referred me to the ENT, and I was getting a biopsy within the week of seeing that ENT. I ended up being diagnosed originally with papillary thyroid carcinoma before I would have even had the biopsy back home.​

Telling my coach and realizing that it wasn’t entirely my fault anymore

It was definitely hard, and I pushed it off until the very last minute, until I 100% had to. Weirdly, it made it easier to talk about it because I had an inkling and suspicion that it was cancer at that point. It made it feel like everything that had been leading up to it wasn’t entirely my fault anymore. 

Talking to him about it wasn’t as hard as I expected it to be. He’s awesome. He was super supportive and super helpful.​

Getting “the call” at practice, trauma laughter, and telling my dad while my mom was hospitalized

I actually found out at practice around a week and a half after I had my biopsy done. My coach was aware that I was waiting for news, so I was practicing with my phone in my pocket with my ringer on. We were warming up. I was throwing. Only two of my teammates at the time knew that I was waiting for news. It was the two teammates I live with — my roommates and my best friends. They knew, but my throwing partner at the time did not know.​

My phone started ringing, and I think I was holding the ball at the time. I honestly don’t really remember, but I think I just dropped it, dropped my glove, and ran through the dugout out toward the shed. Right as he called, my two roommates ended up walking onto the field. They were coming to practice late, so they saw me go around back to the shed. Thank goodness they were there, because they were able to come back and be with me for that phone call.​

I had this weird trauma reaction when he told me. I couldn’t stop laughing. It was the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced. He was asking me serious questions about treatment options, and I was cracking up. I had to mute myself multiple times. I felt so bad, but that’s just how my body reacted. I had no control over it. It was just happening.​

That phone call ended, and that was hard to hear. The hardest part by far was having to call my dad and tell him after I found out. He was 12 hours away from me. I’m his youngest child and his only daughter. At the time, my mom was very sick as well, so he was sitting at her hospital bedside when I called. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, even though he also had an inkling and kind of knew. Telling him 100% was so hard.​

Validation after diagnosis: “I’m not crazy” and wanting to hug my sophomore self

I had a lot of those moments of feeling like, “I’m not crazy, there is actually something wrong with me.” It took around six months between the original ultrasound and blood work to my actual diagnosis. There were so many tiny moments that continued to affirm it, especially with all the symptoms I had been dealing with for two years at that point — or two softball seasons.​

That moment, especially, and even now, looking at pictures from this season and statistics from this season compared to my sophomore year, is crazy. To think, “Oh, it wasn’t my fault.” After media day this year, we have a historical page on our roster website. I looked back at all my headshots through the years, and I said to my roommates, “I wish, with all of my being, that I could just go back to sophomore year and just give her a hug and tell her it was going to be okay.”​

Living with “easy cancer” comments, scar pain, and ongoing fear of recurrence

It’s hard. There are two sides to it. On one hand, this whole experience has made me so incredibly grateful just to be here and has given me a new perspective on life that I’m so grateful to have and would not have if I hadn’t gone through this journey. On the other hand, there have been people who have tried to diminish it.​

For the most part, a lot of those comments come from a place of wanting to be encouraging and wanting to look at the brighter side of things, which I appreciate. I’m able to have those conversations. I don’t mind, for the most part, being told, “You’re lucky that it’s thyroid cancer.” But there have been a couple of conversations that made me really struggle with the fact that this isn’t something I should be going through. This isn’t something anyone should have to deal with.​

Now, most of the time I don’t really think about it. But every time I go to practice, I either have to wear sleeves or I have to reapply sunscreen to my scar every 30 minutes. It’s either being super hot in my sleeves under my jersey or constantly remembering to put sunscreen on. 

I still deal with a lot of scar pain. This week, I have to get more blood work done, and that has brought up a lot of emotions. I don’t know — what if my blood work comes back not great again? There’s always that fear in the back of my mind that I think I’ll live with for the rest of my life. On one hand, I’m here, and I’m living and still able to play softball and be a college student. At the same time, some things aren’t ideal.​

The plan moving forward

My plan going into surgery had been just to remove the right side of my thyroid because both of my nodules were biopsied, and the left one came back entirely benign. My doctor explained that they won’t label nodules as benign if they are not 100% benign. I was 21 years old at the time, and the thought of being on medication for the rest of my life scared me a little bit. The fact that he was giving me the option to keep half of my thyroid was super important to me because it meant that I might not have to be on thyroid replacement hormone for the rest of my life. That was my plan.​

In addition, I had multiple scans showing that my lymph nodes were clear. There was no concern going into it. Because my thyroglobulin was elevated, he decided to also do a central neck dissection during my surgery. He removed seven lymph nodes, and one came back as cancerous. My diagnosis then switched from papillary thyroid carcinoma to metastatic papillary thyroid carcinoma. That was unexpected, to say the least. If I had known that at the time, I might have gone ahead and removed my whole thyroid, but yeah.​

A little bit after my surgery, I was feeling around, being anxious and overly cautious, and I found a lymph node on my chin that was pretty enlarged and hard. I brought it up to my surgeon at my follow-up, and he had me get another biopsy done because it had spread to a lymph node. That ended up coming back benign as well, so that was okay. I do have to continue to get scans done, and there is a little bit more risk because I still have my thyroid on the left side.​

Starting thyroid hormone medication after my partial thyroidectomy

My TSH came back very elevated after my first follow-up after surgery, and so did my thyroglobulin. We think it is likely elevated because the TSH was elevated. My doctor decided to start me on a very low dose of thyroid replacement hormone, and it has been great. I feel a lot better. After surgery, I was feeling really tired and inflamed, which is understandable after going through surgery. Once I started it, I definitely felt better.​

It’s hard to get the routine down because you can’t eat for an hour after or drink anything other than water for an hour after taking it. That has been difficult, especially trying to fuel my body for practice. It took me a while to figure out a routine because I have class in the morning and then go right to practice. If I don’t wake up early enough to take it, I can’t eat before both of those. For the most part, it has been good, and hopefully at some point I might be able to wean off of it, but we’ll see.​

Growth, therapy, and mental toughness after thyroid cancer

There are so many ways I’ve grown. I’ve done a lot of work mentally and in therapy to get to the point where I am now and to the point where, when I was diagnosed, I wasn’t in a bad mental space. Two years ago, if I’d been diagnosed, I don’t know how I would have handled it.​

The whole journey, and gaining this new perspective on life, has changed the way that I look at everything. I think it has made me much stronger as a person in general. I’m so grateful that I didn’t quit that day that I wanted to, because from a mental toughness standpoint, if I had quit, I never would have been able to get to the point that I am today. In addition, I never would have seen that I was able to get to this point and prove to myself that I can grow from something like this.​

My message to others advocating for answers

I would say to continue to listen to your body. We know our own bodies better than anyone else does. Doctors are amazing, and they have so much knowledge, but they can’t feel the way that you are feeling 100% of the time. If you think something is wrong, if you aren’t feeling like yourself, go get it looked at. Continue to get a second opinion. Just advocate for yourself and your body, because it could make a really big difference in your life.​


Grace B. thyroid cancer
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Categories
Chemotherapy Colorectal FOLFOX (folinic acid, fluorouracil, oxaliplatin) Lung Resection Metastatic Patient Stories Radiation Therapy Rectal Surgery Treatments

Kalei’s Stage 4 Rectal Cancer Story: Has My Cancer Returned?

Kalei’s Stage 4 Rectal Cancer Story: Has My Cancer Returned?

For many people, a stage 4 rectal cancer experience starts with fear and confusion. For Kalei, this is exactly what happened. After two lung wedge resection surgeries with clear margins, her care team suggested another watch-and-wait period. It was the same surveillance approach that had previously ended with lung metastases discovered on the very first scan. This time, with a stage 4 diagnosis and two young daughters at home, the stakes felt even higher.

Interviewed by: Taylor Scheib
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

When new scans in late 2025 suggested possible recurrent rectal cancer in her lung and rectum, Kalei found herself stuck in a gray zone. Radiology reports raised red flags, but multiple doctors were unsure and recommended more waiting. That disconnect pushed her to prioritize something she’d been encouraged to pursue since her first diagnosis: a second opinion. A change in insurance finally opened the door to a new hospital system and a team that took an aggressive, thorough approach to testing. They ordered fresh imaging, bloodwork, ctDNA testing, and even biopsies for suspicious lymph nodes in her neck. Some findings, like a new liver spot that later disappeared, brought terrifying lows followed by profound relief.

Kalei M. rectal cancer

Alongside the medical maze, Kalei’s rectal cancer experience reshaped her home life and marriage. She and her husband learned to support each other on their hardest days — one would stay steady while the other was spiraling. They booked trips all across the country, choosing joy and presence amid uncertainty. At home, she kept working, parenting, and running her photography business to hold onto a sense of normalcy. As she says, “I have cancer, but I’m still a normal person, and I’m still doing normal life things.”

Kalei’s advocacy now extends online, where she shares her symptoms, treatment timeline, and faith with a growing community. Messages from viewers who returned to church, opened a Bible for the first time in years, or finally made that overdue doctor’s appointment have shown her how one rectal cancer experience can ripple outward. She doesn’t romanticize what she’s been through, but she does believe this season has grown her into a different, stronger version of herself, and she’s determined to use that growth to help fewer people feel alone or dismissed.

Watch Kalei’s video and read her edited interview transcript below to find out more about her story. Read about her initial experience here.

  • Second opinions are essential in advanced colorectal cancer, especially when scan reports and doctors’ interpretations don’t align or when recommendations feel unsettling.
  • Being told that you’re young and healthy does not rule out serious disease; noticing and acting on subtle symptoms like bowel changes and rectal bleeding can lead to earlier diagnosis.
  • You’ll always be your strongest advocate, and you deserve testing and explanations that match what you’re feeling, not just what’s on the lab report.
  • Kalei’s experience transformed her relationship, as she and her husband learned to support each other better, communicate more honestly about fears, and find joy through travel and everyday routines.
  • Her stage 4 rectal cancer experience reshaped her faith and purpose, leading her to build an online community where she shares her story, encourages others to seek care, and highlights the power of prayer and connection.

  • Name: Kalei M.
  • Age at Diagnosis:
    • 28
  • Diagnosis:
    • Rectal Cancer
  • Staging:
    • Stage 4
  • Symptoms:
    • More frequent bowel movements
    • Presence of mucus, tissue-like substance, and blood in stool
    • Stomach cramping and sharp pains
  • Treatments:
    • Radiation therapy
    • Chemotherapy: FOLFOX
    • Surgeries: two lung resections
Kalei M. rectal cancer
Kalei M. rectal cancer
Kalei M. rectal cancer
Kalei M. rectal cancer
Kalei M. rectal cancer
Kalei M. rectal cancer
Kalei M. rectal cancer

This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make informed treatment decisions.

The views and opinions expressed in this interview do not necessarily reflect those of The Patient Story.



My stage 4 rectal cancer update: Scans, surgeries, and a new care team

A lot has happened. So yeah, the last time we spoke, I think it was two days after my second lung surgery. So both of those went great. They went really smoothly. We got clear margins on both pieces sent to pathology, so everything was really good. And then my doctors said it was kind of touch-and-go. They were kind of saying, “Maybe after these surgeries, we’ll discuss doing chemotherapy or some type of therapy, since now you are technically a stage 4 diagnosis.” We didn’t find any other spots within my body at that point that had any metastasized disease or anything like that.

So after the surgeries were done, they told us, “We just want to wait, we’re just going to wait, we’re going to monitor.” And I just remember my husband and I, after we had gotten off that phone call with that oncologist, we were like, “This is kind of unsettling.” I just don’t feel great about this because this is what we were told last year when I had finished chemo and radiation. They said, “We’re going to sit you on a wait-and-watch surveillance plan,” and then that first set of scans is when they found the lung mets. So we just were like, “History might repeat itself.” It’s kind of scary. Now we’re dealing with stage 4. I don’t really know, what if the next place it goes is to my brain or something? So we were just, you have all those natural fears in your mind of what could happen.

And so we went along with that. I remember I had gone back and forth with getting a second opinion. I really wanted to get my case in front of another set of doctors. I could talk about that for a long time, but I’ll keep it short and sweet. I didn’t have a good experience, and I think that it’s so difficult for people to get a second opinion when they shouldn’t. When you’re dealing with advanced disease, it should be a given that you are allowed to take your case to another set of doctors just for an opinion. But anyway, I did not get that second opinion, and we sat on the wait-and-watch surveillance plan.

In December of 2025, I had my first set of MRI, CT scans, and all of that since my surgeries. The first result that we got back was the chest CT scan of my lungs. On that report, the radiologist had noted that there was increasing soft tissue within the lower left lung, and there was a concern for recurrent disease. You read that, you get the results straight to your MyChart. I hadn’t spoken to my doctor or anything, so I’m just like, history is repeating itself.

It’s coming back. This is our biggest fear kind of happening. Then I talked to my doctor about it, and he said, “Well, I looked at it. I’m not really impressed with the area that the radiologist notated. I don’t really think that’s what it is. We’re just going to wait and see what it does.” So I’m like, “Okay, we’ll just wait some more, I guess.”

Then I got my MRI results for my rectum. There was a notation on that scan result that said there was a — I forget the measurement — but it was in the same spot my original tumor was, and there was a concern for recurrent disease. I’m like, “Whoa, what’s going on?” I spoke to my colorectal surgeon who ordered that, and he said the same thing. He’s like, “I’m not really impressed with what the radiologist is notating on there. I don’t think that’s what it is.”

So my husband and I are feeling like, “What is going on?” That’s two different test results, two different doctors telling me, we don’t really agree. So I’m like, no one’s agreeing here. That doesn’t make me feel good, and you’re all telling me, let’s just wait and watch again. So that wasn’t great.

But I had ended up switching insurance with my employer, so I moved over to the hospital that I wanted to go to seek that second opinion with. That was really fantastic, and I love my new team of doctors. They’re wonderful. They just went right in and were like, “We’re going to be aggressive with testing for everything. We’re going to order a whole new set of scans, we’re going to compare it with all your history, we’re going to do blood tests, we’re going to do [ctDNA] tests, we’re going to do all these things, the whole nine yards.” I’m like, ”This is amazing, fantastic.”

During those scans and ordering all these tests, I also noticed that my neck was a little swollen. This was another random thing. I was like, “Some lymph nodes in my neck are feeling a little weird. They’re a little swollen, they’re not going down, they’ve never been there before.” I told one of my new doctors, and he goes, “Yeah, we’re going to order an ultrasound because with your history, I just want to be more cautious.”

So I got an ultrasound and everything, and then my doctor ended up saying she wanted to order biopsies because there was a really enlarged lymph node that they had found on the other side. Our minds — mine and my husband’s — were going to the craziest places. We’re like, “Oh my gosh, has this progressed to my lymphatic system? Is this cancer just spreading like a wildfire?” It’s so scary.

Then they end up doing the biopsy that came back all clear. So my lymph nodes were clear, thank God. We were so relieved. They were very aggressive with getting these tests done and moving everything very quickly, which I’m so thankful for.

Then, one of the scans that they had ordered, a result came back on my liver, saying that there was a new spot that had never been detected before. Through all the scans I’ve ever had, I’ve never had any notation on my liver, and liver and lung are the two places that rectal cancer metastasizes to first. So I’m like, “Oh my gosh, this is it. It skipped my liver the first time, but now it’s back.”

Then I got a follow-up for that liver spot, a follow-up MRI. It turned out that the spot disappeared between my first scan and the second one. That was miraculous. So yeah, a lot of really, really lows and then really, really highs have happened. Right now, I’m in a waiting spot to see what this new team of doctors wants to do going forward. So yeah, that’s a little summary of what’s been going on.

Why second opinions matter in advanced rectal cancer

From the beginning, when I was first diagnosed, one of the first things that people who have experienced this said to me is, “Get a second opinion, get a third, fourth, fifth one; whatever you need to do, just get those opinions. Because the more doctors and specialists see your case, the more confident you’ll be in your treatment plan.”

It’s not a slight to any doctors because you don’t trust what they’re saying or anything like that. It’s for yourself, and it comes back to that place where you are your best advocate, and you really do have to push. So second opinions, especially with advanced disease, I think, are the most important thing ever.

I think that also being in a place where there’s a lot of iffy stuff going on with doctors not agreeing with radiologists and this and that, getting in front of another set of doctors, they’ve given me different perspectives that I didn’t get from my last set. Simple things that just change my perspective on my diagnosis in general. So I would 100% always encourage people to go after that second, third, fourth opinion just to help you better understand your disease, but also to give you the confidence in the treatment plan that you’re going with.

Navigating guilt about changing oncologists

I feel bad. I don’t want them to think that I don’t value them as my doctors and everything they’ve done for me, because, obviously, they’ve done a ton for me, and I appreciate them. But for my specific case, I didn’t really tell them that I was switching over. I just had my last set of appointments with them, my last set of scans, and then I just transitioned. That’s kind of where we left it.

It might have been another story on The Patient Story of someone else that you had interviewed, and this stuck with me. She said, “It is their job as healthcare providers and doctors to serve us as the sick people. That is what they are being paid for. That’s what they are there for. It’s not our job to try to tiptoe around their feelings. We’re dealing with our lives and our health.” 

That is what you have to keep at the forefront of your mind when you’re seeking second opinions, maybe thinking about leaving your doctors and things like that.

Coping with stage 4 rectal cancer as a young family

It has been a ride, honestly. It’s so funny because now, where we’re at, we’re in such a wonderful place. Recently, we’ve been talking a lot about how we handle things like waiting for results, the days when we received really bad results, and the days when we were preparing for surgeries or preparing for treatment. We kind of laugh at how we handled those situations because I feel like we’ve grown so much.

I think that you don’t really have a choice when you’re faced with something like this; you have to buckle up and push through it. My husband definitely makes light of everything. He makes me laugh through it all, which is what I need. It makes everything a lot more bearable. But yeah, he’s really incredible.

We had some really tough times. I would say after the stage 4 diagnosis, that was really rough. Then, in December of last year, when we got those test results saying that there was a possible recurrence in my lungs and my rectum, it was a really tough time. He puts on a brave face. But everybody is human, and you’re faced with those dark thoughts of not being around for your family, or in his case, his wife not being here for his children, or to grow old with.

So we’ve had difficult talks, but overall, it’s done nothing but strengthen our relationship, which is kind of crazy. We’re so blessed that it went this way rather than the alternative. We’ve learned that when I’m on a high, I’ll encourage him because he’s most likely on a low, and vice versa. If I am panicking and freaking out, he’s like, “All right, let’s go, we’re going to do something to distract you, we’re going to get you whatever it may be.” It’s a good balance.

I think for any couple that’s going through health issues or things in life like that, it’s good to recognize when your partner needs your strength and vice versa.

Letting loved ones in and building a cancer support community

To the people who are a little bit more closed off and don’t want to burden their family or friends with what they’re going through, I think something that has really given me great perspective is my family and friends. I have a wonderful support system, and they’ve told me throughout the past two years, “We are here for you, anything you need, anytime you want to talk.”

I know that a lot of people can say that to you. But truly, when you let it out, and you talk about your feelings, your fears, your worries, your anxieties with the people that love you most, they will step up, and they will comfort you, and it makes it feel so much more bearable. You can really deal with everything so much easier when everybody around you knows how you’re feeling.

If you keep it inside and keep it to yourself, you’ll eventually get to a breaking point. I’ve learned that the hard way. I’ve gone through periods of time where I keep things to myself when I’m feeling really down about something, and then it just kind of explodes because we’re humans, and that’s what happens.

I really do agree with building a community of people that may not even understand what you’re going through, but they love you. That’s the number one thing. They’re there for you to get all those emotions out.

Distractions, joy, and travel during rectal cancer treatment

A huge thing we did in the second half of last year was we went on a ton of vacations. We were like, “We’re just going to get out of town, because what better way to be distracted from our reality of what’s going on than to literally leave where we are every day?”

We went to a little beach town called Carmel, just the four of us — my husband and I and our daughters. We did a little weekend trip. My husband and I went to Denver, Colorado, for a trip. We took our daughters to Disneyland. We were like, “We have a new perspective on everything, we just need to distract ourselves and live our lives and do these things that are going to bring us joy.” Those were the best decisions that we made. Doing all those trips and staying distracted was great.

Another thing that really helps me is that I love to be busy. I thrive on a full schedule. I continued through all of this to do my photography business. I was working full-time, staying busy with my daughters, and things like that just help me feel like a normal person. I think that’s the best thing. Yeah, I have cancer, but I’m still a normal person, and I’m still doing normal life things, and I think that’s really important.

Diet changes, fasting, and anti-inflammatory eating with rectal cancer

Food is definitely a huge, huge factor, and I don’t think it’s really expressed enough by the healthcare industry, by your doctors, how important everything you’re putting into your body is going to affect you internally. That’s something that I really hope changes because it’s so crucial, especially with colorectal cancer rising in young adults.

It’s the majority of what’s causing these cancers, my doctors have told me, environmental and dietary causes. There’s something that’s going on that’s causing this increase. So I’m doing my own research. There’s a lot of research and information on the internet. I’ve been really focusing on an anti-inflammatory diet. I’m not perfect. Not 100% of the time am I choosing anti-inflammatory meals. But I definitely want to be very intentional about the foods that I’m bringing into my home for my daughters, because now they have a direct link to cancer. I don’t want them to be any more at risk than they already are.

So we’re being really conscious. My husband and I are cooking all our meals at home. When we have to eat out, we’re like, “Oh gosh, we’ve got to eat out, this is going against what we want.” We’ve started going to farmers’ markets, really focusing on organic, clean things. We’ve cut out — I know it’s a very hot topic — seed oils. That’s inflammatory to your gut. We’re cutting those out.

Any of the prepackaged snacks that have preservatives, I’m really steering clear of that kind of stuff, especially for my daughters. We’re trying to do basic fruits, vegetables, meat, protein, homemade bread, just very basic things. I still have a ton to learn, but that’s where we’re making progress, so it’s good.

Early rectal cancer symptoms before diagnosis

When my original symptoms started, they were really minor. I was noticing my bowel habits were changing. I was going more often than I ever did before. To me, that’s so small, but I noticed it. I thought to myself, “Maybe I’m getting more fiber in my diet, I’m drinking more water, things are just flowing better.”

Then I started to have some strange tissue and mucus coming out when I would use the restroom. That was another slight thing that I thought, “I’ve never seen this before, it’s kind of strange.” I’m just keeping it in the back of my mind. Then I started experiencing stomach pain, sharp pains, and rectal bleeding. That progressed to blood clots and all of those classic symptoms.

I just remember at the beginning, those slight changes, I was like, “I don’t really think that’s anything.” I think that in a lot of cases where people don’t get diagnosed until it’s progressed a little more, it’s because they just think, I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. Luckily, in my case, I started bleeding and experiencing pain, so it triggered me to go seek a doctor. Those were the only real symptoms that I had experienced at first.

Being dismissed as young and healthy before a rectal cancer diagnosis

I remember my first appointment, when I saw a doctor for these symptoms. She asked me about my whole history. I told her my whole history: healthy, two pregnancies were the only reason I had ever gone to the doctor. She said, “Okay, we’re doing blood work.”

I remember one of the phrases that she said to me after I got my blood test results. She said, “You’re not anemic, so there’s nothing life-threatening going on. Meaning, you’re not losing a ton of blood where it’s dangerous, your levels are normal, and you don’t have any medical history. It could be an internal hemorrhoid because you’ve had two babies; things change down there.”

Another doctor that I had seen at the ER, he ran blood work as well, and he said the same phrase. He said, “You are not anemic, there’s nothing life-threatening, you are young and healthy, just wait for your next appointment.” Those were the two things that I had heard from two different doctors. I’m like, I’m young and healthy, well, why am I bleeding? Why am I having pain? There’s something wrong.

Advice for patients who feel brushed off by doctors

Looking back on it, I feel very frustrated, more so with myself, because I wish that I had known what would be a good test to request. I know now I could have requested a simple CT scan, and the tumor would have been picked up. I had never had a CT scan before, so I didn’t even know what that was. I didn’t know how to ask these things.

I wish that I had more knowledge so that I could push back a little bit more. So I would say to people who are getting brushed aside with, “You’re young, you’re healthy, you don’t have any history,” or anything like that: truly push. “There is something wrong with my body. I know my body better than anybody else. I need the tests that are going to give me the answers that I need. I don’t know what those tests are, but can you please give me the options?”

Sharing my rectal cancer story on YouTube and building a faith-based community

The community is really incredible. I could have never imagined that this many people would be following along. One of the biggest things that people message me and comment on is that so many people are praying for my health and for my family, which is the biggest blessing because prayer is so powerful. To have that amount of people who are strangers online watching my videos, it’s incredible.

A lot of people message me about that, and then there are a ton of people who say, “Your story is very impactful, and it’s brought me closer to God.” “I’ve started attending church again.” “I’ve opened up my Bible for the first time in ten years.” I’ve had all these testimonies come through of people who are being strengthened in their faith, and that is so important to me.

Another thing is, a ton of people will message me about symptoms they’re having. They ask, “Is this what you experienced?” I’m able to help people go and push to make their doctor’s appointments and seek out healthcare because a lot of people just don’t think anything’s wrong. I’ve seen a lot of stories of very iffy people; they don’t know what they should do, and they ask. Of course, I encourage them.

A ton of people will reach out to me with — it’s actually kind of creepy — the same story as me. The timeline of everything lining up is so similar to my timeline and diagnosis. I’m like, wow, so many people are walking through this exact situation, which is crazy. Those types of people in the online community can support each other.

I’ve asked other people, “What was your treatment plan? Because I’m getting these weird answers from my doctors. Did you ever experience this, or what did you do next?” It’s so important, and it’s so amazing to talk to other people who are going through similar things as you.

Finding beauty and purpose in a rectal cancer diagnosis

I think that is the theme of my whole cancer story, honestly. Before any of this, if I had heard that somebody was diagnosed with cancer, it’s like, “Oh my gosh, what an awful situation.” I can’t even imagine how scary, and their world is probably just crumbling.

For it to be where I am now, where I’ve grown so much in my faith, I’ve grown so much in the strength that I have, confidence in myself. There are so many things: this community that I’ve built online, being able to know that I’m helping other people and encouraging other people, it’s very surreal. Being able to be a good example of walking through suffering with peace is very encouraging to me.

It’s one of the scariest things that you can go through, but I feel like cancer was supposed to happen in my life for a reason. I’m not saying that I’m thankful that I got cancer. You’re never thankful that you got sick. But there are certain things in your life that if you weren’t tested and put through a trial of some sort, you wouldn’t have grown into the person that you are today.

Rectal cancer treatment timeline (radiation, chemotherapy, and lung surgeries)

Originally, when I was diagnosed with stage 2 rectal cancer, I had a grade T3 tumor. I started with 25 rounds of pelvic radiation. During those 25 days, I also did chemo pills. Then we took a little break, and I did four and a half months of FOLFOX IV chemotherapy.

That was every other week. I did infusions for three days. Then that was that treatment. It completely dissolved my original tumor. When they found the lung nodules, I was set to do two lung wedge resection surgeries to remove those two portions. That’s all the treatment I’ve had so far.

Preparing mentally for possible recurrence during watch-and-wait

I think it’s definitely hard being in a waiting period when there are so many “ifs.” There could be a recurrence again or anything like that. I think it really helps to focus on the fact that I have overcome so much so far.

I’ve completed four and a half months of chemotherapy. It was brutal. I completed that. The radiation therapy had awful side effects. I completed that. I had two lung surgeries, and I feel completely normal. I came through that, and I was healed from that. Focusing on those things really helps me prepare myself mentally.

If there were to be a recurrence sometime in the future — it could be next month, it could be a couple of years from now — I conquered those things. Having the mindset that it’s going to be brutal, probably, but I will get through it, I’ll be stronger, and we’ll move forward. That’s something that I hold on to.

What colorectal cancer patients should know about colonoscopies

It’s the most glamorous procedure. No, but okay. It starts with the prep, and I’m sure that’s what everybody hears is the most daunting thing about a colonoscopy.

For mine, you get this giant jug, and you have to fill it up with water. There’s this solution in there, you mix it up, and you have to fast. You can’t eat, I think it’s for a day and a half or something like that. While you have nothing in your stomach, you’re chugging this gigantic bottle, and you have to do eight ounces of it every 15 minutes. You have to drink a lot of it. While you’re drinking it, you’re obviously going to the restroom a lot, a lot, a lot.

I was so nervous about it before my first one because you hear it, and you’re like, you just live on the toilet for two days. That does not sound enjoyable. It sounds awful. Honestly, it’s not that bad. It’s really not that bad. I’ve had four of them. It’s not that bad.

The hardest thing for me was not eating because I get a headache from not having coffee or food for a day and a half or whatever. But you do all that prep, and then you’re starving, you’ve been drained of everything, and then you go in for the procedure. That’s kind of nerve-wracking. You go in, and it’s like you’re getting prepped for a procedure. They get your IV in, and they’re giving you medicine to make you a little bit sedated.

I’ve never woken up in the middle of one, felt any pain, or felt uncomfortable. I just go right to sleep. They go in there, do their thing, look around, and then I wake up, and I’m in recovery. You’re a little drowsy afterwards, but then you just go home. I’ve had pretty okay experiences. They’re not as awful as they sound.

I just want to encourage, if you think that you should go get a colonoscopy, do it. I think you should do it.

One wish for rectal cancer awareness and early detection

That’s a good question. Let’s see. Obviously, the screening age for colonoscopies needs to be lowered. I know it got lowered to 45 or something now, but that’s not low enough. I’m sorry. So many young people are being diagnosed with colorectal cancer. It needs to be way lower.

My other big one would be doctors taking patients more seriously when they come to them with these symptoms, regardless of age, history, or anything. That is something that I really, really hope would change. So many people are like, “My doctor said I’m fine,” and they just move on, and their disease could be progressing. That’s my number one. I hope that doctors will be more cautious.

What Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month means for our family

Colorectal cancer awareness to me is something that will be so important in my life going forward. To me personally, I think it is a representation of the season that I’ve walked through so far.

I don’t want to get all sappy and start crying. I think that it’s really important to me, raising my daughters, for them to be aware, to know that their mom walked through colorectal cancer, walked through treatment, and is going to have this disease for the rest of her life.

I think March in general is important in my family’s story because it has changed the trajectory of our family story in regards to changing our lifestyle habits, in regards to God being at the center of our family, because of this giant trial that we walked through as a family. It’s huge for me because I don’t want other people to have to experience any of this, and spreading awareness about it, I feel like, is kind of a given job that I need to be living out, spreading awareness and sharing my story because it is important.


Kalei M. rectal cancer
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More Metastatic Colorectal Cancer Stories

Lindsay

Lindsay D., Colon Cancer, Stage 4



Symptoms: Lump in pelvic area, funny-smelling food, weight loss
Treatment: Chemotherapy, colectomy (surgery)

Categories
ALK Cancers Lorlatinib Lung Cancer Metastatic Metastatic Metastatic Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer Patient Stories Targeted Therapy Treatments

Living Every Breath: Megan’s Stage 4 ALK+ Lung Cancer Experience as a Young Mom

Living Every Breath: Megan’s Stage 4 ALK+ Lung Cancer Experience as a Young Mom

For Megan, a young mom from Massachusetts, stage 4 ALK-positive lung cancer arrived without warning. Like many people, she had no idea lung cancer could happen to someone her age, with no symptoms she recognized as warning signs. When chest pain, shortness of breath, and sudden arm swelling led to an ER visit, the scans revealed extensive blood clots, a tumor in her lung, and cancer in her spine and lymph nodes.

Interviewed by: Taylor Scheib
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

Before her diagnosis, Megan’s days revolved around breakfast with her daughters, trips to the gym, errands, and mommy-and-daughter classes. After ALK-positive lung cancer entered the picture, her life narrowed to pain management, hospital visits, and time on the couch when spinal pain made it hard to move by lunchtime. Her children, who were just one and three at the time, did not understand what lung cancer was; they just wanted their mom to read books and play. Even when a coughing fit interrupted a children’s story, Megan kept showing up for them in the ways she could.​

Megan F. ALK+ lung cancer

A turning point came when testing confirmed an ALK mutation, and she met Dr. Flores, a specialist who offered targeted therapy instead of traditional chemotherapy. Within 10 days of starting the oral treatment, Megan was back on her feet, and a month and a half later, her scans showed a 40% reduction in cancer. Subsequent scans revealed more than 50% reduction and, eventually, no visible cancer to the naked eye. Today, she is considered no evidence of disease (NED) and continues taking targeted pills daily, with manageable side effects like neuropathy and bowel changes. She expects to stay on treatment long-term, and finds hope in data showing many people with stage 4 ALK-positive lung cancer remain stable for years on targeted therapies.​​

This experience has reshaped Megan’s priorities. Dishes and chores can wait; if her daughters ask her to play, she says yes. She is vocal about self-advocacy after initially being misdiagnosed with a pulled muscle and anxiety despite worsening symptoms. She encourages others to push for answers, seek second opinions, and surround themselves with a strong support system. With the help of her family, including her husband, who stepped into nearly every household role, and a community that sent cards and bracelets, she now channels her energy into her podcast, “Livin’ Every Breath,” where she talks about cancer, self-advocacy, and finding silver linings in hard times.​​

Watch Megan’s video and read her story below to find out more.

  • Anyone with lungs can develop lung cancer; young people like her who have no known risk factors can be diagnosed with stage 4 ALK-positive lung cancer.​​
  • Targeted therapy can dramatically change quality of life, as Megan went from couch-bound with coughing fits to walking, parenting, and reaching NED within months.​​
  • Self-advocacy is essential: she kept pushing after initial misdiagnoses and used personal connections to access biomarker testing and ALK-targeted treatment.​​
  • A strong support system, from family members moving in to help with childcare to friends and strangers sending small gifts, can lift patients emotionally through a difficult experience.​​
  • A universal truth: many patients discover that priorities shift after a serious diagnosis, with relationships, presence, and small daily moments becoming more important than chores or perfection.​
  • Megan’s transformation shows how living with stage 4 ALK-positive lung cancer moved her from shock and physical limitation to renewed presence with her children, advocacy for others, and creative expression through her podcast.​​

  • Name: Megan F.
  • Age at Diagnosis:
    • 33
  • Diagnosis:
    • Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer (NSCLC)
  • Mutation:
    • ALK
  • Symptoms:
    • Chest pain
    • Anxiety
    • Shortness of breath
    • Arm pain and swelling
    • Back pain
  • Treatment:
    • Targeted therapy: lorlatinib
Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer

Pfizer

Thank you to Pfizer for supporting our patient education program. The Patient Story retains full editorial control over all content.

This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make treatment decisions.



You never thought you would cheer so loudly for a genetic mutation.

Megan F., ALK-positive lung cancer patient

Biomarkers and ALK-positive lung cancer diagnosis

We found out that I had lung cancer. We Googled it, and we were obviously not happy with what Google was telling us was going to happen. Shortly after, I was linked up with the doctor that I have now, and she mentioned that they were going to test for biomarkers. Once we Googled biomarkers, we were actually relieved, because I feel like it just sends you on a different path. 

I remember the exact time she called me to tell me I was ALK-positive. I was out with my family, and we were all at a restaurant, and I stepped outside. I got the news and was super excited because I know just how far ALK research has come in the last few years. When I went inside and told my family that I had the genetic mutation, everyone went crazy, and we were all laughing afterwards. You never thought you would cheer so loudly for a genetic mutation.

Why I researched lung cancer and biomarkers

I’d say that we were lucky. My husband’s cousin is an oncologist, and from the start, when I was in the hospital before we even knew it was cancer, we were already communicating with him. I was lucky to have him on my team, but he is not a lung specialist, so he did not know as much about ALK or anything like that. 

It is a lot to take on at first. There is a lot out there, especially on social media. You look it up, and somebody is telling you to do this cleanse, and then this other person is telling you that you need to see this person, so it can get a little crazy. I was lucky that the doctor I have now, who is absolutely amazing, specializes in young lung patients, and a lot of them have the ALK mutation. I feel like I was lucky to connect with her early on, and the information was narrowed down from a wide scale.

Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer
Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer

How my biomarker result shaped my treatment plan

From the beginning, the oncologist that I had said, “We’re going to do this, girl.” So I had confidence that it was going to go differently from what Google was telling me it was. But, you know, first, being a young woman, the treatment that I’m on right now, you cannot get pregnant. That was part of the conversation. 

I’m on lorlatinib, and as a first-line treatment, it is proven right now to be the best, although other things are in trial. If you get on that right away, it is the most effective. It does have the harshest side effects. So that was a conversation: you have to weigh your pros and cons. If I wanted to get pregnant, I would have had to go on a different medication. Luckily, at the time, I had a one-year-old and a three-year-old. They’re now two and four. We were totally fine with, “That’s our family. Let’s take the best line of treatment.” So we just went with it.

How biomarkers changed what I thought lung cancer looked like

I thought lung cancer looked like two to four months, and obviously, it was not a good two to four months. I thought I was going to be thrown into chemo and just see how long I could last. 

Once I found out that I had the genetic mutation, I knew that there was treatment out there, targeted therapies. Mine just came out in 2021, actually, and more than 50% of people on my medication after five years still have no progression. I just thought, “That’s huge.” At the time, I was like, “Yes, five years.” I have five years now. I don’t have four months anymore. Now, the more that I’ve educated myself on it and the more chats that I’ve been in, I see people 20 years out. So I no longer limit myself to five years, although at the time, that sounded wonderful.

To really understand and to be an advocate for yourself is so important.

Megan F., ALK-positive lung cancer patient

Why hope matters and how research gives it to me

From the start, I have always had hope. Now, it is easy. I have no evidence of disease.

Of course I am hopeful. Day to day, I don’t really even think about cancer, so that’s great. But even when I first got diagnosed, and I was on the couch because of back pain, and I couldn’t even finish a sentence in my kids’ book, even then, I was hopeful, just looking at the future and the research and the medicine that is coming out. I know there’s some in the works right now. It is hard not to have hope.

What I wish I’d known at diagnosis about biomarkers and community

I was hesitant to join the chat rooms at first. I just think knowing that there is someone out there who has stage 4 lung cancer and they’ve been on medicine for 20 years, and they’re thriving… just knowing that would have been great. 

You have to kind of search through the bad to find the good, and when you’re first diagnosed, I feel like that’s not beneficial to you.

Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer
Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer

Why biomarker testing and “scary” medical terms matter

I think that people should care because it really helps form their treatment, which is obviously the most important part of a cancer diagnosis. To really understand and to be an advocate for yourself is so important. 

I am blessed to have a doctor who fights for me. I know even when I’m not present in her room, she’s out there researching. But not everyone has that connection to their oncologist. For your own research, you need to know these words. I joke that there should be a dictionary out there. There should be a cancer dictionary, because even words like “hospice” sound really scary. If you look at them down to the core, they’re really all here just to support us in our lives.

How my doctor explained my treatment options with ALK

She said, “I think you should get on it right away.” Once we decided that was the path I wanted to take, that that was the medication, she said, “Let’s start it.” 

I did start at a lower dose, because the side effects could become really harsh. Luckily, I didn’t experience the really harsh side effects, just nausea and other things that I wish I wasn’t going through, but they weren’t that bad in the grand scale of things. 

Ten days after starting the medication, I went from being couch-ridden and unable to breathe to playing with my kids in the backyard.

… just looking at the future and the research and the medicine that is coming out… It is hard not to have hope.

Megan F., ALK-positive lung cancer patient

Chemotherapy conversations vs. targeted therapy conversations

When I was originally diagnosed, I was in the emergency room. I talked about chemotherapy with the oncologist I was first linked up with, but I didn’t end up going with them. My first appointment was basically, “We’re probably going to end up with chemo, and we’ll see how long you can tolerate it.”

Later, when we started talking about targeted therapy, the conversations were so different. I also had two different oncologists, and that made a huge difference. My first conversation, when chemotherapy was introduced, was kind of sad. That was the way it was presented to me. There wasn’t a “We’re going to do this, girl.” I personally had hope either way. I was like, I’m 32 years old. This can’t be the end. But there was definitely positivity and an uplifting part of the conversation when biomarkers were talked about.

How I chose my targeted therapy

Honestly, the research decided it for me. I was ready to take on whatever side effects came with something that was going to potentially eliminate my cancer. 

Just looking at the research out there, I also have a couple of lawyers in the family, and I sent them the information. They read what the medication does and how amazing it is. Everyone I talked to said, “You need to go with this. This has the best response rate.” That’s why we went with it. 

Obviously, I have kids, so that would have been a big decision if I still wanted to have a family. I feel like I was blessed to be on the other side of that. Other than that, it was: whatever is going to get us the best results.

Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer
Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer

Key questions I asked about treatment and side effects

I wanted to know the results — how many people have had success with that medication and for how long. I also looked into neuropathy as one of the big side effects, which I did end up getting. Luckily, it was not as bad as some other people’s. 

We were able to change the dose. Those were my questions: if we run into this side effect, what do we do? A lot of it was just changing the dose. Because I had a good response to it, it was easy to adjust as we went.

Questions I’d tell other patients to ask their doctor

It depends on the individual, but I would say to ask your doctor about pregnancy if that’s important to you. That’s one of the big things you should be asking about. Also, ask how to deal with side effects. I would ask ahead of time, “What are the side effects, and if these happen, what do we do?” You might be at your house, and of course, your oncologist is a phone call away, but if you’re experiencing neuropathy for the first time, you’d be like, “What is going on?” 

If you already have in your mind how you can handle these steps, it’s more comforting. I’d also ask what supports are out there. You’re going to be taking this medication; there are Facebook pages, and the drug itself has support groups. If you have access to those, then maybe you don’t even need to call your doctor in a panic, because you’ve already educated yourself, and you have chat rooms and forums to go to.

Ten days after starting the medication, I went from being couch‑ridden to playing with my kids in the backyard.

Megan F., ALK-positive lung cancer patient

The power of my oncologist’s encouragement

My doctor asks if it’s OK to share my story with other patients. She’ll say, “I just got someone your age. Can I tell them about you?” I think that’s super helpful, because she did that with other patients for me as well. She’d say, “I’ve got someone’s permission to tell you this. They’ve been on your medication for the last five years. They’re doing great.”

I remember specifically, once I responded well to the treatment, she called me and said, “Lorlatinib is your drug,” and I was like, ”Yes, it is.” She’s always positive and always coming in with uplifting phrases.

What it meant to go from being couch-ridden to playing with my kids

It was really hard. I was a stay-at-home mom. I was looking to go back to work because I was like, “This is so hard,” because every day I felt exhausted. 

Being a stay-at-home mom is hard, but it was different with stage 4 lung cancer, and I had no idea. From the diagnosis day to the day I took my medication, because there was about a month in between, it was just so hard. 

My in-laws are amazing. They flew home and stayed at our house or at my sister-in-law’s down the street. My mother moved in, and my dad would come to and from work. I had all this help, but I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. I wanted to play with my children. Watching everyone else was so beautiful and awesome that they came for me, but it felt like I was watching from the outside of things that I wanted to be on the inside doing.

Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer
Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer

When daily mom life became something I could celebrate again

I remember specifically, at that time, I had a one-and-a-half-year-old, and of course, they throw tantrums. During every tantrum, I was like, “That’s fine, everything’s fine.” I was almost happy about the tantrum. Just being involved in it was so awesome. 

I don’t even remember the exact day-to-day; I just remember that on the tenth day, we were running around outside, and I thought, “How many days ago did I start this medication? This is crazy.” When we went back and looked, and realized that I had started just ten days before, I just couldn’t even explain how happy I was.

Scan results, tumor shrinkage, and quiet celebrations

When I had my scans a month and a half after I started the medication, I had a 40% reduction in cancer. My next one was even better; it was more than 50% gone. 

At first, the big medical terms came through in the report as a message before the doctor called. We had to Google everything in there, because if you change a couple of letters in some of those words, they’re actually bad. We had to make sure we saw what we thought we saw. 

We were ecstatic. I remember we read it in my husband’s office, and we were just silently dancing. We had gone in and shut the door, with all the family out there. I don’t even think we told them we were going to read it. We celebrated, and then we talked to our oncologist. She was so excited for us, but it almost seemed like she couldn’t believe it because it was so quick. A lot of people have this response, but it’s over a year or two. She seemed shocked by it, too, which was even more exciting.

When I had my scans a month and a half after I started the medication, I had a 40% reduction in cancer. My next one was even better; it was more than 50% gone

Megan F., ALK-positive lung cancer patient

How I cope with “scanxiety” and waiting for results

Do you know the song “Good News” by Shaboozey? That’s our family song. It came out around the time that I was diagnosed, and now every time we’re going into a scan, we play “Good News,” because that’s what we need. So far, he’s come through. 

I would say I live my life in three-month intervals. I have a scan, it looks really good, and then you’re fine for about two and a half months. Then, for the two weeks before the scan, you’re like, “Everything seems okay, but is that little pain something?” 

For me, the day of the scans is fine. It’s the waiting for the results that causes anxiety. Last time, my husband and I went and shared some lunch, but we didn’t eat it. We just sat at the table and didn’t really speak. We just had the food in front of us and waited for the results to come through. That’s when I get the anxiety — afterwards.

What I knew about clinical trials before targeted therapy

Nothing. I honestly didn’t even think I could get lung cancer. You see the commercials with people who can’t speak, and I had never smoked in my life, so I thought I couldn’t get lung cancer. I didn’t even know it was something I could get. 

Once I was diagnosed, even Googling it right off the bat, they don’t really break it down for you and tell you everything. It wasn’t until I got connected with this doctor, who said we would test for biomarkers, that I started doing the heavy research into what it could possibly be. 

There are multiple mutations. I was most hopeful for ALK because I saw that there were already three generations of drugs out, and they’re working on a fourth. I hear things in other countries that are maybe coming along the line. It seemed like there was a lot of research and time put into ALK. But I know there are others out there, and they’re also coming up with treatments, so I’m happy for everyone in the targeted therapy community.

Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer
Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer

How I humanize the importance of cancer research

I actually spoke at Foundation Medicine, which is the company that does biomarker testing. I said, “You know, there are all these people in the lab, and they’re creating this drug or the latest thing. I’m at home planning birthday parties, and I’m at home running around in the backyard with my kids. This research is great on paper, and it’s great data, and it’s clearly doing us well, but I see it as more time. I see it as more hope, more tantrums that I can celebrate.

What I’d say to people hesitant about clinical trials

I’ve learned that there is extensive research that goes into a drug before it even becomes a real clinical trial that you can enter yourself into. Only a couple of years before I started taking my medication, it was also the subject of a clinical trial. There’s one out there now, and I’m in plenty of groups. A lot of people are responding even better than with the one that I’m on. 

As I said, it’s all about time. I have stage 4 lung cancer with an ALK mutation. My cancer is constantly trying to get smarter than my therapy. You never know when that’s going to happen. 

My next line might be a clinical trial. The reality is, if something happens in the next couple of years, that’s my next line. I understand that it’s scary, but looking at the research and the science and how far we’ve come, I fully put my trust in it.

My go-to support and education resources for ALK-positive lung cancer

I use the Young Lung group a lot. They were a community I joined early on. I would also say ALK Positive. If you go to their website, they have a lot of good forums and places where you can find other ALK‑ies. They also have a Facebook group for patients and their supporters. Other than that, I’ve found other ALK-positive people through Instagram. 

To anyone newly diagnosed, I’d say don’t get discouraged, because there are a lot of people out there who might have, you know, drunk only green juice for three weeks, but they also probably responded well to a treatment. Sometimes it can get scary when you’re following someone on social media, so just be wary that it’s social media and you don’t know the whole story.

This research is great on paper, and it’s great data, and it’s clearly doing us well, but I see it as more time. I see it as more hope, more tantrums that I can celebrate.

Megan F., ALK-positive lung cancer patient
Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer

Pfizer

Special thanks again to Pfizer for its support of our independent patient education content. The Patient Story retains full editorial control.


Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer
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More ALK-Positive Lung Cancer Stories

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Megan F. ALK-positive lung cancer

Megan F., Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer, ALK+, Stage 4 (Metastatic)



Symptoms: Chest pain, anxiety, shortness of breath, arm pain and swelling, back pain

Treatment: Targeted therapy (lorlatinib)
Clara C. stage 4 ALK+ lung cancer

Clara C., Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer, ALK+, Stage 4 (Metastatic)



Symptoms: Pelvic pain and discomfort, bladder issues related to pelvic tumors, incontinence, pain in the lower back and hip
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Stephanie K. ALK+ lung cancer

Stephanie K., Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer, ALK+, Stage 4 (Metastatic)



Symptoms: Persistent and intense cough, general feeling of sluggishness

Treatments: Chemotherapy, targeted therapy through a clinical trial, radiation therapy
Ruchira A. ALK+ stage 4 lung cancer

Ruchira A., Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer, ALK+, Stage 4 (Metastatic)



Symptoms: Mild intermittent cough while talking, low-grade fever, severe nonstop cough, coughing up blood, collapsed left lung​

Treatments: Surgery (lobectomy), targeted therapy

Categories
ABVD Autologous stem cell transplant BEAM Chemotherapy Hodgkin Lymphoma ICE Patient Stories Stem cell transplant Treatments

James Faced Recurrent Hodgkin Lymphoma While Becoming a Dad

James Faced Recurrent Hodgkin Lymphoma While Becoming a Dad

Hodgkin lymphoma and a stem cell transplant aren’t what most people expect to face in their early 20s — let alone Hodgkin lymphoma twice — but that’s exactly what happened to James. He was first diagnosed with stage 2 Hodgkin lymphoma at 22, during his senior year of college at the University at Buffalo. He struggled with weeks of night sweats and intense itching, and his younger brother spotted a tennis ball-sized lump on his neck. Within weeks, James was fast-tracked to Roswell Park Comprehensive Cancer Center, where he started ABVD chemotherapy, determined to finish his finals, graduate on time, and hold onto a sense of normalcy even as his hair fell out and his social life became a blur.

Interviewed by: Nikki Murphy
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

James reached remission after six months of treatment for Hodgkin lymphoma, but life after being declared cancer-free was far more complicated than he expected. He describes feeling like a “shell” of himself in college and then struggling to reenter everyday life. To cope, he numbed himself with alcohol and distanced himself from people while “scanxiety” and fear of recurrence quietly grew in the background. Over time, he stopped drinking, went back to graduate school for his MBA, and built a career in sales that had him traveling across the country. He also met his future wife, and they now have a newborn son.

James B. Hodgkin lymphoma

Seven years later, subtle but familiar warning signs appeared again: a small lump, swollen lymph nodes, and the same relentless itching. Initially, his blood work was clean, and doctors thought it was an infection or mono, but scans and a biopsy confirmed that his Hodgkin lymphoma had returned, likely due to reawakened dormant cancer cells. The timing was devastating: his wife was around 29 to 30 weeks pregnant when they learned he would need intensive chemotherapy and an autologous stem cell transplant, necessitating prolonged hospital stays and a long recovery.

Through grueling high-dose chemo, isolation, neuropathy, fatigue, and the emotional toll of being immunocompromised while preparing for fatherhood, James kept getting out of bed each day, walking the halls, and writing down one thing he was grateful for. About two to two and a half weeks after his stem cell transplant, he was declared no evidence of disease (NED) and cleared to be in the delivery room to meet his son. He calls this experience “phenomenal” and is one of the images that kept him going during the hardest nights in the hospital. Today, he is rebuilding life in Buffalo with his wife and baby, navigating isolation, and working from home. He redefines survivorship as giving back to others through events like Ride for Roswell and Light the Night.

Watch James’ video or browse the edited transcript of his interview below. You’ll learn more about his story:

  • Early Hodgkin lymphoma symptoms like night sweats, intense itching, and a noticeable neck lump should never be ignored, especially when they persist or worsen.
  • Community connections and specialized cancer care at centers like Roswell Park can accelerate diagnosis and treatment, helping patients move quickly from fear to a clear plan.
  • A universal truth in cancer care is that recovery is not only physical; mental health support, including therapy and naming depression or anxiety, can be essential to healing.
  • James’ experience shows that life after a stem cell transplant involves lasting changes like isolation, fatigue, and neuropathy, but also new purpose, including fatherhood and advocacy.
  • He focused on small daily wins and practicing gratitude, even on the hardest days. This helped him keep moving, both literally and emotionally, through intensive chemo and stem cell transplant recovery.​

  • Name: James B.
  • Age at Diagnosis:
    • 22; recurrence, 29
  • Diagnosis:
    • Relapsed Hodgkin Lymphoma
  • Staging:
    • Stage 2 (initial diagnosis)
  • Symptoms:
    • Night sweats
    • Itching
    • Persistent lump in the neck
  • Treatments:
    • Chemotherapy: ABVD, ICE, and BEAM
    • Autologous stem cell transplant
James B. Hodgkin lymphoma
James B. Hodgkin lymphoma
James B. Hodgkin lymphoma
James B. Hodgkin lymphoma
James B. Hodgkin lymphoma
James B. Hodgkin lymphoma
James B. Hodgkin lymphoma
James B. Hodgkin lymphoma
James B. Hodgkin lymphoma

This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make informed treatment decisions.

The views and opinions expressed in this interview do not necessarily reflect those of The Patient Story.


Transcript of James’ Interview
  1. Introduction and first diagnosis
  2. My first symptoms during college
  3. The path to my first cancer diagnosis
  4. How quickly my symptoms escalated
  5. When the word “cancer” entered the conversation
  6. Fast-tracked care and community connections
  7. Hearing the first diagnosis and college impact
  8. My ABVD chemo regimen and finishing college on time
  9. Social life, drinking, and being a shell of myself
  10. Remission and the seven years between
  11. My second diagnosis and recurrence
  12. Intensive treatment: ICE, BEAM, and stem cell transplant
  13. The birth of my son and the timing of my recovery
  14. Recovering from a stem cell transplant with my newborn child
  15. Isolation, immunity, and my new routines
  16. Survivorship, scanxiety, and giving back
  17. Encouraging other men to seek help
  18. My message of hope

Introduction and first diagnosis

My Hodgkin lymphoma diagnosis and where I live

My name is James. I was diagnosed for the first time in 2018. I have had cancer twice. The first time I was diagnosed in 2018, it was the end of my senior year of college at UB with Hodgkin lymphoma. It was stage 2 at that point. I went through chemo, came out the other end, and recovered. Fast forward seven years, and it came back in September 2025. This time, the treatment was a lot more intense, but it was the same diagnosis.

Who I am beyond cancer

So I do sales and have been in sales for a couple of years now. I work from home, which has been very flexible with having a newborn. I recently became a dad about ten weeks ago. My son was born on December 2nd, so just a couple of weeks after I finished my last treatment of chemo and my stem cell transplant. I was in the hospital with my wife, holding my newborn. So things went pretty quickly. Outside of all this, I enjoy golfing and supporting the Buffalo Bills and Buffalo Sabres, because I am from Buffalo, New York. There is not much to do here other than support sports, as there is always snow outside.

My first symptoms during college

Early Hodgkin lymphoma symptoms in college

I started waking up in the middle of the night, having sweats, a little drenched. I kind of just brushed it off as maybe I was battling an illness or something. Then it started getting to a point where I was experiencing itching on my legs and my arms, really aggressively. I was starting to have scars, and I thought, “This is probably not normal.” I stayed pretty healthy, and I worked out; I kept myself in shape. But my younger brother noticed a huge lump on my neck. I always thought it was maybe just an inflamed muscle or something I pulled. I never honestly really looked into it too much, but when I finally looked at it, it had grown to probably the size of a tennis ball. That is when I knew that it was not normal, and I had to get that checked out.

The path to my first cancer diagnosis

The first thing I did was go to my primary doctor. I showed them the lump and said, “Hey, I’m not sure really what this is.” They looked at it and said, “We recommend that you do a scan.” I think it was a CT scan first, and then it ended up being a PET scan, and then an overall biopsy at the end. After the first scan, they told me, “We recommend you go to Roswell Park,” which is our cancer hospital in Buffalo, New York, to get this checked out. Things moved pretty quickly. Within a couple of weeks, I was at Roswell for an appointment with the lymphoma team. From there, just based on the sheer size of my neck and how it looked, they immediately ordered a biopsy, which is when they figured out that the tumor was cancerous.

How quickly my symptoms escalated

From the time of the night sweats to the diagnosis, it was about two weeks, so it moved pretty quickly. I think the sheer size of the lump definitely scared my primary doctor to the point where I was getting an appointment with Roswell within a couple of days.

That lump had not just grown over two weeks, though. I looked back at pictures because I was curious: how in the world did I not see this? In all the pictures, there was something there. I just never noticed it. It was the craziest thing. I do not know how I never noticed it or how I was never aware of it, but it had always been there. I just never focused on it until my brother called it out. Then it became very apparent that it was not normal.

When the word “cancer” entered the conversation

When I was recommended to Roswell, deep down, I started to get some fear about whether this was cancer or not. If you are at your primary doctor and they are not able to give you an answer on something, and they are directing you to a cancer doctor, that is usually when fear starts to creep in, and you get a bad feeling about it. That is when I thought, “Oh, this is not good,” because I had gone to my primary for other things, and usually they had an answer. When they do not have an answer, and they are directing you to someone like a cancer doctor who might have an answer, it is never a good feeling.

It was about two weeks of blood work and scans before the full diagnosis. They did blood work first, then a CT scan and a PET scan. I think all of that happened within a week. Based on the scans, they scheduled a biopsy for the following week, and then I had my follow-up with my doctor a day or two later, where they essentially told me, “This is cancer, and we need to get you started on treatment right away.”

Fast-tracked care and community connections

I am very lucky. We have a lot of connections in the community, which is great. One of my neighbors works at Roswell, and I was living at home at that time while still in college. My parents immediately called them, and they were able to get me in really quickly, because I know at times it can be drawn out. I was very fortunate.

Hearing the first diagnosis and college impact

How I processed a Hodgkin lymphoma diagnosis at 22

It is tough when you are 22 years old and in college. You have finals going on, and all your buddies are talking about going out to the bars and living a normal life. You are sitting in the waiting room, and the doctor is telling you, “You have Hodgkin lymphoma, stage 2, and we have to get a port in your chest and start chemo for the next six months. This is your plan; this is the layout.” Every plan you have just goes out the window. 

As a senior in college, you are trying to think about your career: what am I going to do after college? Where am I going to work? Next thing you know, it is, “Okay, how am I going to survive and get through this so that I can have a career and have a life after this?” It was depressing and really tough. But I tried to be positive each day. 

When you are in a hospital, you see people in much worse situations. I tried to have some gratitude that at least there is a cure for my situation, versus some people who have terminal cancer. I tried to consider myself the lucky one, that my body just had to go through a little pain for six months, and then I could come back on the other side stronger and ready to attack life again.

My ABVD chemo regimen and finishing college on time

My treatment was the ABVD regimen. It was chemo every other week, so essentially twice a month for six months — twelve treatments total. Each treatment lasted anywhere from four to five hours. The chemo was a drip with four different kinds of drugs being dripped into your system.

At first, I did not have a port, so it was going through my veins. I do not recommend that, because it was excruciating. Eventually, I did get a port because I could not keep doing that.

I still went to class. I would do chemo, then rest up for a couple of days. The first couple of rounds of treatment were not as bad for me. I was able to do my finals, graduate on time, and walk across the stage, which was great. I did it a couple of days after treatment and was not feeling great; my hair was falling out. But I still made it a priority to walk across the stage. It was something I wanted to do and something to be proud of. It was definitely tough.

Social life, drinking, and being a shell of myself

Looking back, I do feel like I missed out on parts of the college experience. At that time, I was drinking a lot. I do not drink anymore; I am four years sober and have been sober for a while now. I would still go out, which I would not recommend. I would go out every once in a while and feel like s*** most of the time. I would not feel great. 

My social life still existed, but mentally, I was never present. I was physically in places, but I was never actually there. I was a shell of myself. I was in pain a lot, with a lot of joint pain. I was constantly exhausted. I would sleep for days at times. I did not have an appetite. I tried my best to get out and be a part of life, but I just never felt the same.

Remission and the seven years between

Hearing “remission” and post-treatment depression

Hearing “remission” after six months of treatment was huge. When you are in that battle for six months, you start to accept that maybe this is your life moving forward. It becomes the same cycle: you start to feel better after chemo, and then you are back in there again. 

When I heard “remission,” I was just so thankful, because you always fear that your scans will not be clean. I was grateful and happy, but at the same time, I did not know how to live life. I struggled coming out of being cancer-free. I did not acclimate back into normal life well at all. I was abusing a lot of alcohol to numb myself, just being transparent. It was one of the things that made me feel okay and safe. I distanced myself from a lot of people. People do not talk about it much, but you can get really depressed after treatment. There is a lot of fear and anxiety that comes from being cancer-free, because you still have to go back for scans, and there is always the fear of recurrence.

Eventually, over time, I distanced myself from alcohol and was able to start building a life back up for myself. I went back to grad school and got my MBA. I got into a career I love that lets me travel across the United States. I met my now wife, and we now have a beautiful son together. I was able to get married. A lot of great things happened from getting past this. Obviously, it came back, but those things are still great, even though I had to fight it again.

My second diagnosis and recurrence

Signs and symptoms of Hodgkin lymphoma recurrence

Before the recurrence, I was traveling a lot for work. Sometimes I get sick from being on planes. After one trip, I came back home and was not feeling good. Being seven years clean, I did not think it was cancer. I thought I had just caught something on the plane. But it lasted for a couple of months, to the point where I started to get a little lump, and my lymph nodes were swollen. They were not as big as last time, but they were swollen and noticeable in my neck, which definitely alarmed me. Then I started to get that itching again that I had when I was first diagnosed. That really alarmed me.

I went to Roswell. They did some blood work, and my blood work came back clean, which was a relief. They put me on some antibiotics, but nothing really helped. I still had the lump on my neck and was still not feeling good. They eventually said it was mono. They did a scan. Apparently, something I was not aware of then, mono can at times cause dormant cancer cells to reawaken. If your treatment did not work right away, sometimes you have very tiny dormant cells that just exist. Apparently, the mono reawakened those cells. When they did a scan, they saw that. They did a biopsy and confirmed that my cancer had indeed returned.

The emotional impact of a second cancer diagnosis during my wife’s pregnancy

My wife and I had just gone on our babymoon. We went out to Colorado and then to Vegas. We were traveling before the baby came. It was really tough. My wife was pregnant, sitting across from me, and I was in the room while the doctor told us the cancer had returned. 

Instead of an easier regimen of treatment, though the last one was tough, this new treatment plan was very intense. To hear that, knowing we had a baby coming, knowing that I would be spending nights at the hospital instead of just going in for day treatments, and facing a stem cell transplant on top of that, it was tough. It was extremely disappointing to hear. I was filled with a ton of fear, and we did not really know what to do at that moment. It was a really dark moment for us as a family.

She was about 29 or 30 weeks pregnant at that point. She was getting close.

Intensive treatment: ICE, BEAM, and stem cell transplant

My ICE chemo, BEAM chemo, and transplant timeline

The plan was ICE chemo and then BEAM chemo with a stem cell transplant. I would start with ICE chemo. ICE chemo meant three to four days in the hospital, where I would get treatment around the clock. Then I would have two to two and a half weeks to recover, and then I would be back again at the hospital overnight getting the same chemo.

After the second round of ICE chemo, if my scans came back clean, I could proceed to the next phase, which was BEAM chemo. If they did not, I would have to do ICE chemo one more time. Thankfully, after two cycles of ICE chemo, I was good and moved on to BEAM chemo.

I already had a port in my chest and still do, but for BEAM chemo, they needed to put another port in with thicker tubes and wires sticking out. Before I even did BEAM chemo, they harvested my stem cells. They put me on medications that allowed my stem cells to move into my bloodstream. I spent two days having my stem cells harvested. I would go into a clinic at Roswell from about 7 a.m. to 1 p.m., be hooked up to a machine, and they would harvest and freeze the cells. After they harvested enough, I was admitted to Roswell for seven straight days of chemo.

That was the BEAM chemo. I did not fully realize while I was going through it — and I am happy I was not — but the regimen itself is very intense. It completely wipes your system and your bone marrow clean. At the conclusion of that chemo, they reinfuse your stem cells that were frozen back into your body through a drip.

This was a lot different from just going in every other week for a couple of hours. This meant putting the rest of my life on hold. I could not work. I had to have a caregiver after this. My wife, who was pregnant with our child, was driving me to all my appointments. I had to go every day. I was on a ton of meds. The stem cell transplant is no joke. I was in good shape, but going through that, I had complications. I had to go back to the hospital because I started to have a fever. I had to spend a couple of days there getting blood transfusions and platelet transfusions. I had to get multiple of those. It was very tough on the body and mentally, too.

Balancing treatment and preparing for fatherhood

Managing all of that while preparing for a child was challenging. Every day, I tried to be positive. I would try to find one thing to be grateful for each day. 

There were a lot of long nights at the hospital, and you can get into a dark place when you are by yourself with your thoughts and things are not going well. You are losing your hair, your eyebrows are gone, your eyelashes are gone, and your skin looks dead. I was just trying to stay positive each day. I would get out of bed every day and try to walk for miles around in a circle on the unit, or on the treadmill in the hospital wing. I tried to do some workouts. I tried to always eat. I tried to really talk to the nurses and get to know them.

There is no perfect way to handle going through something like this, but I think having a positive mindset is extremely important, especially when your physical body is going through so much. You have to be strong mentally, or it is really easy to give up.

The birth of my son and the timing of my recovery

Being in the delivery room after my transplant

My wife gave birth after they declared me NED this time. It was about two to two and a half weeks after my stem cell transplant that she gave birth. I was able to be in the room for that, which was a phenomenal experience.

Our team of doctors did an amazing job getting all my treatments scheduled. I was very lucky that I did not have to do a third treatment of ICE. If I had, I would not have been able to be in the room for the delivery of our child. It worked out. I got my stem cell transplant, and I had to recover, but I was cleared by the doctors to be in the delivery room and at the hospital. At the end of the day, it was amazing because that was one of the things that was keeping me going throughout all my treatments. I had a picture of our baby from when he was in my wife’s womb, and I had it on the nightstand. I would look at that every night, and it definitely helped get me through everything.

Recovering from a stem cell transplant with my newborn child

Physical and emotional side effects after my transplant

The recovery was tough. There are a lot of side effects I never realized I could go through at a young age. I sometimes have neuropathy in my hands, which causes me to drop things. I was making my wife a bagel a couple of days ago, and I just dropped it and could not explain why. I have dropped iced coffees. I have heard that it is a common side effect that can go away, but early on, it was mostly fatigue. I did not want to get out of bed. Some days, I would just lie in bed, and it hurt to get out of bed.

Sleeping was hard. I could not sleep. I had nightmares and night terrors. I would wake up thinking I was at the hospital because you get woken up every couple of hours for blood work. It was tough. You also cannot see anyone. With a stem cell transplant, you have to isolate yourself because you do not have an immune system. It wipes out every vaccine you have had since you were a child. I was essentially just living within our walls unless I was going to the hospital for checkups. That is tough.

On the newborn part, that keeps you busy. It is one of the greatest feelings ever to be a dad, especially after getting through what I went through. Having my wife’s support throughout all of it is incredible. She was pregnant and my caregiver, which is insane to even think about. It should be the other way around. Unfortunately, these were the cards we were dealt. I had an amazing support system.

Today, I am about 91 days out from my stem cell transplant. My hair is starting to come back in, which is great. I am starting to feel better. But it is something I will have to live with for the rest of my life. I will have to make choices about things I eat, things I put in my body, and take my health a lot more seriously. It does not just go away once you are cancer-free. This is something you live with for the rest of your life.

Tips for recovering after a stem cell transplant

I would say, try to get up each day and do something for your body. It is really easy to get into a mindset where you are just going to rest. Rest is good, do not get me wrong, but you can get into a mindset where you do not get out of bed, and that becomes the norm. I have seen with myself that pushing yourself each day helps, whether it is walking up the stairs a couple of times, walking outside and getting some fresh air, or walking the dog. Just try to get on your feet and get out there. It is tough to just sit in bed and be in pain all the time. My recommendation would be to stay active.

The other thing is to try to find one thing to be grateful for every day. I think that is the most important part: your mindset. I would write down in my notes what I was grateful for each day. That would give me some strength to get out of bed, and from there, I would attack the day. Gratitude is a big part of it.

Isolation, immunity, and my new routines

Living in isolation after my transplant

The biggest challenge for me has been isolation. I do sales for a living, so before my diagnosis, I was hopping on planes and going out to meet customers. Now I am working from home every day, which is phenomenal for spending time with my son and my wife, but I cannot really go out and do the things I used to do. I cannot go to dinners or see people as I used to. I have to be really cognizant of my health and wear a mask whenever I am out and about. These are my new ways of life, at least for the foreseeable future.

You have to stay busy because every day feels like you are living the same day, and that gets taxing after a while.

What isolation means day-to-day

In terms of what isolation means, I actually built a gym in my basement because I will not be able to really be around anyone for a while, so I have been working out there. Isolation is essential until my counts — my blood counts and my system — stabilize. I cannot get vaccines until six months out. Usually, around that point, which will be around May, I should be able to start returning to a new normalcy. When I travel, I will still have to wear a mask, but I will be able to go out more.

For now, I can pick my spots. If I go grocery shopping, I can wear a mask, or if the store is empty, I can keep my distance from people and really make sure I wash my hands and do not touch my face. Truth be told, I do not really have an immune system this early on; it is still developing. If I get anything, what might be a common cold for someone else could be something that lands me in the emergency room. That is the last thing I want to happen at this stage.

On the lighter side, I have a newborn, so I can stay in and help out as much as possible. That is the excuse. It is the newborn and me; we are in the bubble together. The newborn is getting all his vaccines before me, which is pretty insane. My wife loves having a reason to keep visitors away. She has a nice excuse. She has been really happy about that because if that was not the case, I know family would be trying to come over, and it would be a zoo. It is nice to have this time for our family to focus on us and not have to deal with all the chaos that comes with having a newborn.

Survivorship, scanxiety, and giving back

What survivorship means to me

Survivorship for me is about giving back. It has always been my belief that when you get something or are able to get through something in life, you are supposed to give it away. I hope that the experience I had — the pain I went through and being able to come out on the other side — can offer hope and inspiration to someone new who might be going through this and is not sure what to expect. It is a lot to take on mentally when you are told you have cancer. If my message and story can help inspire someone and give them some hope and strength to get through this, then I hope they carry their story and message on to someone else. That is how a fellowship and community are built: people sharing their experience, strength, and hope, and inspiring others that they, too, can get through this.

Without that, it is just a dark place if you do not have folks on the other side sharing their stories and giving you hope. Survivorship is always about giving back. I am active in the Ride for Roswell, which is a cancer bike ride we do every year. That is something I am a part of. This year, they are doing a Light the Night event for lymphoma awareness, and I am going to be the speaker for that event. These are all things I am very excited about. I think it is important to give back when you can, and thankfully, I made it through on the other side, where I am in a position to do that.

Scanxiety and mental health support

There is definitely a lot of anxiety, and I am talking to a therapist about it. I think it is important to take care of your mental health. It is not a weakness to admit that you need to talk to someone and seek help. 

I would recommend that anyone going through something like this consider therapy. I would be shocked if someone did not have PTSD or anxiety after hardcore chemo and seeing the impact and effects it has on your body. I am working through the anxiety, but I have a good support system and a lot of loving people in my corner. I think with time that can ease a bit, and I can become more comfortable in public and get my confidence back. 

Encouraging other men to seek help

Advice for men on mental health and therapy

Mental health affects everyone, whether you are a man or a woman. It does not just affect you; it affects all the people around you. It is really important to recognize that and get help if you need it. There is no shame in getting help for mental health. I can promise you that if you get help, it improves other aspects of your life: your relationships with your family, your kids, your spouse, and your work relationships.

If you are struggling, get help. It took me a while to get to this point. I was always against seeing a therapist, but after seeing the impact therapy had on people close to me, I was willing and open to give it a shot. I have seen benefits from it so far. It is a good tool to have in your toolkit when it comes to recovery. Making sure you get help, being honest, and being open about what you are going through, and not being afraid to share your experience and encourage others to be open too — that is important.

My message of hope

How to stay hopeful through cancer treatment and recovery

My message of hope would be: do not give up. There are going to be really bad days in treatment and even in recovery, but hold on to the small good things every day. It could be waking up and feeling a little less sore, being able to stomach some food that you could not during treatment, being able to go for a walk, being able to work out a little bit, or being able to enjoy your favorite food again. Try to hold on to the little things people take for granted every day. When you are going through treatment, a lot of that gets taken from you.

It is important to celebrate small wins and not get too far ahead of yourself. It is a day-by-day process. If you take it day by day, celebrate small wins, and make the most out of s** situations when they come along, it puts you in a favorable position to conquer this.

At the end, I do not think there is anything more I need to add. That is my story.


James B. Hodgkin lymphoma
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Categories
Chemotherapy Clinical Trials Colon Colon resection Colorectal FOLFIRI (folinic acid, fluorouracil, irinotecan) Immunotherapy Metastatic Panitumumab Patient Stories Radiation Therapy Surgery Targeted Therapy Treatments Xeloda (capecitabine)

From Losing His Appetite to Stage 4 Colon Cancer: Joe’s Story

From Losing His Appetite to Stage 4 Colon Cancer: Joe’s Story

Joe’s stage 4 colon cancer experience began at age 34 with symptoms that were easy to dismiss in the restaurant world: fatigue, loss of appetite, and an indescribable sense of feeling off. He had spent his life on his feet in kitchens, eventually co-founding a popular bagel shop in Austin and living in Georgetown, TX, with his wife Christen. When he suddenly found himself unable to enjoy food on a cross-country trip, he later woke up with the worst abdominal pain he had ever felt and a life-changing CT scan showing his liver completely covered in lesions.

Interviewed by: Tory Midkiff
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

A colonoscopy confirmed that Joe had colon cancer, and urgent surgery removed a mass in his colon that was close to causing an obstruction. He then heard blunt assessments from clinicians suggesting he had widespread disease and little time left, and should simply enjoy what remained. Yet he began chemotherapy and targeted therapy. Against expectations, his first scans after treatment brought an enormous wave of hope: almost all the cancer had shrunk, many liver lesions began to calcify, and soon he reached no evidence of disease (NED), a milestone he never thought he would see.

Joe C. colon cancer

Over time, however, cancer returned; first in Joe’s liver, then his lymph nodes, and later his lungs. He cycled through more treatments, only to see the disease progress again. Today, he is patient number zero on an immunotherapy clinical trial at MD Anderson, describing it as a giant leap of faith rooted in both realism and hope within his ongoing colon cancer experience.

Throughout, Joe and Christen have focused on mental health, nature, and community. From therapy, meditation, and prayer to pushing himself outside for quiet time in beautiful places, he says that getting into nature, zoning out, and being present have been some of the greatest gifts of this experience. Just as importantly, he has become a powerful advocate, volunteering with the American Cancer Society, co-hosting fundraising events, and serving as a Fight CRC Team Crow ambassador with Christen. In Washington, DC, they help install flags on the Capitol lawn to represent lives lost to colorectal cancer and meet lawmakers to push for better funding and earlier screening, especially as colorectal cancer has become the leading cancer killer in people under 50.

Watch Joe’s video or read his edited interview transcript below to find out more about his story.

  • Joe’s experience shows how easy it can be to dismiss early symptoms like fatigue and loss of appetite, especially when they resemble everyday life in a demanding job.
  • Even with advanced disease, he experienced dramatic early responses to treatment, including no evidence of disease, which reshaped his sense of what was possible.
  • Joe learned that being present, especially in nature, and tending to mental health through therapy, meditation, prayer, and rest can be as vital as medical treatment.
  • His perspective shifted from focusing only on his own experience to building community and advocacy through volunteering, fundraising, and policy work.
  • A universal truth in Joe’s story is that feeling less alone and staying connected to others can change how someone moves through serious illness.

  • Name: Joe C.
  • Age at Diagnosis:
    • 34
  • Diagnosis:
    • Colon Cancer
  • Staging:
    • Stage 4
  • Symptoms:
    • Loss of appetite
    • Fatigue
    • Malaise
    • Severe pain in the abdominal/liver area
    • Back and shoulder pain
    • Lightheadedness
  • Treatments:
    • Surgery: colon resection
    • Chemotherapy: FOLFOX, capecitabine, FOLFIRI
    • Targeted therapy (monoclonal antibody): panitumumab
    • Radiation therapy
    • Immunotherapy (clinical trial)
Joe C. colon cancer
Joe C. colon cancer
Joe C. colon cancer
Joe C. colon cancer
Joe C. colon cancer
Joe C. colon cancer
Joe C. colon cancer

This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make informed treatment decisions.

The views and opinions expressed in this interview do not necessarily reflect those of The Patient Story.



Early life, career, and restaurant journey

So my name is Joe Carr. I am 37 years old. I live in Georgetown, Texas, and in 2023, I was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. So I’m living with colon cancer.

Before my diagnosis, I grew up in Michigan. So I lived there for 28 years, went to Michigan State University, grew up in the Lansing, Michigan area, and moved to Austin in pursuit of opening my own restaurant one day. It’s what I’ve always done since I was like 16. My first job was at Pizza Hut. And so I’ve always worked in restaurants, and I helped open a couple of restaurants in the Austin area for a while, and eventually met up with a really good friend of mine who was a business mentor, who was consulting for another guy in the area that wanted to open a bagel shop. He had a really good bagel recipe, but he wasn’t super experienced in the operational side of running and opening a restaurant. So we kind of joined forces, and that was in early 2021 when we opened Rosen’s Bagel Shop in Austin. And then we opened a second one, like five months into it. It was an opportunity that kind of fell in our lap. We weren’t actually planning on opening a second location that fast. And it’s been really great. The bagel business has done really well. 

Travel, music, and life with Christen

We’re really happy with our team and our product, and we’re looking forward to growing Rosen’s. So that’s kind of career-wise where I’m at. Fun-wise, my wife and I love traveling. Her name is Christen. We married in 2021 as well. And we’ve traveled all over the place together, traveled almost completely across the United States at this point. We went to Peru and did a bunch of hiking and sand surfing. We went to Guatemala for our honeymoon and spent like ten days there. It was beautiful. I highly suggest Guatemala; it is very underrated.

And that’s kind of how we looked at our year. Every year, we would try to plan something big like that. We had a trip planned for Spain that got canceled because of COVID. We had a trip planned for Switzerland, and that got canceled because of the cancer diagnosis. But other than travel, I’m a big music fan. We’ve probably gone to 20 or 30 different live concerts together since we’ve been married. So any opportunity to get out and enjoy live music or food is huge. Obviously, being in the restaurant industry, I’m constantly going to new restaurants and trying new things and trying to broaden our food diversity a little bit, keep things interesting. 

Early symptoms, fatigue, and loss of appetite

Yeah. So it was an interesting kind of set of circumstances. Being someone who’s in the food industry, I always have an appetite. And being in the restaurant industry, people who work in that industry know that it’s long hours. You’re on your feet a lot, so you’re tired all the time. So when I started looking back, when I realized what the signs and symptoms were, it was really easy for me to push them off as normal life occurrences because of what I did for a living. The weirdest one was the loss of appetite, though.

We were going on a kind of cross-country trip. We were going to Salt Lake City for a couple of days, and then Boise, and then Florida to attend a graduation. And when we were in Boise, we went to this really nice restaurant, and they brought out the bread, and I took a bite of the bread and, from a technical perspective, I could tell it was really good. It was baked well. It had fantastic flavor, but for some reason, I just didn’t want to eat it. And I’ve never experienced that before in my life, other than maybe when I had the flu or was really sick and just didn’t want to eat. And then the next couple, we ordered probably five or six dishes, and everything was the same thing. I just had no desire to continue eating them, even though they were tasty.

So that night, we boxed up most of our food and went home. And then a few days later in Florida, the same situation happened. We went to this Cuban restaurant. It’s pretty famous down there in the Tampa area. I ordered this monster Cuban sandwich, which I was really excited to try, and I probably had three bites of it, and I was like, I just can’t eat. And it was the weirdest feeling. I was the guy who would not only eat my entire plate normally, but I would also finish Christen’s plate. I love food. And so that was pretty alarming to me.

And I just kind of felt generally off. It’s really hard to explain, but I lacked a lot of energy. The weeks before that, I remember a couple of times driving to different bagel locations of our restaurants and having to pull over in the middle of downtown Austin and just rest for like five minutes. I’d set a five-minute alarm on my phone, pull into a parking spot, and fall asleep. So that was when the signs were really like, something is wrong. I ended up going to a blood testing kind of chain where you just walk in and walk out, and they email you the results, and it’s kind of up to you to decide what to do with those. And there were red flags on there, but most of them pointed towards a pre-diabetic situation.

Misdiagnosis, pain, and rushing to the ER

And so I was like, “Okay, I’ll just eat better and exercise and take care of this on my own.” Still started feeling weird. Went to an urgent care. The doctor gave me a kind of a quick review and saw that the insides of my ears were inflamed, which was really common for me. I’ve had a ton of ear problems growing up as a kid. And he was like, “Yeah, because of all the elevation gain you just had on your trip, you probably had an ear infection. You’re just coming out of that. It might make you feel a little lightheaded and blah, blah, blah. And that’s probably what it is. So we’re going to give you some antibiotics, and hopefully that takes care of it.”

And then everything from there happened really quickly. It was a couple of days later. I was at work, and I started having really bad back and shoulder pain. It felt like I pinched a nerve or something, and I was trying to just stretch it out during the day. We had a business meeting that day. I couldn’t sit down. I was standing flat against the wall while we were having this meeting. It was super awkward. And my business partner Joe looked at me, and he was like, “You need to leave. You don’t look well.” And so I went straight to a masseuse and tried to get them just to hammer whatever I thought was wrong with me out of my shoulder. And that did not work.

I went home, lay on the couch, and fell asleep. This was like 3 or 4 in the afternoon. Woke up around 10:00. My wife was trying to get me to go to bed, and I was like, “No, I’m just going to sleep on the couch. I don’t feel like moving.” And then about 3 or 4 in the morning, I woke up with the worst pain I’ve ever experienced in my stomach, kind of in the liver area. And I couldn’t move. And every breath I took, it literally felt like someone was stabbing me. So I kind of slid off the couch and crawled to the bedroom and propped myself up on the bed, and I’m super awkward because I’m holding my breath. After all, it hurts so bad. And so I’m grunting, making these weird noises that woke my wife up, and she’s like, “What the heck is going on? What are you doing?” And I was like, “We need to go to the hospital right now.”

And so those were the symptoms that led up to it. I never saw blood in my stool, which is a really common occurrence for colon cancer. I never saw changes in bowel habits. I had nothing to do with that stuff. It was all the fatigue and the appetite and then the pain the night before.

ER visit and first CT scan

The hospital was an interesting situation. It was Father’s Day weekend, so there were not a lot of doctors available, we found out. But when we got into the ER, they did the basic vitals and blood tests, and the doctor was like, “I’m not really sure if there’s anything serious. Let’s maybe put you on some pain medications, send you home, and see how you feel.” And that’s kind of been a weird thing for me throughout my entire cancer journey: even when I’m on chemo or things like that, I’ve had pretty good blood test results that look like a healthy human being. So it’s been kind of bizarre.

But before they sent me home, I said, “Okay, I will say, I haven’t been eating, and I’m struggling with energy and that sort of thing.” And so he was like, “Okay, well, then let’s get you into a CT scan just to double-check.” And so I went to a scan, came out of the scan, and the ER doctor just looked at me, and he said, “I have good news and bad news. The good news is chemotherapy is really good these days.” And that’s how the conversation was led off. And I was like, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Do I have cancer?” And he was like, “Well, I’m not technically the person who can diagnose you. But it does appear that you have cancer because your liver is completely covered in lesions.”

Colon surgery, official diagnosis, and my first days in the hospital

And so that was how we kind of pre-found out without the official diagnosis. And so I didn’t even know what to think. I think I asked him, “Okay, do I go home, like, what’s happening?” And he was like, “No, you’re here for the weekend for sure, and we’ll go over the next steps.” So they got me into a room. We had to get a colonoscopy the next day. So I went into the colonoscopy prep that night, and it was Saturday. We went and did the colonoscopy. And I remember coming out of the colonoscopy very woozy. And I’ve heard this from other cancer fighters, that it’s very bizarre because they tell you right when you’re coming out of anesthesia what they found, and you’re still trying to figure out where you are. But I remember him very clearly saying, you know, we found a mass, and it’s confirmed that you have cancer.

And so that was Saturday. Sunday was Father’s Day. There weren’t any surgeons available. We needed to do surgery before chemotherapy because my mass was really close to causing obstruction in my bowel pathways, so we needed to get it out of there pretty quickly. So I just had to sit there for two days on pain meds because no one was available to do the surgery, which was really fun. And then Monday came around. We finally got into surgery.

They removed the mass. They only had to take a small amount of my colon out, so I wasn’t required to have a colostomy bag. And then from there, they said, “You need to recover, and then you can start chemo in two weeks.” And so that was kind of the hospital experience. The hospital experience was also like, you have so many questions, but you’re not talking to the right people yet because you don’t have your oncologist. And so I’m asking, “What should I be eating? How should I be helping my body even now, before this all starts?” And I remember the surgeon looked at me and he said, “You know, brother, you’ve got so much cancer spread that you should just go home and have pizza and have beer because it doesn’t look good. You know, just enjoy your life.”

And then the same thing happened, because we couldn’t see an oncologist. After all, no one was available. I received a phone call from an oncologist. And over the phone, he was like, “I looked at your reports, and you’ve probably got about two years left to live. And so all this is happening, and there’s not actually anyone to have that conversation with. So you’re just spiraling mentally. It was… that was definitely the hardest few days of my life.

Lifetime chemo plan and my initial treatment response

So they originally told me I was going to be on chemo for life. And what that means is chemo until it stops working, you know, is what they say. And it’s a frustrating thing for someone with stage 4. All you ever hear is, “We’re going to give you treatment to keep you alive as long as we can, but nothing we’re doing is going to cure you.” And that’s what the standard, I guess, verbiage is coming from the doctors.

Now, people have lived a really long time being stage 4. But it’s just not something I don’t think doctors are comfortable saying, or they’re just so used to the terrible statistics that they kind of treat you like just a number. So I had a port installed in my chest during the procedure when they removed the mass, so we were ready for chemo. We did a drug called FOLFOX, which is one of the most standard lines of treatment for colon cancer. And then the plan was to do six months of that in combination with a targeted therapy called panitumumab. I am somewhat fortunate that my cancer is not mutated, so I had a little bit more options and a hopeful response from the chemo.

So we started chemo, and we got our next PET scan three months in, and the initial PET scan that we received was so great. Almost all the cancer was gone. Everything had shrunk by about 60%, and a lot of the lesions on my liver had started to calcify and die.

No evidence of disease, maintenance chemo, and first recurrences

So it was this huge wave of hope that we really needed. So right from the get-go, we had positive results. And then I think the next PET scan, I had no evidence of disease anywhere, which was something that I never actually expected to get to. After the 12 rounds and going NED, I was kind of like, “Okay, so can I stop? Do I need to stop doing chemo?” And they’re like, no, no, no, you’re in chemo for life. I’m telling you, it’ll come back.

And so we went on maintenance chemo, which was one drug. I think we did that for a few months, and then we switched to an oral pill. And that was a lot better, just side-effect-wise and just quality of life. Then we started seeing the tumor markers in the blood tests rise again, signaling there’s a recurrence coming. And the blood test that we get usually can detect the cancer recurrence, like four to six months sooner than a PET scan can. It’s at a really microscopic, microscopic level. So once that happened, we did see in the PET scan a little spot in my liver come back. So they put me back on FOLFOX because my body had tolerated it well. They felt it was still safe. And, you know, a month or two later, it was gone, and I went back into no evidence of disease. So I started getting this cockiness.

I want to say honestly that I was like, “I can do this.” And it was helpful in a confident way, but I think it made me kind of lose track of how serious this is, and not to take things for granted. Because a year later, after that, now we’re in the second year, there was a recurrence in my liver again, and this time also in my lymph nodes. So the liver spots were still relatively small, so they thought that it would be fine to go off chemo for a little bit, or to take the chemo pills and use radiation to try and get rid of the lymph nodes. So we did three weeks of radiation, 15 treatments, and zapped away the lymph nodes. But while we were on the radiation, and because we weren’t on an aggressive chemo anymore, the liver started spreading more and more.

Progression to my liver and lungs, and moving to new lines of chemo

And then it ended up getting to the point, at the next PET scan, that we saw progression not only in the liver, but now it had spread to my lungs for the first time. And so they were like, “Okay, you responded well to chemo the first time. We’re going to try it again, even though it’s not fun.” And this time we tried it, and, you know, a month or so in, we realized it wasn’t working. So they switched to a different drug called FOLFIRI. It’s still a first-line treatment as far as the lines go. And we did that for a couple of months and saw that that wasn’t working.

And that’s kind of where we are today. But we recently just started a clinical trial, an immunotherapy clinical trial at MD Anderson, two weeks ago. And we’re the patient number zero. We’re the first ones to do this trial at MD Anderson. So there’s been some really positive results in it in other cancers. It’s the first time we’re using it in colon cancer, and being the first one at MD Anderson, it’s a lot like a, you know, we’ll see how it goes kind of thing. So it’s an interesting mental experience. You’re hopeful because you’ve seen positive results, but also, there’s nothing to go on for your cancer. It’s just a giant leap of faith. And that’s where we’re sitting today.

Mental health, nature, and staying present

It is a persistent struggle.

So very early on, we knew that if we were going to have any chance at this, we needed to be as mentally strong as we possibly could be. So we did a lot of the classic stuff: of course, going to therapy, we were doing breathwork, meditation. I was finding myself praying a lot more than I ever had. I never really considered myself much of a super religious person. But there’s something when you’re going through this that brings you to that point.

But what really made the world of difference to me was getting out into nature and reconnecting there and going to it even when I didn’t want to go to it. The side effects from chemo are so intense that it’s giving you every excuse in the world to lie in your bed and rest and feel sorry for yourself and scroll on social media and not have an active lifestyle at all. And you have every right to do that when you’re going through this. You need rest. I think that’s the most critical thing for recovery. But my wife has been so strong in pulling me out of those moments and booking trips and being like, “Okay, this is going to be two days after your chemotherapy, but we can do this, you can do this. And if you feel bad when you get there, we’ll rest. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

But when I found that I would push myself to get out there a little more and just spend time in silence in nature, I felt so strong. It’s hard to explain, but I think it was more of the relaxed state. Because if you’re ever going to be present somewhere, what better place to be than when you’re staring at a beautiful landscape or mountains that you can’t describe or paint? And so it teaches you the appreciation of being present, which is what we’ve learned through this cancer diagnosis. You have to be, because as soon as you start thinking too far in advance, whether it’s on the positive side, you start to neglect your day-to-day and your steps and your habits that you’re building to recover. Or if it’s the alternate side, the negative side, where you start thinking about your mortality, then you cause all the stress in your body, and everything gets bad. Then you start making terrible decisions, and you’re not thinking straight. So getting into nature, zoning out, being present has been, by far, I think, our biggest gift that we’ve learned so far.

Community, support system, and advocacy

So I think something I haven’t really touched on is how strong community and a support system are. It’s a lonely experience. And if you allow it to be that lonely experience — some studies show that outcomes are not great with people who isolate themselves in these situations. So my goal from the beginning has been to try to find ways to either prevent this from happening to somebody else or help somebody through it. I’ve felt that I’ve been strong enough mentally and physically to be able to help, and if you’re able to help, why wouldn’t you help?

So we first got into some volunteering. We worked with the American Cancer Society. We’ve helped throw an event called Fought Cancer for the last two years, which has raised money to help cover lodging and transportation costs for patients who are visiting MD Anderson or San Antonio, and they’re outside of the city. And something like that, a lot of people might not realize the impact it has, but any barrier or resistance to going to treatment when you’re mentally weak and physically weak is like giving a kid a piece of candy. It’s like, “If I don’t have to go, or if it’s too hard for me to go, I’m not going to go.” And I’ve heard people saying too many times, “I stopped going to this treatment because it was too long a drive, it was too expensive. So we just gave up.” And it’s heartbreaking.

And so we kind of found some advocacy in there. And then, more focused on colorectal cancer, is the organization Fight CRC. We were nominated to be ambassadors this year, which has been a really amazing experience. Usually, in the past, Fight CRC has done individual ambassadors every year. This year, they did teams. So it got to be a group effort. So my wife Christen and I are a team. We’re called Team Crow. It’s our names put together, Christen and Joe. So you’ll see crows all over our house, too. It’s just a fun name.

Fight CRC, Capitol flags, and screening advocacy

Fight CRC has a couple of goals. One is to raise awareness and advocate. And this week, on March 1st, on Sunday, we’ll be in Washington, DC. There’s a big flag installation on the Capitol lawn where we will put flags down, and it’ll represent the number of deaths expected for colorectal cancer this year. And as we found out through the new statistics that the American Cancer Society just came out with, it’s the number one killer in people under the age of 50 years old now. That was originally expected to be by 2030. So it’s moving faster than even the expectations were. So there’s a huge sense of urgency to make a change.

And so going to the Capitol, doing the flag installation, that’s more of an awareness. You can see it from a plane when you’re flying in, and you can see it when you’re walking by. The representatives in Congress can see it from the windows of the Capitol. So it’s impossible to ignore. And then two days later, there are about 300 of us that will break up into groups, and we will talk to our representatives of our states to try and advocate for more funding and better screening access on the preventative side.

Colorectal cancer funding gaps and “be the buffalo”

And as far as the funding ask when we all meet, if you look at the top ten cancer deaths and diagnoses in the United States, for whatever reason, colorectal cancer is the only one that doesn’t have a dedicated research program. So it’s now, like I said, the number one killer under the age of 50, but it doesn’t have its own research program. So clinical trials are limited, and the standard care practices haven’t changed in a long time. There are things that are happening now; it’s getting a lot better because of the funding that we do have. But we need a lot more. So that’s kind of the main focus.

But yeah, I’m happy we pointed out the nature thing. To sidebar, we’ve got our buffalo here, which is our mascot. The crow is our marriage mascot. The buffalo behind me and the buffalo skull are our mantra and the way we view this journey. We learned that buffalo are one of the few animals that run into storms. If you go into the storm, it passes more quickly than if you run away from it. So every time we’ve hit an obstacle, we’ve absorbed it emotionally, handled it the way we needed to handle it, and then told ourselves, you know, be the buffalo and let’s get after it and go kick some butt. So it’s always been around us.


Joe C. colon cancer
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Categories
Head and Neck Cancer Hemiglossectomy Lymphadenectomy Partial glossectomy Patient Stories Radial forearm free flap Radical neck dissection Skin graft surgery Surgery Tongue Cancer Tracheostomy Treatments

From a Small Cut to Tongue Cancer: Katelynn’s Story

From a Small Cut to Tongue Cancer: Katelynn’s Story

Stage 3 tongue cancer (squamous cell carcinoma of the tongue) is not something Katelynn expected to hear at 28, especially when her earliest sign felt like a minor wound on the side of her tongue. She describes initially assuming the sore was from clenching and stress due to temporomandibular joint disorder or TMJ. Then came fast weight loss, reduced appetite, and severe right-sided ear pain that made sleep difficult, all signals that pushed her to seek medical care.​

Interviewed by: Carly Knowlton
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

Katelynn’s primary doctor initially considered stress and even Crohn’s disease, noting that mouth ulcers can be associated with digestive conditions. An ENT visit changed everything: the specialist wanted to rule out tongue cancer and similar kinds of cancer, and performed a biopsy. Katelynn learned the biopsy result alone through MyChart on a Saturday, an experience she describes as deeply traumatizing, before care was coordinated with Oregon Health and Science University in Portland for surgery.​

Katelynn R. tongue cancer

Katelynn had surgery the month afterwards: a 10-hour reconstruction that included a hemiglossectomy (removing about half her tongue), a neck dissection with lymph nodes removed, multiple drains, and a tracheostomy because of swelling. She also had a nasogastric (NG) feeding tube during her 10-day hospital stay and later faced an insurance denial for a necessary skin-graft step, adding avoidable stress and delay until an appeal was approved.​

Radiation began in October 2024: 30 sessions, five days a week for six weeks. Katelynn describes the mask, the mounting fatigue (“dragging metal”), burns on her neck and inside her mouth, nausea, and profound side effects, including significant weight loss (about 85 pounds total across her experience). Over time, she rebuilt: physical therapy for shoulder weakness after reconstruction, speech and swallowing therapy to address a new lisp and limited mobility, and intensive outpatient therapy to process the emotional aftermath. Today, she speaks about living more openly: less ruled by anxiety, more willing to take up space, and more honest about how isolating cancer can feel once the initial wave of support quiets down.

Watch Katelynn’s video and scroll down to read the edited transcript of her interview to delve into her story.

  • A persistent tongue sore, unexplained weight loss, appetite changes, and ear pain can be easy to dismiss, especially when stress feels like a “good enough” explanation.​
  • It’s okay to ask for clarity and next steps when something doesn’t add up; early persistence can change the course of diagnosis and care.​
  • A universal truth for patients: Support often gets quieter over time. Reaching out and naming loneliness can help people show up again.​
  • Healing is both physical and emotional; therapy, mindfulness practices, and rehab services (PT, speech/swallow therapy, lymphedema therapy) can be part of recovery, not an “extra.”​
  • Transformation can be real: Katelynn describes moving from debilitating anxiety to living more authentically and taking up space in ways she couldn’t before.​

  • Name: Katelynn R.
  • Age at Diagnosis:
    • 28
  • Diagnosis:
    • Tongue Cancer (Squamous Cell Carcinoma of the Tongue)
  • Staging:
    • Stage 3
  • Symptoms:
    • Ulcer on the side of the tongue
    • Loss of appetite
    • Extreme weight loss
    • Fatigue
    • Severe right ear pain and pressure
  • Treatments:
    • Surgeries: hemiglossectomy, radial forearm free flap, radical neck dissection, lymphadenectomy, tracheostomy, skin graft surgery
    • Radiation therapy
Katelynn R. tongue cancer
Katelynn R. tongue cancer
Katelynn R. tongue cancer
Katelynn R. tongue cancer
Katelynn R. tongue cancer
Katelynn R. tongue cancer

This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make informed treatment decisions.

The views and opinions expressed in this interview do not necessarily reflect those of The Patient Story.



My tongue cancer diagnosis story

My name is Katelynn. I live in Corvallis, Oregon, and I am currently 29 years old. When I was 28 years old, I was diagnosed with tongue cancer: stage 3 squamous cell carcinoma of the tongue.

I’m very passionate about animals. I like to spend time with my dogs; it is my favorite thing to do. And then I’m also passionate about coaching the dance team. I coach a high school dance team, and so that is where I invest a lot of my energy and where I like to spend a lot of my time.

My career as a stylist and cutting my hair after surgery

I began my career as a hairstylist and esthetician about a year before I was diagnosed, so I was kind of just getting started in my career. As far as my hair, I would say it was probably about six weeks ago that I was kind of feeling like I just wanted to cut off whatever hair was from before my surgery, because hair holds a lot, and I really felt like I didn’t resonate with that person anymore. So I went to work and asked my coworker if she would cut my hair. She’s been cutting my hair for a long time, and I asked her if she would cut the remainder of the previous color off my hair, and I was prepared for however short that was going to be. We ended up cutting off about 6 to 6.5 inches. So it was just a fresh start.

My first tongue cancer symptoms and red flags

Originally, what I first noticed was on the right side of my tongue, I had what I thought was just a small wound. It kind of just started as a little bit of a cut. I suffer from TMJ, so I have a lot of teeth clenching, even before all of this, and I just figured that because I was stressed at the time, I was probably clenching and rubbing my tongue a lot on my teeth. So I would say I ignored it. I kind of ignored it and just kept going about my life. I first noticed that probably around February 2024.

The next thing that I started to notice was that I was having some weight loss. Again, I was attributing that to stress in the beginning. Then I started realizing that it was happening pretty quickly. I started going down in clothing sizes pretty quickly, and other people were commenting, “You look like you’re losing weight, you look so good,” and I was like, “Thanks,” but I felt that something wasn’t quite right. That went on for a couple of months. Then my appetite changed. All of that I felt at the time that I could attribute to being stressed because life is stressful, and that is what I was chalking it up to.

Then I started having some pretty severe ear pain on that right side that was not going away, and a lot of pressure. It was making it really hard to sleep at night, with lying down and having pressure on my head. That is what finally, after all of those things, brought me in to ask my doctor.

My initial doctor visit and possible Crohn’s disease

My doctor originally was not sure. I was going through some pretty big life changes at the time, and he said my symptoms could also be stress. But with the weight loss and the lack of appetite, he said that raised a red flag for him for Crohn’s disease or some sort of digestive condition. He said that a symptom of Crohn’s disease can be mouth ulcers, and he thought that that could potentially be what was going on with my tongue.

He put in a referral to the ear, nose, and throat doctor in Albany. He said that I was going to get a swab for Crohn’s disease. When I got there, and the doctor from the ear, nose, and throat office looked at it, he immediately said he wanted to rule out that it was tongue cancer and asked if we could do a biopsy. I was like, “What?” That was the first time that I had heard of it. My doctor and I, that was not the first place that our minds went, and I had never really heard of this type of cancer before either.

I was diagnosed in August. My symptoms originally started in my mouth in February, so it was for a pretty good chunk of time that I was chalking it up to being stressed out.

Reading the biopsy result alone on MyChart

The reaction was pretty traumatizing because I did not actually hear it from anyone. They did not call me. I read it in MyChart when I was home alone on a Saturday, so I could not call the office, and that was pretty traumatic. My mom and my brothers came over and were helping me stay distracted until we could call the doctor’s office on Monday.

We called, and then the ear, nose, and throat doctor called us back and confirmed that tongue cancer is what it was. They got the ball rolling by talking about doing a referral to OHSU in Portland, which is about an hour away. That is where I ended up having my surgery.

I was diagnosed in early August, and my surgery was on September 13th.

The details of my ten-hour tongue and neck reconstruction surgery

We went up to Portland because the surgery was really early in the morning, and all of my family was there waiting for me. It was really helpful to wake up to and have people there. The surgery was ten hours. It was a total reconstruction. I had a total neck dissection with lymph nodes removed because when they got into the surgery, they looked enlarged or inflamed, and so they removed them to be able to get clear margins.

I had two drain tubes on the right side and one drain tube on the left side, and that was pretty gruesome. I had those for almost the whole hospital stay. I also had a tracheostomy tube for my airway because there was so much swelling in my mouth.

As far as the actual reconstruction itself, they removed about half of my tongue; I had a hemiglossectomy. They replaced it with tissue from my arm. There are pictures, but it is a pretty good size. They also used this artery right here in my neck to reconnect the blood flow so that the tissue on my tongue could continue to get blood flow to stay alive.

Originally, when they first did that, my tongue was the color of my arm, which is pretty pale, and now over time it has adjusted. It is still lighter; you can tell, but it picked up color after the first couple of days, which my family and I thought was really interesting. So it was a pretty intense surgery and a lot of anesthesia.

Feeding tube, tracheostomy, and denied skin graft surgery

I was very groggy for a couple of days. They placed a feeding tube in; I had an NG tube in my nose because I was not able to eat at first. The hospital stay was ten days, and I had my NG tube removed on the last day.

The trach tube I got sent home with was an airway for the second surgery because after they took the skin from my wrist and put it on my tongue, they had to replace that skin with something else. Science is very cool. They took a patch of skin from my thigh in the second surgery and replaced it with the tissue here on my arm because that is the most similar.

Originally, I got sent home from the hospital with the trach tube before that second surgery in case of swelling. I got a notification the day before my second surgery that my insurance had denied the second half of the skin graft, which was pretty traumatizing. The trach in the hospital and afterwards was probably one of the biggest sources of trauma for me. It is just not a fun experience, and caring for it at home was not overly fun.

Having to have that for that extended period of time and then going up to the hospital to have it removed without having the surgery was kind of a bummer. I was like, I could have gotten that out a whole week earlier. Of course, we did not know that, but it was tough when they canceled the surgery.

Hospital traumas, an allergic reaction, and panic with a trach

From the jump, I do not want to say every single thing that could go wrong went wrong, but there were a lot of things throughout the hospital stay. From the very beginning, it was kind of a feeling of, “Of course, this would happen to me.” There were a lot of emotions happening, but there was also a lot of pain medication, and I was very confused. I was part of the time checked out, part of the time pretty devastated, and part of the time almost laughing, like, “What is next?”

I went into all of this with pretty big anxiety in general, but specifically around medical needles. I am well over that now because of exposure therapy. But going into it, when I had the IV placed before I was wheeled back for surgery, the nurse had placed the IV, and my surgeon came back to go over paperwork with me and said, “Oh, they placed it in the wrong arm.” I was like, “Do you think maybe we could wait until after I am under for you to move that?” Because I am actually terrified of needles, and that was a big deal for me.

Then a couple of fairly traumatizing things happened in the hospital. The first day, I had an allergic reaction to the IV medication they gave me during my hospital stay. For the first five days or so, while I was adjusting to the trach tube, I was not able to talk.

So I was communicating by writing on a whiteboard to my mom, relaying that way, and writing notes. Having an allergic reaction with it in your bloodstream and not being able to communicate what is going on, and that triggering a panic attack because of the anxiety from the hospital, made it a very exhausting first day. That was pretty emotional because in the moment, there was a lot of “Why is this happening to me? Why is this happening to me?”

Vomiting with a trach and ongoing hospital challenges

The second day, with my NG tube, my stomach was not reacting very well to the tube feed. I kind of have a hard time with eating stuff anyway. Sensory-wise, I have struggled with food already from before, and my stomach was very queasy.

On the second day, my stomach was not having it, and I started projectile vomiting in the hospital room. Having a trach tube in place made that very traumatizing. I could not talk, and the nurse and I were just looking at each other wide-eyed, like, “I really hope this does not turn into a choking situation.” It was very traumatizing.

By the time all of these things had happened, and then for my insurance to say, “Well, actually this is cosmetic,” is what it was first referred to as, I was like, of course, of course that would happen. You get to the point where you are like, yeah.

My emotions throughout were all over the place. Once I started moving more into treatment and radiation, there were a lot more down days and sad days. But freshly after surgery, my emotions were honestly kind of all over.

There was one time when we had first gotten home, and I still had my trach tube in. My mom was driving; I was not driving. All of a sudden, her car just started dying, and we had to pull off onto the side of the road. I do not know if it was the pain meds or part of this mindset of “Of course this is happening,” but I laughed — uncontrollably laughed — for like 15 minutes. She was at the point where she was concerned.

It was just trying to find something light-hearted throughout because, overall, tongue cancer is a very devastating experience. Being able to look back and laugh a little bit at some of the times that were a little light-hearted is helpful in healing.

Appealing my denied surgery and a second skin graft

We ended up not having to pay out of pocket. We had to file an appeal. My mom was helping me a lot through this, so I do not know exactly how it all worked, but I know that we called and filed an appeal. The appeal got denied at first.

During that time, I went up and they removed the trach tube. My surgeon checked in, and I had a bolster on my arm that was covering the donor site while the skin was healing. We did an exam during that time, and my surgeon said, “I have never seen an insurance do this before.” Of course, you have not.

She went to bat for me and wrote a letter for me to send, explaining why this was a necessary surgery. Right, we had already taken the skin off; we had to put it back on. That was helpful. We did a second appeal, and after that, it got approved.

I ended up having my second tongue cancer surgery, I think it was October 10th. My original surgery was on September 13th. I was in the hospital for ten days, so I think it was about two and a half weeks by the time I was able to get in for the second surgery.

Starting radiation for tongue cancer

I started radiation on October 31st, 2024, and I finished on December 11th, 2024. So yesterday was one year since I got to ring the bell after completing treatment.

My daily radiation schedule and mask fitting

I did 30 rounds of radiation. It was every day, five days a week, for six weeks, so Monday through Friday. I remember they gave me an option on the time of day, and I did most of my appointments in the morning so I could get it out of the way.

Thankfully, I was able to have radiation down here in Corvallis instead of up in Portland, so I was not having to commute an hour to go. I was only going to the hospital in Corvallis, about ten minutes away from my house. My mom, my dad, or my partner, whoever was available, would take me because it was a good chunk of time.

Radiation was tough. They had warned me about it. By the time I started radiation, I had healed for about six weeks after surgery. They want you to heal from surgery before you start so that everything can heal before it gets damaged again. During that time, I had started to feel a little better.

I had felt bad for so long with fatigue, ear pain, mouth pain, and all the things. Even though the surgery was gruesome, after I had started healing from it, I was like, “Okay, I am feeling better because I am not feeling all of these things I was feeling before.” I was also on pain medication during that time, which helped. I was starting to feel almost back to normal.

Then I got started with radiation. The first couple of times are anxiety-inducing. For the original appointment, they fit you for the mask, which you have to wear every day. They bolt you down to the table, and it is pretty much as tight as your skin. There are little holes in it that you can kind of breathe through, and then there is a mouthpiece that goes inside your mouth.

The first couple of days were really stressful and scary, but there were not really any physical side effects right away. So I thought, “Maybe this is not as bad as surgery, maybe I got this.” Then you get through the first couple of weeks, and you start to feel a little tired, but it is not so bad. Then, by the third week through the sixth week, it really quickly goes downhill. That was a struggle, after feeling like I was starting to make progress, to start feeling so bad again.

Radiation side effects: weight loss, burns, and fatigue

Some of my side effects during radiation: I continued to lose weight throughout this time. Over my entire tongue cancer journey, I lost about 85 pounds, and that was in a fairly short period of time. I was feeling really puny, frail, and very weak overall.

By the fourth to sixth weeks, I started to get pretty significant burns on my neck. My doctor gave me a cream to help with it, but if you are getting hit with a laser every day for 30 days, it starts to take effect over time. That was happening inside my mouth as well. That contributed to the weight loss because you have to eat to stay sustained, and that is hard to do when you have blisters, burns, peeling skin, and just really not fun stuff.

That was pretty tough. Fatigue was a big one. People warned me, people I know who had not gone through the same type of radiation, but other types. They tried to warn me, but it is like a kind of fatigue where your bones feel like you are dragging metal. It is really hard to even stand up to go to the bathroom because you are so tired.

I have stairs at my apartment, and doing that every day to go to treatment started to get really tough towards the end. I would say those are the major side effects. My nutritionist weighed me once a week during radiation to make sure I was not losing a significant amount of weight, because that is common. It affects your appetite; your taste changes, things taste metallic, and nothing sounds good.

They try to keep an eye on that, and you work with a nutritionist so they can recommend protein shakes or whatever. There were a couple of times that my nutritionist was maybe urging me to consider getting another feeding tube, not an NG tube, but a PEG tube in my stomach, to help balance the nutrition I was lacking.

After my experience at the hospital, I really did not want to do that. Maybe I should have accepted, but it felt like too much for me. So I pushed through and tried to maintain. I was drinking a lot of very high-calorie shakes, lots of smoothies, lots of ice cream, to try to maintain or lose very little weight at a time. That was hard.

The emotional toll of daily radiation with no light in sight

To be honest, there really was no light at the end of the tunnel until weeks after ending treatment. I cried most mornings before I had to go. I experienced a lot of nausea. I would be crying and gagging and saying, “I do not want to go,” and my mom would say, “Honey, you have to.” The people around me literally scooped me up and picked me up and made me go.

It is hard to explain. I have gotten a lot of comments over time, and everything is well intentioned, but I hear a lot of, “At least you’re young, so maybe it is not affecting you as badly, or maybe you can bounce back quicker.” But it was the most tired I have ever been. Even though I was the most frail and the lightest I have ever been, it was the heaviest my body has ever felt. It literally felt like I was dragging around a bunch of concrete bricks.

By the time the burns started happening, it was even more so that I did not want to go. When you put the mask on, you are lying on the cold table, the mouthpiece is inside your mouth, you have burns everywhere, and it tastes bad. There is literally no other way to explain it than you just have to go.

By the time it was, “Okay, you have one treatment left,” that was when I felt a little bit of light. But I did not have it in me to be excited about finishing because of how tired I was.

Ringing the bell after radiation

I was able to ring the bell. I had two radiation providers. I had my oncologist, whom I met with once a week, and that was pretty much just a “hanging in there, okay?” visit. We did medication check-ins, and he was able to prescribe me some lidocaine that I could use on a Q-tip in my mouth. It was short-term, but it helped me try to get nutrition.

I would meet with the nutritionist, but I saw my radiation techs, the same two, every single day. On the last day, they said all of my family could come back, and they were all back there with me when I rang the bell.

That was pretty emotional in a way that felt like a big breath of relief — like, “Okay, that is the last time that I have to do that.” During radiation, both of my front teeth got chipped because dental care is very hard during all of this. There were lots of reasons I was eager to be done.

That final time and ringing the bell for completion was a big sigh of relief that I could go home and sleep for the next week and not have to get up for an appointment the next day. 

Returning to work after tongue cancer treatment and juggling rehab

I am a year out. In the beginning, it was really rough. I returned to work at the beginning of February, about a month and a half after I completed my tongue cancer treatment. Physically, I was not quite ready, but I did not realize how mentally not ready I was until I got back into the swing of things. It is very weird to step back into your old life when you feel like a completely different person.

In the beginning, especially with what I do for work, it was tough. Being a stylist is a lot of standing and using your arms. I did a lot of physical therapy to regain strength in my shoulders because after the reconstruction, all of this was very weak.

I had to rebuild my stamina. It was tough balancing going back to work, tiptoeing back into dance a little bit because I was trying to heal my heart, too, not just my body, and also attending speech therapy once a week, physical therapy for my arms once a week, and lymphedema therapy once a week.

There were so many appointments. It felt like, for my energy level at the time, there were not enough hours in the day to do all of the things, and also rest and give myself permission to rest without being upset with myself if, on a Sunday, I did not have the energy to get up and clean because I was working.

Comparing myself to before tongue cancer and starting therapy

That was tough. I did a lot of comparing myself to my abilities before, which was really hard. I could not see as many people in a day, I could not work as long as I used to, and before, I was building my career and working all the time. Trying to chase that was hard in the first while.

It got to the point where I was really having a hard time around July last year. That is when I got back into therapy, which is something I probably could have used that whole time, but I did not have the energy for one more thing.

When I got to the point where I was a little more physically healed but feeling really mentally bad, I got myself into therapy. I enrolled in an intensive outpatient therapy program, which was ten hours of therapy a week. It was a lot, and I did that for about two months. It was pretty life-changing for me.

I had done therapy in the past, but being able to rebuild my tool belt of ways to process through things was extremely helpful. During that time, I started leaning into acts of mindfulness. I had spent a lot of time in my head and by myself.

I started finding ways for that to be more of an outlet: journaling, yoga, breathing exercises, all that stuff that people say is good for you. It is easy to feel like you do not have time, but I started carving out time to be intentional about finding ways to be present.

A big helpful thing is leaning into gratitude and finding things that I am thankful for. With all of the bumps in the road, I have had to find reasons to be happy to be alive when I was feeling near death. That is something I have tried to continue to lean into now because it helps reshape my mindset to get through the week.

Speech and swallow therapy after hemiglossectomy

I did speech and swallow therapy once a week for maybe three or four months. That was pretty interesting because speech is, for the most part, not something I ever thought about beforehand. It just happens naturally.

We had to find ways to break down how to talk: how to place your tongue, how to push air, and in what direction when you are talking. It was very interesting. When I originally had my surgery, and before I started speech therapy, I had a pretty strong lisp that I had not had before, because when they did my surgery and reconstruction, they essentially tongue-tied one side.

With the limited mobility in my tongue that I did not have issues with before, that really affected my speech. My surgeon had told me that swelling occurs for up to a year, so that was also a big thing: working through things while the swelling continued to go down.

Gradually, as that happened and through the speech and swallowing exercises, my speech improved. I would say if I am speaking to a client and they do not know about my history, and it comes up, most people say, “Oh, I would not even be able to tell.”

I am thankful because there was a point when I would get pretty down on myself if I was out and about or on the phone for doctor’s appointments, and people would say, “What?” or ask me to repeat myself. That was pretty emotional because I was trying.

I took my exercises very seriously. I would go in for my appointments, and they would say, “You have to read these words 30 times, enunciate, and slowly break them down.” I took all of that and went home and did all of my exercises because I am young and hopefully have a long time to live, and I want to be the best I can be for the rest of my life.

Even if I was tired, I was doing all of my physical therapy and speech exercises. My speech therapist told me she could tell I was taking it very seriously.

With the swallowing exercises, during radiation, you can get some restriction in here or even fibrosis in your muscles from not using them and from them getting radiated. My speech therapist said that because I continued to use those muscles during speech therapy, for the most part, everything is operating at normal functioning, whatever that means. I do not have any restrictions, which is good.

The rarity of tongue cancer in young adults and finding peers

Tongue cancer is rare, but it is a lot less rare than you would think. I do not know specific statistics, but it is something that is becoming more and more common. When I was discussing it with my doctor, he said that the reason it did not originally come to mind is that I do not fit the typical criteria for who usually gets tongue cancer.

My surgeon explained that historically, tongue cancer is typically found in people who are 55 and older, people who have smoked for a really long time, and there are other factors. But it is becoming more common in young people.

As far as locally to me, I have not found a support group in person, but I did join several online support groups. Through them, I have been able to make connections and meet people from all over who are closer in age to me, which has been helpful in healing.

Of course, I can resonate with other cancer survivors at the radiation clinic, but when you are the only one below 60 in the room, it can be pretty isolating. Finding connections — being, as I sometimes say, in the club that nobody wants to be a part of — has been helpful when it is people my age.

Being able to see them continue to work, build their lives, and keep going provides me and others with some sense of community and hope. If you are earlier in your journey, seeing people similar in age get back to things they love is very healing.

That is part of why I am open to sharing. I have made connections through support groups with people who are earlier in their journey and looking at what I am doing now. That is why I am open about sharing that there is life afterwards.

Oral cancer walk, giving a speech, and community

Locally, I got connected with the Oral Cancer Foundation. Kyle Isaacs is the local organizer who sets it up and runs it. She works in the dental field and is just a great person. This was maybe the fifth year that they have done an oral cancer walk.

I got connected with her and was able to do that this past September. The walk fell on my first anniversary from my surgery, which was pretty cool. She invited me to come and give a speech, which was pretty cool. That is not something I would have signed up to do before, but it felt like it was meant to be.

That event was really, really cool because I could connect more face-to-face. There were a couple of other survivors or family members of people who had been affected by the same thing. Being able to connect more in person and have that face-to-face interaction was super healing.

I have been keeping an eye out for any other opportunities. It would be cool to find something like a group, because when I did therapy, it was group therapy, but online and not necessarily cancer-related. It was more general, which was helpful.

The feelings that come with having cancer and going through treatment, especially at a younger age, are very complex. It is hard to explain to people. Unless you have been through it, it is hard to fully get it.

That is still something I would be open to: finding something a bit more local because even though I am about a year out, a year and a half out from surgery, and I am doing well, there is still more healing.

Ambivalence, gratitude, and ongoing healing

Something I learned in therapy is tolerating feelings of ambivalence, which is feeling two emotions about a situation at the same time. As I go into my healing journey, there have been times when I have said, “I am healing,” but it is hard to move on.

Understanding that I can be grateful and also grieving and devastated at the same time is something I have had to learn to live with. Although I am having good days and finding ways to be thankful, getting back into the swing of things, and feeling like I am living authentically, I have equally bad days.

I think it would be helpful to find a more in-person, intimate group.

New identity, less fear, and living authentically

I would say that yes, I look at life differently, and I do feel like I have a new identity. Before tongue cancer, anyone who knows me in my personal life would say I was a very anxious person. Going to the grocery store by myself was scary. Playing my music too loudly at a stoplight was too scary. I never wanted to take up space or draw attention.

Now I live authentically, however I want. Within reason — I am very empathetic and deeply feeling — so it is not like I am living wildly, but I will go to a coffee shop, order coffee, and sit there and drink it by myself.

A speech like that oral cancer speech is not something I would have been open to doing before. Now I take opportunities. I say yes a lot more often. I do not live in fear of other people looking at me.

Any time the sky looks pretty, I pull over on the side of the road, get out, and take a picture of it, and I do not care how many cars drive by and see me doing that. Before, I would have never done that because I did not want people to see me or ask, “What is she doing?” I have now realized that none of that stuff matters.

I have said “new identity” a lot, and I have recently been feeling more like I have come back to myself. Day to day, every day, you are a new version of yourself because you are always evolving. But I feel like I live the most aligned and authentic and present that I have since I was probably a kid.

It has been healing, doing a lot of self-reflection. I have spent a lot of time alone, really learning how to get comfortable with myself, appreciate life, and figure out ways to heal and be present and thankful for this second opportunity at living that I was given.

My advice for others going through cancer

That is so hard because everybody is different. Part of me now wants to say, “Try to find the good,” but thinking back to the version of me in the thick of radiation, I am not sure she was able to see anything good. So I am hesitant to say that.

I would say, just hang in there, honestly. From my perspective, even though there have been rough things along the way, I have not had chemotherapy, whereas other people do, and I have never had a recurrence. Some people have a recurrence. Some people have totally different types of cancer.

It is hard to say “hang in there” because I am putting myself in my own shoes. Some people have a harder or more extended journey, or terminal diagnoses. It is hard for me to say “hang in there” if you have a terminal diagnosis.

Overall, if you can, try to find even one thing to be grateful for. Even if it is just, “I am thankful for my dog,” or “I am thankful to be able to take a nap after this treatment.” Find any way to get through the day because it can get pretty dark.

Isolation during tongue cancer and reaching out for support

I think the surgery, radiation, and what comes afterwards are the major pieces. Something I want to touch on a bit, that I have heard as a common theme, and maybe another PSA if you are early on, is that people talk a lot about how isolating cancer and treatment can be.

Going into it, I did not really understand what people meant. There is a period after you get diagnosed when you try to go a while without sharing. I am a pretty private person, and it was hard for me to announce that I had this big change happening. But with work and having to take time off, I had to.

When you first reveal devastating news like that to people, it feels like everybody drops what they are doing and is really there for you. There were so many people who stepped up in incredible ways that I am eternally grateful for.

But there is also this time period when that starts to quiet down, and you are still moving through the motions and going through these changes. Everybody still cares, everybody still reaches out, but they are also living their own lives.

If you are in the thick of that season right now, a piece of advice is to reach out when you have the energy. Try to find community, whether that is through a support group, your family, your friends, or however you need to keep people around you.

There is no ill intent, but it does sometimes feel like, where is everybody, where did everybody go, when it is so loud in the beginning. That was something that was hard for me to process. Looking back, there were still people showing up in beautiful ways all along.

When it is so loud and huge and big, and you are getting hundreds of people reaching out, and then you get into the thick of radiation, and it is real quiet, real dark, real lonely, that is when it feels isolating.

If you have the energy, try to reach out and let people know when you are having those feelings, and do not try to hold onto that by yourself.


Katelynn R. tongue cancer
Thank you for sharing your story, Katelynn!

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More Head and Neck Cancer Stories

Vikki F. nasal squamous cell carcinoma

Vikki F., Head and Neck Cancer (Nasal Squamous Cell Carcinoma)



Symptoms: Nosebleeds that persisted for years, nose changed in shape, nasal pain, migraines

Treatments: Surgeries (subtotal rhinectomy, reconstruction surgery including radial forearm free flap, bone grafts, and cartilage), chemoradiation
...
Red S. tongue cancer

Red S., Tongue Cancer (Squamous Cell Carcinoma of the Tongue), Stage 3



Symptom: Persistent tongue ulcer that increased in size

Treatments: Surgeries (partial glossectomy, flap surgery), radiation therapy
...
Alyssa N. feature profile

Alyssa N., Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma



Symptoms: Persistent jaw pain, lightning-like facial pain during the first bite of meals

Treatments: Surgery (tumor removal), radiation
...
Eva G. feature profile

Eva G., Oral Cancer, Stage 4



Symptoms: Sore on the tongue, which caused pain during eating and speaking; changes in the color and texture of the tissue where the sore was located
Treatments: Surgery (partial glossectomy, radical neck dissection, reconstruction), radiation
...
Teresa B. breast cancer survivor experience

Teresa B., Recurrent Breast Cancer (Hormone-Positive), Oral Cancer (Lip Cancer), and Skin Cancer (Melanoma)



Symptoms: Lip cancer: chapped lips & a pimple-like growth on lip, breast cancer: enlarged left breast with lump, melanoma: none

Treatments: Surgeries (bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction, lumpectomy, craniotomy, Mohs, surgery, wide local excision), hormone therapy, radiation therapy
...

Categories
Chemotherapy Hormone Therapies Lupron (leuprorelin) Metastatic Patient Stories Prostate Cancer Radiation Therapy Taxotere (docetaxel) Treatments Zytiga (abiraterone)

“That’s Unacceptable”: Jim Fought for More Time After a Stage 4 Prostate Cancer Diagnosis

“That’s Unacceptable”: Jim Fought for More Time After a Stage 4 Prostate Cancer Diagnosis

Jim, a former Marine and seasoned union electrician, was used to high-stress environments and dangerous work. However, nothing could have prepared him for the sudden onset of symptoms like a limited urine stream, exhaustion, and persistent back pain that led to a stage 4 prostate cancer diagnosis. After learning his PSA was 114, Jim was told he had only two to five years to live, a prognosis he immediately deemed unacceptable.

Interviewed by: Taylor Scheib
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

Jim’s emotional turning point occurred during a consultation with his oncologist, where he shifted from being a passive recipient of a terminal timeline to an active partner in his own care. Drawing on the discipline of his military training, he pushed his medical team to look beyond standard protocols. By treating his team as collaborators rather than authorities, Jim was able to “throw everything but the kitchen sink” at prostate cancer through a combination of radiation, chemotherapy, and hormone therapy.

Jim D. prostate cancer

Jim’s experience emphasizes the necessity of self-advocacy and maintaining a sense of humor in the face of a devastating disease. Despite facing significant side effects and physical setbacks, including a spiral fracture in his leg due to cancer-related bone weakening, Jim remains focused on reclaiming his quality of life and intimacy with his wife. His story serves as a powerful reminder that while cancer may indeed be formidable, patients have the agency to fight for every possible day.

Watch Jim’s video or read the edited interview transcript below to find out more about his story.

  • Advocate fiercely for yourself. Jim challenged his 2-to-5-year prognosis by telling his doctor that it was unacceptable, forcing a deeper dive into more aggressive and targeted treatment options.
  • Treat your doctor as a partner. Viewing your medical team as partners rather than “gods” allows for a collaborative environment where patient research and expert insight meet.
  • Humor as a shield. Maintaining a sense of humor, even during grueling biopsies or radiation, can prevent the disease from consuming your entire emotional life.
  • Prepare for physical side effects beyond cancer. Jim experienced a spiral leg fracture because he was not initially warned about the risks of osteoporosis and bone density loss associated with his condition and treatment.
  • A universal truth: Life is not fair and will present obstacles that feel insurmountable, but the chance to fight back, alongside discipline and a plan, allows a person to maintain their dignity through the “meat grinder” of illness.

  • Name: Jim D.
  • Age at Diagnosis:
    • 75
  • Diagnosis:
    • Prostate Cancer
  • Staging:
    • Stage 4
  • Symptoms:
    • Limited urine stream
    • Back pain
  • Treatments:
    • Chemotherapy: docetaxel
    • Radiation therapy
    • Hormone therapy: abiraterone, leuprorelin
Jim D. prostate cancer
Jim D. prostate cancer

This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make informed treatment decisions.

The views and opinions expressed in this interview do not necessarily reflect those of The Patient Story.



My red flags and initial symptoms

I had two major red flags. There was a third involved, too, but the first major one was that I had a limited urine stream, and it just came on suddenly. And then I had persistent back pain. And then I was tired. I mean, I wasn’t just tired, I was exhausted, even though I was sleeping well and eating well and everything, I just could not get enough rest. So that’s what brought me onto it. 

I was working out of state, and I came home because the project was finished, and very much looking forward to seeing my wife. I had been away from home for three months, and I immediately made an appointment with the doctor. We did a PSA test and found out my PSA was 114.

Prostate biopsy and maintaining humor

Well, the first test was a biopsy of the prostate. And a little bit of humor here — you know, I’m standing at the desk to check in, and the gal’s asking me all these questions I’d filled out online. I said, “Why are you asking me these questions when I already answered them all online?” She looks at me and says, “Well, we want to make sure that you are who you are.” And I said, “That’s the guy I want to be. I want to be the surrogate for the guy getting a prostate biopsy. Yeah, I’m the guy who wants to go through that.” 

You have to have humor because this is serious business. If you want to have it consume your life, then you need to have the humor and the research into things that most people have no idea what’s going on.

Receiving a stage 4 diagnosis

I had a follow-up with the urologist, and he says, “Look, Jim, you have a pretty serious condition here. You need to get treatment.” 

He got his nurse to come in and gave me two shots in my abdomen. Then I was referred to the oncologist. I had a bone scan, and I had lesions all over my body. They ranged from my pelvic area to the top of my head, and I had them in a lot of my rib cage and in my spine. 

We finally went to see the radiology oncologist, and she said, “Jim, you have stage 4 metastatic prostate cancer, and you have 2 to 5 years to live.” My wife just lost it. It wasn’t just crying; it was sobbing and rocking. She was beside herself. It was just devastating to her.

Radiation and aggressive treatment

My regular oncologist, Dr. Haghighat, had just received my PET CT scan. There was this large lesion up towards my shoulder blades, about eight inches down from my neck, and it was pushing up against my spinal cord. 

He said, “We need to get this guy into radiation therapy right now.” He added, “Look, Jim, this is pretty serious. We’re going to have to really throw everything we have at it with the kitchen sink. And then we’re going to add a bag of chips on top of it. Are you up to it?” And I said, “Sure, I’m up to it.” 

I went through the radiation treatment, and it was a piece of cake.

My experiences with chemotherapy and hormone therapy

I started my abiraterone and my leuprolide therapy, which is hormone therapy. Then I started my chemotherapy, and I took docetaxel. It wasn’t hard on me. 

I’m a pretty friendly person, so I’d sit in the chair, and the snack gal would come by, and I’d say, “It’s time for my orange juice and my shortbread cookies.” I made it a joyful thing to go get the chemotherapy because I saw it as a means to the end. 

I had a cumulative effect from the chemotherapy. I didn’t have any blisters in my mouth or throw up, but the inside of my mouth was sore. I lost my taste ability; everything tasted like cardboard. I also had fatigue and chemo fog. My short-term memory didn’t exist anymore, but it all came back.

My professional background and emotional resilience

I went to military school, ROTC training, very disciplined. Then I went into the Marine Corps for six years. I earned that title as a marine because they just don’t give it to you; you have to earn it. Then I became a Journeyman Inside Wireman Electrician. I worked very dangerous jobs: oil platforms, tunnel boring machines, and refineries. 

You had to be fearless to do what I did. And cancer is hard to be fearless. It strikes your heart. I say that cancer is the dragon, and he’s out to devour you every single day. It’s your job that you have to spit in his eye and tell him to get away from you.

Facing bone fractures and osteoporosis

I found out I got osteoporosis, or something between osteopenia and osteoporosis. I was at my front gate in my front yard, it weighs nothing, and I went to close it and turned to walk away, and I spiral fractured my left leg. All caused by the cancer. And no one had made me aware of it. 

I told my doctor, “You let me down. I’m the one who has the broken leg.” I have a titanium plate that’s three-quarters of the length of my leg and 15 screws. It hurts every day. 

You need to advocate for yourself to prove that cancer is not winning in your life.

Rejecting the 2-to-5-year prognosis

I’m a real matter-of-fact person. When I got the diagnosis, I was more concerned about consoling my wife. But when I got that prognosis of 2 to 5 years, I stuck my finger out, I pointed at the doctor, and I said, “That’s unacceptable. We’re not going to go there. You’ve got to work harder, and I’m going to work harder.” I brought up theranostics, which I had researched. 

My doctor is my partner. He’s not my God; he’s my partner. I helped Dr. Haghighat learn some things, and I learned some things.

Deciding to take a break from hormone therapy

Hormone therapy was difficult. Prostate cancer’s food is testosterone. It was explained to me that we need to get rid of it. The tiredness and chemotherapy are cumulative. 

Two weeks ago, I spent a whole week crying and sobbing, which is not my personality. I was weak and frustrated. I told my doctor, “I’ve had it.” He said, “Jim, let’s take a break.” 

We have an appointment on the 23rd of March to check everything. Half of what I was feeling was the cancer alone, not just the hormone treatment. That gives me a more positive attitude to be able to continue.

Reclaiming intimacy and final advice

I told my wife I really miss the intimacy we had. We had to discover how we can be intimate again. We have discovered our form of intimacy; it doesn’t involve intercourse, but we have that closeness. 

Cancer has made me softer, made me kinder. Life is not fair. Life has obstacles in it. Cancer doesn’t care about your status, your money, or how cool you think you are. It’s going to put you through the meat grinder, but you have a chance to fight that problem.


Jim D. prostate cancer
Thank you for sharing your story, Jim!

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Share your story, too!


More Prostate Cancer Stories

Jim D. prostate cancer

Jim D., Prostate Cancer, Stage 4 (Metastatic)



Symptoms: Limited urine stream, back pain

Treatments: Chemotherapy (docetaxel), radiation therapy, hormone therapy (abiraterone, leuprorelin)
Jamel M. prostate cancer caregiver

Jamel Martin, Son of Prostate Cancer Patient



“Take your time. Be patient with the loved one that you are caregiving for and help them embrace life.”
Joseph M. prostate cancer

Joseph M., Prostate Cancer



When Joseph was diagnosed with prostate cancer, the news came as a shock and forced him to face questions about his health, future, and faith. He shares how he navigated his diagnosis, chose robotic surgery, and learned to open up to his loved ones about his health.
Rob's PSA test for prostate cancer story

Rob M., Prostate Cancer, Stage 4



Symptoms: Burning sensation while urinating, erectile dysfunction

Treatments: Surgeries (radical prostatectomy, artificial urinary sphincter to address incontinence, penile prosthesis), radiation therapy (EBRT), hormone therapy (androgen deprivation therapy or ADT)
John B. stage 4A prostate cancer

John B., Prostate Cancer, Gleason 9, Stage 4A



Symptoms: Nocturia (frequent urination at night), weak stream of urine

Treatments: Surgery (prostatectomy), hormone therapy (androgen deprivation therapy), radiation


Tom H., Prostate Cancer, Stage 2



Symptoms: None

Treatment: Surgery (prostatectomy)
Eve G. feature profile

Eve G., Prostate Cancer, Gleason 9



Symptom: None; elevated PSA levels detected during annual physicals
Treatments: Surgeries (robot-assisted laparoscopic prostatectomy & bilateral orchiectomy), radiation, hormone therapy

Lonnie V., Prostate Cancer, Stage 4



Symptoms: Urination issues, general body pain, severe lower body pain

Treatments: Hormone therapy, targeted therapy (through clinical trial), radiation
Paul G. feature profile

Paul G., Prostate Cancer, Gleason 7



Symptom: None; elevated PSA levels
Treatments: Prostatectomy (surgery), radiation, hormone therapy
Tim J. feature profile

Tim J., Prostate Cancer, Stage 1



Symptom: None; elevated PSA levels
Treatments: Prostatectomy (surgery)

Mark K., Prostate Cancer, Stage 4



Symptom: Inability to walk



Treatments: Chemotherapy, monthly injection for lungs
Mical R. feature profile

Mical R., Prostate Cancer, Stage 2



Symptom: None; elevated PSA level detected at routine physical
Treatment: Radical prostatectomy (surgery)

Jeffrey P., Prostate Cancer, Gleason 7



Symptom: None; routine PSA test, then IsoPSA test
Treatment: Laparoscopic prostatectomy

Theo W., Prostate Cancer, Gleason 7



Symptom: None; elevated PSA level of 72
Treatments: Surgery, radiation
Dennis Golden

Dennis G., Prostate Cancer, Gleason 9 (Contained)



Symptoms: Urinating more frequently middle of night, slower urine flow
Treatments: Radical prostatectomy (surgery), salvage radiation, hormone therapy (Lupron)
Bruce

Bruce M., Prostate Cancer, Stage 4A, Gleason 8/9



Symptom: Urination changes
Treatments: Radical prostatectomy (surgery), salvage radiation, hormone therapy (Casodex & Lupron)

Al Roker, Prostate Cancer, Gleason 7+, Aggressive



Symptom: None; elevated PSA level caught at routine physical
Treatment: Radical prostatectomy (surgery)

Steve R., Prostate Cancer, Stage 4, Gleason 6



Symptom: Rising PSA level
Treatments: IMRT (radiation therapy), brachytherapy, surgery, and lutetium-177

Clarence S., Prostate Cancer, Low Gleason Score



Symptom: None; fluctuating PSA levels
Treatment: Radical prostatectomy (surgery)

Categories
Chemotherapy Clinical Trials Immunotherapy Lung Cancer Lung transplant Metastatic Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer Patient Stories Radiation Therapy Surgery Treatments

A Double Lung Transplant with Stage 4 Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer: Natalie’s Search for Hope

A Double Lung Transplant with Stage 4 Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer: Natalie’s Search for Hope

For more than five and a half years, Natalie has been living with stage 4 lung cancer as the backdrop of her everyday life, describing the experience as “part one, part two, and part three” of pure survival mode. She was diagnosed with no smoking history and no identifiable biomarkers, and yet her cancer progressed through multiple clinical trials and chemotherapy regimens. Eventually, one of her clinicians raised an option many people, including some clinicians, do not realize exists for certain stage 4 lung cancer patients: a double lung transplant.​

Interviewed by: Taylor Scheib
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

By then, Natalie’s left lung function had dropped to around 3 percent, leaving her body functioning as if she had only one lung. She was told that chemotherapy options were essentially exhausted. Faced with ongoing non-small cell lung cancer progression and worsening day-to-day life, she chose to pursue lung transplant evaluation, relocate to a different state, and live within strict limits while waiting for “the call” that donor lungs were available. When that call finally came, she found herself rushing into surgery without her husband at her side, asking for medication to calm the fear as she was wheeled into an operating room full of people.​

Natalie B. lung cancer

Recovery from the double lung transplant was far rougher than the discharge estimates suggested. Surgeons told her they had to “yank” her severely diseased lungs out through a clamshell incision, leaving her with intense pain and a chest that often felt like it had “bricks” sitting on it. She spent over a year in Chicago, navigating tube feeding, rehab, and the ongoing risk of rejection while trying to reclaim basic movement. Gradually, things improved enough that she could walk more, travel a bit, and eventually return home to Atlanta.​

Just as she began to feel the payoff of the surgery, persistent back pain led to scans that revealed metastases to her spine only a few months after transplant. It was devastating to learn that after such a radical operation to treat her lung cancer, there were still four or five lesions in her spine that now required chemotherapy and radiation. Yet Natalie talks openly about allowing herself to cry, feel anger, and then ask, “What options do we have?” Her team is now exploring potential curative approaches to the spine, and she describes life today, with advocacy work, speaking, travel plans, and new lungs that allow her to stay active, as “actually pretty darn good.”​

Through it all, Natalie has leaned on memories of her grandmother, her husband’s support, and a determination to help others understand that stage 4 does not always mean “no options.” She continues to share her experience to show that surgery may be possible for some people with stage 4 lung cancer, that biomarkers do not always appear, and that it is still worth seeking second opinions, staying close with your care team, and holding onto the possibility that miracles can still happen.​

Watch Natalie’s video and read through her edited transcript below to learn more about her story. Read her previous interview about having been diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer.

  • Surgery, including a double lung transplant, may be an option for some people with stage 4 lung cancer when systemic treatments stop working, and it can open the door to more time and a better day-to-day life
  • Even with no biomarkers and failed clinical trials and chemotherapies, it can be worth asking about additional options, relocation to centers with specialized programs, and ongoing retesting
  • Recovery from a double lung transplant is often far more intense and longer than the estimates; pain, heaviness in the chest, and lifestyle adjustments can last many months or even years
  • It is normal to feel anger, fear, and the urge to give up, but allowing those feelings, staying connected to your care team, and seeking other opinions can create new paths forward
  • Natalie’s experience illustrates a powerful transformation from barely functioning with 3 percent lung capacity and no clear future to describing life with new lungs, advocacy work, and travel as “actually pretty darn good”​

  • Name: Natalie B.
  • Age at Diagnosis:
    • 33
  • Diagnosis:
    • Non-Small Cell Lung Cancer (NSCLC)
  • Staging:
    • Stage 4 (Metastatic)​
  • Symptoms:
    • Extreme fatigue
    • Severe cough
  • Treatments:
    • Chemotherapy
    • Immunotherapy
    • Clinical trials
    • Radiation therapy
    • Surgery: double lung transplant
Natalie B. lung cancer
Natalie B. lung cancer
Natalie B. lung cancer
Natalie B. lung cancer
Natalie B. lung cancer
Natalie B. lung cancer

This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make informed treatment decisions.

The views and opinions expressed in this interview do not necessarily reflect those of The Patient Story.



Surviving five and a half years with stage 4 lung cancer

I would say in the last five and a half years, it was a roller coaster. I would say part one, part two, and part three, but the last five and a half years have been about survival mode for me. 

I’ve been trying to survive and get to a point where I’m never going to be comfortable, but getting to a point where I feel a little bit more confident in my living situation is the best I can describe it.

Living life despite stage 4 lung cancer

So I did actually have to take a step back. I recently started traveling, probably about three weeks ago. This hasn’t been anything that I’ve been doing regularly because I had to change my lifestyle for probably about, I would say, 12 to 15 months. I had to relocate to another state to get part two of this story done. So that actually put me down; it kind of held me back from doing what it is that I needed to do.

So in the past 12 to 15 months, I’ve been having to focus on rebuilding myself, not only from a physical standpoint, but I would say a mental standpoint as well.

What keeps me going through cancer

So I’m not one of those people who get to the end of their life, and they’re like 80 or however old they are, and they say, “Well, I’ve done everything. I’m okay with passing away,” and so forth. Well, I’m not quite 40 yet, and there are still a lot of things that I want to do. Other than travel, I want to hang around. I want to be around my family. I want to be around my friends.

Now, unfortunately, I do have this disease. But I want to try to make an impact on people’s lives. And not necessarily, most people say, “Oh, well, you can just start a foundation.” Well, I’ve already done that, and I did not want to continue doing it, so I’m not. But I want to continue to share my story, to try to give people hope. And I’m slowly realizing that I am actually helping people by sharing my story. So I want to continue to be able to do that. So as long as I can hang around here and share my story and travel and be with my family and friends, I think that’ll make life worth living.

Why I keep sharing my lung cancer story

I choose to do so for several reasons. Well, number one, especially with my new situation that has occurred, I want people to know that surgery can be an option for a stage 4 cancer patient. Well, let me not say cancer. Let me say lung cancer, because I don’t know about all cancers in general. But for a stage 4 lung cancer patient, if you qualify, surgery can be an option. And with this surgery, it’s an opportunity to help extend, save, or improve your life.

So I think that’s extremely important because so many people don’t even know that this option exists. A lot of medical professionals don’t even know about this, so that’s one reason. The second reason is that I want to show people what a stage 4 cancer patient and advocate can look like. Everyone does not look like me. Everyone doesn’t function like me. Everyone is different depending on treatment stages and all of that. But I want people to know that stage 4 is not always a death sentence. Are you going to have struggles and issues? Of course. Who isn’t? It’s stage 4 cancer.

But I want people to know, I’m sure you’ve heard this phrase a thousand times, but I’m going to repeat it a thousand more, that as long as you have lungs, you still can get lung cancer. You do not have to be a smoker. People also need to know, and which I don’t talk a lot about, which I’m actually focusing on more, is to talk about more things like radon. Radon causes lung cancer. I don’t hear a lot of people talk about that as much as it should be talked about, a lot of environmental factors. So I want to learn more about that and share my story more on that. And also, those are things that I’m working on for educational purposes as well.

The one thing I want people to know about lung cancer

It’s that no matter how healthy you think you are, and no matter how good you think you eat, and no matter how into fitness you are, you work out, you can work out three times a day or do something, something extreme, you can still get lung cancer. It does not matter. It doesn’t matter about anything, because a lot of people always say, “Well, you know, I eat well, and I don’t eat pork, and I don’t eat this and that.” Well, that’s great that you don’t eat a lot of these things. But I know people who literally have the cleanest diet in the world, or the best exercise routines, and they still end up catching something.

So it’s not all about what you do. Sometimes it just happens, unfortunately.

Cancer progression before my double lung transplant

So before this was brought up for me, my cancer had started to progress, meaning, of course, it started to spread and/or get worse, however you want to word it. I had gone through two clinical trials already. They unfortunately failed. I tried two different chemotherapies after I started to progress, and they failed also.

So the idea behind this was, “Hey, well, let’s keep trying different chemos or different clinical trials and see if the progression stops.” Well, we don’t know if the progression is going to stop even if I continue to do these things. So that’s when one of my healthcare providers actually knew about this double lung transplant program, and she brought it up to me, because like I said, I was just going to continue to keep trying these things, but there was no guarantee that they were going to work.

And I was told, “Your disease is spreading slowly, but it is still spreading.” So on one hand, the fact that it was slow was great, but the fact that it was still spreading was not great. And then my health started to decline. So I think my left lung had dropped down to like 3% functionality. So basically, I had two lungs, but my body was only acting as if I had one. So my day-to-day started to get harder. I was not on oxygen or anything like that, but when it started to get difficult for me to do things, I said, “Okay, I think we do need to go ahead and fully entertain this.”

Hearing that a double lung transplant was my option

So my initial reaction was fear. I didn’t know what a double lung transplant was. I mean, obviously, I heard the words ‘double’ and ‘transplant’. If you put two and two together, you figure it out. But it just sounds really scary, like a double lung transplant. Excuse me, on this little itty bitty body. And I was just like, “Am I even going to be able to make this work?”

You know, I was on ChatGPT, and I was reading all this stuff, like the survival rates of transplant patients. And it was just saying all these things, and I’m just like, “Oh my goodness.” However, I thought about it. When I consulted with the surgeon at the hospital, he said, “Your lungs are trashed, and basically you can continue to try these trials and try these chemos.” 

Let me back up for a second. We had pretty much run out of chemo options, so there were no more chemos that were really going to do anything. So we were only looking at clinical trials at the next point.

So he basically was saying, “You can keep trying these trials, but I mean, you either try the trial and go through it, or you just have the transplant if you qualify.” So I said, “Okay, well, let’s just go do the transplant.” So I was very afraid. But once I actually knew how, once I heard him say, “Your lungs are trash,” which I already knew that, I said, okay, let’s move forward with this testing.

Facing lung cancer with no biomarkers

I actually talk about that a lot to my husband and among the people I know. My mom specifically, I always tell her, ”It really sucks that I don’t have any type of biomarker.” And then every time somebody asks me this, they’ll say, “There’s no way that you don’t have one.” They’ll say, “Oh, maybe they missed it.” They didn’t miss anything.

And then, as of today, I still get tested every 90 to 120 days, and there’s still nothing there. So I feel some type of way about it, because I feel like if I did, that would give me, or open me up to, better options as far as treatment. I feel like maybe I wouldn’t have had to have the double lung transplant if I did have some targeted treatment. There are so many things that I think about, and sometimes I think, “Oh, wow, so-and-so is lucky.” And I mean, none of us are lucky because we have this.

But I think about it, just being transparent. It’s like, oh, well, this particular person does have a few more options than I do, just because they have a biomarker. And then they’ll get on the medication, and then maybe in a year or so they’ll say, “I’m no evidence of disease.” And of course, everybody still has their struggles, but sometimes it does make me feel sad because I don’t have that targeted option available. Not one bit. So that definitely still bothers me to this day.

How I cope with not having biomarkers

I just try to move forward. I sit in it for a second. I think about it. I get angry, or I cry, or whatever. When I’m angry, I just have to keep moving and think, “Since that option is not available, let’s talk about what option is available instead of just dwelling on what we have no control over.”

And then I always think, like, maybe one magical day a biomarker will pop up. I mean, anything is possible.

Deciding to relocate for a double lung transplant

I had to relocate for this procedure. That was the first thing that they told me. And I told my husband, “You know, I have to move.” Like, what? I was like, “It’s going to be so cold up there.” And I remember him saying, “You’re worried about the cold? Out of all the things to worry about? Like, girl, come on.” I said, “Yeah, you’re right.”

But yeah, I was thinking about cost, number one, because all the financials are on you. You don’t really get any help or anything for relocating. So that was something that I thought about. I thought about having people up there with me. How often would someone be able to be there? Would I be okay mentally? How long was it going to take me to recover?

It was just so many things. Am I even going to meet the testing qualifications? Because you still have to go through about maybe two to three weeks of testing, maybe a little longer. So I’m thinking, “I still have to get past that.” And once you do that, it’s like the board has to meet to still decide whether or not you’re qualified, even though the results may say one thing.

So there were just so many things that I had to worry about, that I had to think about. I know this is not as important, but I’m thinking about my dog too. I’m going to have to leave my dog because I couldn’t take him, because I couldn’t care for him or anything while I was up there. So it was just so many things because this was like a life-changing surgery. It was risky. I thought about so many things.

Waiting for “the call” for donor lungs

You have to actually be in the state first. So once you actually get there, then that’s when they say, “We have officially put you on the list.” I think I was told that a call could take as quickly as 24 hours, which is unlikely, but it has happened. Or you could be waiting as long as 60 days.

And I’m thinking, “Oh, gosh, I don’t want to be a 60-dayer,” but you just never know how this thing is going to work. So, when I went up there, I had to prepare myself to get a phone call at any time. They said it could be the middle of the night, whatever it is. You gotta stop, drop, and go.

You have to be within X number of miles of the hospital. So this phone call was pretty much controlling everything that you do. So if I wanted to, let’s say, take a day trip somewhere, I couldn’t do that because I would be too far away. There were so many things. Once you actually get put on the list, it’s just basically the beginning of that story.

Getting the call for donor lungs

Yes, I was a little nervous. Well, for one thing, when you go through these procedures, they have what they call a dry run. So there’s a possibility that you could get a call, get to the hospital, and still not be a good match, and you’ll have to go home. So in the back of my mind, I’m thinking about the worst-case scenario anyway. “Hey, they’re going to call me, and then I’m going to get sent home.

Well, my situation was a little different. They called me on a Thursday night at around 8:00 pm, and they said, “We might have a pair of lungs for you, but we don’t know yet. So what you’ll have to do is come into the hospital on Friday morning. We’ll have to do testing for you and see if basically your lungs are going to be a fit. It’s going to be between you and somebody else.”

So, basically, it was me and somebody else at the hospital at the same time, just waiting on whoever was going to get the green light.

The only thing I knew was that the lungs were for a tiny person. So if they didn’t fit me, they were going to the other person, and then the other way around. But no, I didn’t know anything about them.

Being chosen for the lungs and heading into surgery

So they ended up telling me once I was at the hospital for like five hours before I even found out that I was the official person for the lungs. So they called me, and they came into my room and said, “Hey, just to let you know, the lungs go to you.” And I was like, “Yay!” I’m all excited.

And I said, “The next question is, how soon before surgery?” Because my best friend was there with me, but my husband was not there. He literally was getting on a plane, I think, as soon as I called him. So he was hanging out at the airport. And so they said, “We have, I think, three or four, maybe five hours.” And I was like, “Perfect, my husband will be here.” By the time I woke up, my family was there.

But that quickly changed. They came in, and they said, “Hey, we’re ready to go.” And I said, “Wait, my husband is not here yet.” And they said, “Well, you know, we can’t wait. We gotta go.” And I said, “You just told me I had a few hours.”

So my husband, at this point, I think, is about to take off, and I’m about to get wheeled out to start this prep, and he’s not going to make it before I get put to sleep. So I told my best friend, “Bye.” She was crying, and I’m just like, “Oh my gosh, this is really happening.” And I said, “Can you guys please give me some medicine? I’m so afraid.”

So they instantly gave me something to calm me down because I was about to jump out of bed at that point. And they wheeled me in. I talked to the anesthesiologist. They gave me some calming medicine. They rolled me into the room with like 50 other people, and I was just like, “Oh my goodness.” And the next thing I know, I wake up. It’s another day.

I was told it took between six and eight hours, a little longer than it was supposed to take, just because they had difficulty getting my lungs out.

My hope going into the double lung transplant

So my hope is based on what I was told. So first of all, the surgery is considered a clinical trial. So they let you know up front that there is a possibility that this may work, and that it may not work. Obviously, we’re doing this for the greater chance of it working.

But, you know, in my mind, I was thinking, “Hey, I’m going to get these diseased lungs that have lung cancer removed, and I’m going to get them replaced with some brand new lungs. When I wake up, I will no longer have lung cancer.” 

Waking up with new lungs

When I woke up, well, first off, I woke up with a bunch of tubes in me, and another double lung transplant recipient had already told me kind of what to expect. So when I woke up, I was kind of freaking out. I couldn’t talk, but I was telling them to take the tubes and stuff off of me.

And so I remember requesting a sheet of paper and something to write with. And I remember saying, like, “Take this off of me,” or something I said. And I know my mom and my dad and everybody was freaking out and saying, “Please take these tubes off her, because she’s going to end up going crazy from them being in.”

And they were explaining to them that they had to keep them in because I wasn’t breathing on my own or something. And then I wrote on the paper again, “I can breathe on my own.” So finally, after going back and forth on the paper, they ended up taking them off, and they saw that I could breathe on my own.

But those tubes were very frightening for me. I had never had tubes before, so I was afraid.

What recovery from a double lung transplant was really like

So they want you to get out of the hospital quickly. They don’t want you to stay there long-term. They actually want you up and out of bed on day three, basically. So I was in the hospital for a total of two weeks: one week in the ICU and then one week on the stepdown floor.

I would have gone faster than two weeks if my pain weren’t so bad. They couldn’t get my pain under control, which is the only reason why I was there for two weeks. Because I know people who have only been in there one week, and they got released. So a combination of two weeks. I lost a lot of weight in the hospital, of course, because I was tube-fed for about a week and a half, which was awful.

I did really well in the hospital, though, towards the end of my two weeks, because I got out of bed more. I walked. They did have therapy coming to my room, but you can also request that your nurses, of course, walk you around the hospital. So I requested that. And then they determined that I still needed therapy. But instead of me actually staying in rehab, I could just go to rehab like two or three days a week. So that was the good part about it.

The worst, one of the worst parts about it, was the pain. I was told that they had to like, rip — I don’t want to use the word rip — or yank the lungs out. And they had to call in a second surgeon or backup surgeon to help because my lungs were so diseased that they couldn’t just pull them out like they normally would. So I was told that I would have more pain than the average person, just because of the way that they had to pull them out.

So I initially was told that my recovery would probably be about six months, when people started to feel better. But I disagree with that. I would say a partial recovery would take about eight months. As for full recovery, I’m not fully recovered still today, so I don’t know what a full recovery timeline is. I know I’ve talked to a few people who have had this done a while ago, and they said it took them a full two years to feel normal, whatever that is.

But I had to stay in Chicago. You have to do a one-year commitment to stay a part of the program. I was there maybe a little longer than a year, just because I had to go back and forth for testing, for about 12 to 15 months.

But as far as the recovery went, it was extremely rough. With this double lung transplant, they open you up clamshell-style, and a lot of times, your chest feels heavy. So sometimes, you know, I wasn’t able to wear anything under my shirt, no bra or anything like that, just so I could try to feel free. But there’s a heaviness that can come with the transplant. So sometimes, if you’re not even doing anything, it’s like you’re sitting there and you’ve just got bricks on your chest.

So it’s different. I had issues riding in cars. For instance, when I would take Ubers to the doctor’s office, the car had to be big because I had to be able to stretch or lie down across the back seat to get to the doctor’s office. Any bump in the road would make it hurt. There are so many things about the surgery.

A lot of people always say, “You look great.” Well, thank you, but it’s been a lot. My goal is to work out three days a week. But sometimes I can’t work out three days a week.

So I am back in Atlanta now. I got home about a month ago. Thank goodness I’m back home. So I started walking and working out when I first got back home. And then after that, I had some issues with my chest being like it had those bricks on it again, and I had to stop. I just started again yesterday.

So with this lifestyle, you kind of have to make adjustments according to how you feel. And nothing is wrong when your chest is heavy. It’s not what everybody faces; for me, it’s just what comes with the territory.

How I feel about having someone else’s lungs

I would say I don’t think it has bothered me as I heard it might. I heard a lot of people go through this mental situation where it bothers them that they don’t have their original lungs and, you know, they have a deceased donor and all that. God bless the donors.

I haven’t really had that issue that much. I’m extremely grateful for being able to get the lungs. Definitely sorry about how I had to go about getting them. But it doesn’t bother me, I don’t think that much because I think I try to focus on just making sure that the lungs are healthy. After all, these lungs can still go into rejection.

That’s a whole other part of it. You have to take these rejection meds your entire life. So instead of me thinking about the situation, I try to think about the situation this way: “Let’s try to make sure we keep these lungs healthy. Let’s try to work out. Let’s try not to be around certain things that will possibly cause rejection or make things worse.” So I try to focus on the quality of life of the lungs.

When my back pain started after the transplant

Probably about a month after I had surgery, my back started to hurt, and I kept telling them about it. And they would say, “It’s because you’re doing therapy and you’re stretching your muscles and you haven’t really moved.” And I would think, “Okay, that makes sense.” And then they were saying that it was because of the actual surgery.

And I listened to what they were saying for just a small amount of time, and I was just like, “No, something just does not seem right.” So I was already due for scans anyway, just because, still dealing with my history, I’m going to have to get scans for life anyway.

I already had a scan scheduled. So we were probably maybe two months after surgery at that point. And then I went ahead and had a scan, and they called me so quickly. And I already knew something was wrong because they called too quickly.

They asked me how soon I could come in. And I said, “The cancer is back, isn’t it?” They responded, “We really want you to talk to the doctor.” And then my phone went off. It was a MyChart notification.

So I was about to hyperventilate because at this point, I’m by myself right now. And I open it, just scanning it. I didn’t even want to read it in detail, but I saw enough words to say, okay. So I called my husband. I’m screaming. I’m like, “The lung cancer’s back.” I don’t really even know anything, but I’m just like, the cancer is back. And, you know, why did I have this surgery? I’m just, you know, he’s trying to calm me down. Obviously, he’s not there.

So I called a friend of mine who actually lived in the same building as me, and I was like, “Hey, I think my lung cancer is back. Can you go to the doctor with me?” And she’s like, “Wait, wait, wait, what?” So I was like, “I don’t know much. I just need you to go to the doctor with me.”

So we went to the doctor. A bunch of things lit up and this, this, this. “But what we’re mostly concerned about is your spine, your back area. So we need to do a biopsy of the spine.”

And fast-forwarding, we did, and it did come back and say that I have cancer in my spine. I have, I think, four or five lesions, which is why my back was hurting to the extent that it was hurting. So I was angry because at this point I’m like, you know, why did I even get this surgery done for the cancer to come back?

And I’m asking them, “Hey, please tell me why it came back. Just give me something.” And nobody really could give me an answer. We were kind of thinking that maybe this might have already been there, and it was hiding, and then something just made it come up to the surface, because I had been complaining about back pain for years, and we had been checking for years, and nothing ever came up.

So nobody to this day really knows where and how. But in the back of our minds, I’ve just had this major surgery to get rid of lung cancer, and now here we are again dealing with it. So I had to start chemo and radiation. So, imagine me only being two and a half, three months out from surgery, not only having to do chemo, but having to do. I mean, you know, I just had surgery. That was hard.

I lost my grandmother and father-in-law while in treatment

So I think I was thinking about two things at this moment. So I had another rough patch during all of this. Unfortunately, at the beginning of the year, my grandmother and my father-in-law actually passed away on the same day. So while I’m dealing with all this, I lost them, too.

And my grandmother, if anybody knows me, she does. Hands down, my best friend, best person. So that actually set me back mentally. But a lot of the time that I was going through things, I was always thinking about my grandmother. I basically feel like I got the ability to be strong from her.

So anytime any situation comes up, I’m always hearing her in my brain, “Hey, I know you’ve just overcome, you just have another obstacle, but, hey, let’s do this.” Literally, I feel like my grandmother was just always talking to me.

And so I always talk about my husband as well being a good influence, too. So I would think about him, and then I would think about my grandma, and I’m like, “Okay. All right, Grandma, I got this. I can do this.”

That’s the only way I think that I would have made it through. But I mean, obviously, if she had been here, that would have helped me too. But just thinking about her a lot helped me get through this. Definitely. Hands down.

Readjusting to life in Atlanta after Chicago

It’s been a slight adjustment. Number one, because I actually love Chicago. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t. I mean, that’s like my second home at this point. I love that place. But it has been an adjustment, especially coming back home. I have a lot of stairs in my home. So having all these steps has been a lot versus in Chicago, it’s mostly flat. So that’s been crazy.

But I’ve actually been really busy since I’ve gotten back between advocacy and speaking engagements. I’ve been to doctors’ appointments. At one point, I think I had one day where I literally had nothing to do, and that was last week. But every day since I’ve come home, there’s been something to do. And of course, you know, I want to see my friends and everybody else. So we’ve started to get together.

So I’ve been busy, and I haven’t had a lot of problems since I’ve been here. Things have been really good since I’ve been home.

Staying busy after transplant and treatment

I guess you can say I’ve really been busy, even prior to just coming back home. I will say that when I was in Chicago, it had gotten kind of hard for me because I was so involved in everything. I was so tired. It was at a point where I had to say, “I just can’t do it.”

Because Chicago was actually worse than Atlanta. When I was in Chicago, I mean, I was speaking. I was just completely busy in Chicago. And then when I found out when I was going home, I had like a little Chicago bucket list of things that I wanted to do, as if I wasn’t going back, but I wanted to check the box to try to do this, try to do that.

So when people were coming into town, I think the last three or four months of my being there, I had so many visitors. It was amazing. But every time someone came, we were never at my apartment. We were just out.

So it was very hard to try to entertain people, have fun, and go to doctors’ appointments, but still trying to worry about yourself. But once again, in the back of my mind, I’m thinking, “Hey, I’m still here. I’m in much better shape than I was before.”

Before the transplant, I had to take a nap to function. I do not take a lot of naps. As a matter of fact, I have issues going to sleep. That’s a whole other story. But I just have so much more energy now. It’s the strangest thing.

I mean, of course, if I work out, I’m going to be tired. But I know this is going to sound crazy when I say this, but life is actually pretty darn good. I would say that for me, from where I came from to now, there are so many things that have changed. I’m so much happier. Life is just really good.

I’m getting ready to go on vacation again. What did my husband tell me this morning? It’s in like 40 days. You’re ready to get ready. We’re going on vacation again, so of course that makes me excited. But things are just, things are just really good right now.

Continuing to do what I love, even with cancer

It makes me feel really good because I know a lot of people in my situation who are not able to do the things that I’m doing. I’m not even talking about traveling, just in general, because they’re sick and they can’t travel. I mean, not saying I’m not sick, but they just can’t do the things that I can do. Or mentally, they’re just not there. I mean, physically, you can be okay, but mentally, sometimes, if you’re not there, that can really throw things off.

But I’m just so glad that I can do these things and share my story. I’ve gotten more into advocacy. I wasn’t into advocacy as much. I’ve always done it since I got diagnosed, but something has driven me to go more into it. I think maybe last summer is when I started feeling a little better, and I started saying, “Since I feel better, let me go after it.” Because of course, you know, if you’re feeling good, then that’s when you want to try to do what it is that you can do.

So yeah, I don’t know how I’m actually doing it, but I am doing it, and I just feel good. Do I have issues? Yeah. I mean, to be honest, my back hurts right now. But I mean, I went to get a haircut today. I went and ran another errand. So, you know, I can’t just stop because of a little pain or a little something.

Obviously, if it’s drastic, I’m going to relax and not do as much. But overall, I know it sounds crazy, but as I said, I’m just a lot happier than I was before. But I mean, I do have new lungs, so I’d better be happy.

How I look at the future now

So before I had the double lung transplant, I didn’t think much of the future, just being completely transparent. I wasn’t even sure I was going to make it to five years. So the fact that I’m at five and a half just really means a lot to me.

But now I do look at the future differently. I don’t want to say hesitant, but I’m still kind of on the lookout. I still have anxiety, all of these things. But I’m not as scared or as fearful as I was before, because I feel like this surgery has opened up more healthy opportunities for me.

And I do feel like I’ve been talking to my team about my back, and we’re looking at some curative options for it. But that’s all I’ll say, because I don’t really know much about it. I actually have a meeting with them next week.

So things look like they are continuing to get better, or they do have options for me. Like, for instance, we’ve already talked about this particular chemo. Like, if this chemo doesn’t work, what’s next? So we already have another chemo lined up to try if something goes wrong. So the fact that my team is working with me to go to next steps if we need to makes me feel a whole lot more confident about the future.

As I said, I’m still a little shaky about things just because it’s cancer, and you know how that works. But I feel better. And then, with the lung transplant, I don’t want to use the word worry, but rejection is a possibility.

So not only are you thinking about lung cancer, but you’re thinking about rejection as well. So it’s basically like you’ve got two jobs with two different major medical conditions that you’re having to follow. So I do think about rejection a little bit more than I think about cancer, to be honest with you.

Just because, number one, I don’t want to have another double lung transplant. I don’t, even if I technically qualify, because that surgery was the worst one that I’ve done in my life. But you cannot control rejection. You can treat acute rejection, but you just never know when things are going to go wrong. So that does kind of bother me a little bit more than the cancer situation. So those are things that I still think about.

My message of hope to others with stage 4 lung cancer

I would say miracles do happen. It’s funny because I actually said that when I first had the surgery, and then, three months later, my lung cancer was in my spine. But still, piggybacking off of that, miracles still do happen because my doctors or my team have said, “We can look at curative options for you.” That has never been said before. So that’s something brand-new that gives me hope.

So I would just tell people that, try not to give up, because I know giving up is hard. At one point, I wanted to give up, so I’m not going to even act like I just have had it together all along because I haven’t. I wanted to give up.

But I would encourage people to be as close as possible with your medical team. I think that helps a lot. The better the relationship, the closer you are to them. I mean, I don’t mean you gotta bring them brownies every day or anything, but just try to establish a relationship with them so that you could have better options, better connections.

That’s what I do. I love my whole team in Chicago, in Atlanta. I’ve never had any major issues. Of course, you’re going to have some issues because it’s just healthcare, and then it’s the patient.

But I would just encourage people, don’t give up. Try not to give up and try to establish a good relationship with your healthcare team. It’s just extremely important. If you feel something’s not right, go get another opinion. I don’t know how many opinions I’ve had, but I’ve had enough of them. You know, I’ve had a lot. Let me just say that. I wouldn’t just go off one opinion.

So, I mean, there are so many things I could tell people all day, but just try not to give up because things do change. For instance, with the biomarker thing, I haven’t given up on biomarkers. I mean, I still get tested regularly, even though I don’t think anything is going to ever come up. But I still look for hope. Maybe one day.

Why sharing my story matters

As I said, I just try to encourage people not to give up. And then also, I would try to encourage people to share their story if they feel comfortable.

We all have lung cancer in the community, but our stories and our journeys are not the same. So, whereas I’ve had a double lung transplant, you might have somebody who’s been on targeted therapy for X amount of years or clinical trials. So sharing different versions of stories is very helpful and educational.

So if you feel comfortable and you want to, please share your story. You never know who it’ll help, is what I would finally say.


Natalie B. lung cancer
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Treatments: Surgery (lobectomy), targeted therapy

Categories
Breast Cancer Chemotherapy HER2-Positive Lymphadenectomy Mastectomy Patient Stories Radiation Therapy Surgery Treatments

HER2+, HR-, Inflammatory Breast Cancer in Her 20s: Rebecca’s Story

HER2+, HR-, Inflammatory Breast Cancer in Her 20s: Rebecca on Symptoms, Diagnosis, and Finding Community

HER2-positive inflammatory breast cancer in young adults is often aggressive, fast-moving, and too frequently dismissed by healthcare systems that are not built for younger patients or Indigenous communities. In her late 20s, Rebecca, a First Nations woman originally from Wrigley in the Northwest Territories, noticed a sharp pinch in her armpit while working long hours at a paralegal desk job. She found a cluster of swollen lymph nodes and repeatedly sought help at walk-in clinics in Alberta, only to be brushed off as too young for anything serious.

Interviewed by: Tory Midkiff
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

Months later, after finally convincing a physician to feel the nodes the way she described, a biopsy on January 15, 2020, revealed breast cancer. The doctor told her she might live only three to four years.​​ Stunned and feeling like a shell of a human, Rebecca learned that her disease was HER2-positive (HER2+), hormone receptor-negative (HR-), and inflammatory, with extensive lymph node involvement up to her collarbone, classified as stage 3.

Rebecca W. HER2-positive breast cancer

Rebecca then began intensive chemotherapy just two days before Canada’s COVID lockdown, which meant sitting alone through three- to four-hour infusions, managing severe side effects, and living far from her immediate family. The treatment stripped her hair and sense of control; as an Indigenous woman whose hair is deeply spiritual, Rebecca chose to cut and then shave it herself as an act of reclaiming power.​​

Isolation pushed Rebecca online. Sharing her experience on social media connected her with a network of young people across Canada with similar diagnoses and treatment plans, many also facing aggressive HER2-positive disease in their 20s and 30s. That peer support reshaped how she saw her experience and reminded her she was not alone.

Today, as she approaches six years in remission, Rebecca still lives with scanxiety, yearly scares, and the trauma of nearly being turned away from life-saving care. She channels that experience into her social work, first on the front lines supporting Indigenous patients in hospitals, and now in program and system-level work aimed at dismantling harmful structures. Rebecca is pursuing a master’s degree in community development, determined to change policies so that Indigenous patients and young adults with HER2-positive inflammatory breast cancer are believed, supported, and able to access the care they deserve.​​

Watch Rebecca’s video or read the edited transcript of her interview to take a deeper dive into her story:

  • Self-advocacy can be life-saving, especially when early symptoms such as swollen lymph nodes are dismissed in young adults. Rebecca kept returning to clinics until a doctor finally listened.​
  • HER2-positive inflammatory breast cancer can present in the lymph nodes without a clear breast lump and may be diagnosed at an advanced stage in younger women.​
  • Isolation during chemotherapy and the COVID pandemic increased Rebecca’s emotional load, but connecting with peer communities like Rethink Breast Cancer transformed her experience and reduced her sense of aloneness.​
  • A universal truth for patients: It is valid to feel everything, like grief, anger, fear, and hope, and avoiding those feelings during treatment can make the emotional work of remission even harder.​
  • Rebecca’s transformation, from feeling like a shell of a human to training as a community development leader focused on Indigenous health equity, shows how lived experience can fuel powerful system change.​

  • Name: Rebecca W.
  • Age at Diagnosis:
    • 20s
  • Diagnosis:
    • Inflammatory Breast Cancer
  • Staging:
    • Stage 3C
  • Biomarkers:
    • HER2+
    • HR-
  • Symptom:
    • Appearance of a lump in the right armpit
  • Treatments:
    • Chemotherapy
    • Surgeries: mastectomy, lymphadenectomy
    • Radiation therapy
Rebecca W. HER2-positive breast cancer
Rebecca W. HER2-positive breast cancer
Rebecca W. HER2-positive breast cancer
Rebecca W. HER2-positive breast cancer
Rebecca W. HER2-positive breast cancer
Rebecca W. HER2-positive breast cancer

This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make informed treatment decisions.

The views and opinions expressed in this interview do not necessarily reflect those of The Patient Story.



Introduction and background before diagnosis

My name is Rebecca. I’m First Nations, mixed, and originally from the First Nations community commonly known as Wrigley, Northwest Territories. It’s up in Treaty 11 territory in Canada.

Before my diagnosis, I was in my late 20s and finishing up my social work schooling when that happened. I was in an interesting position in my life. I was transitioning out of the frontline social work field. At that time, in the province that I was living in, there was a political climate change, so there weren’t a lot of jobs for myself working frontline in something that I was passionate about, so I shifted back to what I was doing before going to school, which was a paralegal, so I had shifted into a corporate paralegal position, which I’m very grateful for, because around the time of my diagnosis and throughout my treatment, I was working from home because of COVID. That was also happening during my diagnosis and treatment time. A lot was happening during that time, I will tell you that. I was a newly graduated social worker, just navigating my life with a lot of day-to-day stress, especially the stress of trying to find a new job that aligned with my passion.

First breast cancer symptoms: swollen lymph nodes in my armpit

What initially came to my attention, I think, was in fall 2019. I don’t know exactly which month — it’s October or November-ish. I was a paralegal at the time, so I was spending a lot of time sitting at a desk, and I don’t sit well. I was leaning to my left side, and I felt a pinch in my armpit. I was leaning on my left side, and I felt a pinch in my armpit. I thought, “Oh,” and I went digging around in my armpit, and I felt a swollen lymph node.

I thought, “Okay.” I’ve had swollen lymph nodes throughout my life, on and off. Typically, anytime a doctor has seen them, they were just like, “Oh, it’s fine. You might have an infection somewhere, a bug bite, or something. It’ll go down.” So that’s initially what I thought. I figured I would keep an eye on it.

A couple of weeks — maybe even a month — went by, and I was continuously checking it. I noticed a few more, so that set off some red flags in my head. At that time, I didn’t have a practitioner. I didn’t have a doctor, like a family doctor or anything like that. I just had walk-in clinics. I was living in Alberta at the time, and I went to quite a few walk-in clinics. I had essentially just been brushed off by a few doctors. They were just like, “You’re fine.” Some of them didn’t even really check my armpit, even though I knew exactly how to find it. My arm couldn’t be up; it had to be down, and your fingers had to be in a certain way. I knew exactly how to find the lumps.

I probably saw three or four different doctors. I just kept advocating for myself. I kept going. I kept saying, “There is something wrong. It’s been a month. These are still here, and I feel fine.” There was nothing else that I could feel was wrong with me, but I knew something was wrong. By the fourth or fifth doctor — I honestly can’t be sure exactly — I went in and said, “Look, you have to feel this. Something’s wrong.” I’m grateful for that one last doctor who felt them. He said, “Oh, interesting. And it’s been this long?” I said, “Yeah, and I’m really sick of constantly going in to see these other doctors that just don’t listen to me. I know this needs to be looked at.”

Being dismissed by doctors and pushing for answers

The doctor said, “Yeah, this is interesting,” and he asked me if I had been breastfeeding and all these other things. I said no. At that time, I truly had no idea that the lymph nodes in my armpits were connected to this part of my body, my breast. I honestly had no idea. I don’t have a medical background.

He submitted a referral for an ultrasound. I had my ultrasound around the end of the year in December. I went in for my ultrasound; everything seemed fine. They didn’t tell me anything. They said I would get my results within the new year.

Early January, I got a call from that doctor. He said, “They want to send you in for a biopsy.” I said, “Okay.” My biopsy was scheduled for January 15, 2020. I went into the hospital by myself because I didn’t think anything of it. Nobody thinks of cancer. Even if you’re a mild hypochondriac like myself, you think of anything else, but truly, the last thing you think of is cancer.

I went for my biopsy. The doctor and a nurse were there, and they were both very kind — almost a little too overbearing for my personal taste. We did the biopsy. It was painful. It honestly wasn’t the greatest thing. I remember the doctor took the sample and walked like four steps to his little microscope or whatever it’s called, turned around, and said, “Rebecca, I’m sorry. It’s cancer.”

I sat up, and the nurse tried to comfort me. I said, “No, I’m good.” I looked at him and said, “What do you mean it’s cancer? I’m in my 20s.” He said, “Yeah, there are a lot of cancer cells in this sample that we took. I’m really sorry.” I asked, “What do you mean? What kind? What are you talking about?” He said, “It’s breast cancer.”

I remember all the moisture in my mouth was gone, and I started making these really odd jokes. It was such a blur while this doctor was talking to me, and the nurse was trying to squeeze my hand and rub my back. A lot was coming at me. I remember specifically looking at the doctor. He asked, “Are you okay?” because I was laughing. He said, “It’s fine. You’re in shock.” I said, “Yeah, I’m in shock. You just told me that I’m essentially going to die.” I was joking, but that’s how it felt.

He looked at me dead in the eye and said, “No. I’m not telling you you’re going to die. People with this diagnosis typically can live three to four years.” Everything came back to reality. I thought, “I’m in my 20s. You’re telling me now that I have a life expectancy of three to four years?” I thought, “I’m good, I’m done.” I got up, grabbed my clothes, and said, “I’m out.” That was how it ended. I didn’t have any more information after that.

I left with that doctor’s sentence in my head — that I could live up to three to four years. I’m in my 20s. That’s not something you want to hear. I gathered my things, and at the time, my partner picked me up. He surprised me outside of the hospital and said, “I’m here.” We went and debriefed, had some dinner. I don’t think I slept that night. It was such a weird, surreal feeling because nothing really lands when you get that information. Your body and your brain are battling each other for what is real and what’s not. You’re trying to find ways to cope, but it’s just a lot. That was January 15, 2020.

How medical gaslighting impacts Indigenous patients

I don’t think there was any inclination for me to think that I had cancer, but I knew something was wrong. I was frustrated. I felt like all the doctors looked at me like I was being a hypochondriac and that I was too young for anything serious. Being turned away that many times is so defeating.

This is a main reason why my social work has led me into the healthcare field and advocating for Indigenous populations. I think of other Indigenous people going into these systems, like healthcare, that have historically harmed our people. We already have a mistrust of a system like this. To be able to go in and be vulnerable — saying, “I’m seeking help” — and to be turned away so many times, no wonder Indigenous people, Indigenous women, are being diagnosed at later stages.

I’m a stubborn person. I have a history of advocating for myself because I was fortunate enough to go to school, especially in a field like social work, where you’re trained to advocate for people. That is mostly what education is and what the careers are: advocating. I already knew how to advocate for myself. I was already a very stubborn woman. But my brain automatically thinks of all the women and people who go and seek help from these systems and are getting turned away.

Starting cancer care after diagnosis

It makes me sick to my stomach and honestly ignites this passion for my work. In terms of myself, there was never a feeling that it could have been cancer. I just knew there was something wrong. I was defeated and very frustrated that nobody would listen to me. I even had my boyfriend at the time and my family members saying, “You’re fine, you’re fine.” And I was like, “I know I’m not.” I know I’m a little bit of a hypochondriac, but I just needed somebody to listen to me and not brush me off.

The beginning of care started the next morning after my confirmation that it was cancer. I didn’t know anything else, and I did my best to stay off of Google because I knew that would spiral me. I still do that to this day — if I have something wrong with me, I’ll Google it. But at that time, I was grateful I stayed off Google. I didn’t know anything. I knew it was breast cancer and that a doctor told me I could live three to four years. That was all the information I had.

The next morning, I got a phone call from the cancer care clinic. A lovely nurse said, “I am so sorry for your recent diagnosis. We got your file. This is what the plan is moving forward.” Because I didn’t have a family doctor, they were going to take over my file. Any updates on tests and things? They would be the main contact people.

She said I had a referral to an oncologist and would eventually see an oncologist. I also had a referral for a surgeon. But before seeing them, I had tests: a CT scan, an MRI, a PET scan, and a bone density scan. I had four or five scans all in a row. That week, moving forward, I was just in scan after scan.

Undergoing scans and feeling alone at the cancer center

Before that, I had never even broken a bone. I had never needed a scan. I didn’t know what I was going into. I had never spent so much time in a hospital. It was weird because I would go into these rooms waiting for scans, all through the cancer center, and I was the youngest person in the room. It felt really isolating. I felt so alone.

I had people look at me oddly, almost pitifully. I didn’t even know what was going on. Weeks after my official diagnosis, I did all my scans and had an appointment, my initial appointment with a surgeon. I met with the surgeon before I met with my oncologist. I mildly remember the appointment. I’m mostly going off what my boyfriend at the time relayed, because I was in full shutdown mode. There was no information that anybody could give me that I would retain. It was just in and out. I was like a shell of a human, truly. My full fight-or-flight mode was nonexistent.

Meeting the surgeon who changed my mindset

I was truly existing as a shell of a human. It was an odd sensation for sure. I met with a surgeon, this young, badass South Asian woman. She looked at me and said, “How are you feeling?” I said, “I feel nothing.” Anybody who knows me, especially my therapist, would laugh because I say that a lot. “I feel nothing.” It’s an odd coping mechanism, but I said, “I feel nothing. This has been a lot.”

I told her, “I don’t know anything. It’s been weeks of scans. All I know is I have breast cancer, and it’s really bad, because I’m only going to live a few years.” She looked at me and said, “You’re in your 20s.” I said, “I’m aware of my age.” She said, “I’m not signing your death certificate. I don’t care what is going on or what anybody told you before. We’re throwing the entire kitchen sink at it. I’m not scared of what’s going to happen next. You’re going to be fine.”

I think that was the first time that I actually felt a mild sense of peace. I still didn’t really know what was going on, but nobody had really talked to me like that before. She was so confident in everything she was telling me that I felt mildly okay. I came back into the room a little bit.

She said they didn’t officially stage my diagnosis yet, but at that time, I knew exactly what kind of breast cancer I had. I had HER2-positive breast cancer, hormone-negative, and the inflammatory kind. She said, “We don’t know the stage yet; we’re still waiting for your PET scan results to come back. The plan moving forward: you’ll get more information when you meet your oncologist, but we’re going to do chemo first, and then this is where I come in. We’re going to do surgery, and then, I assume, radiation after that. I’m in charge of the surgery. We’ll see what we want to do depending on how you react to chemo.”

Surgical decisions and wishing I’d had a double mastectomy

She said that, depending on the lymph nodes, how many are impacted, and how many we need to take out, we would decide. At that point, I didn’t have a tumor. Some of the scans showed my lymph nodes in my armpit were so cancerous — using that really scary word “metastasized.” They were so heavy in cancer, but there was a spot in my left breast on the far left that had pre-cancer cells. There was no actual tumor, so they think the cancer originally started in my armpit.

She said we would go from there and see how the chemo goes. I remember looking at her and saying, “Take everything.” She said, “What do you mean?” I said, “I want a double mastectomy. Take it all. I’m pissed off now. I’m pissed off that I’m sick. I’m pissed off that a doctor told me I’m only going to live a couple of years, and I’m pissed off at my boobs. They’re trying to kill me. Take them, take them.”

“I remember her saying, ‘Okay, I understand. What you’re feeling is valid.’” But she also said, “You’re in your 20s. You don’t have kids. I don’t want to do that yet. I want you to be able to, if you do end up having kids, maybe breastfeed.” She gave me that option, but she didn’t really consider the double mastectomy.

Looking back, I really wish she did. I wish she had listened to me a little more in terms of me wanting a double mastectomy because years later, I’m still dealing with a lot of fallout from that choice.

From there, I met with her and then got the PET scan results. I met with my oncologist and was officially staged at stage 3 — so the last stage before it becomes stage 4, which is classified as incurable. The cancer had spread all the way up to my collarbone in the lymph nodes, and there was no detection of it anywhere else. I was very grateful for that diagnosis. Then I started chemo. I started chemo two days before Canada officially went into COVID lockdown. Two days before.

Starting chemotherapy at the beginning of the COVID lockdown

I lived eight hours plus from any of my immediate family. I had friends and my boyfriend at the time was there with me. But because of COVID — and as you know, chemotherapy really messes with your immune system — I was absolutely terrified to be anywhere.

I got my first infusion of chemo on a Saturday. Then, I think it was Tuesday or Wednesday, I was in the office. I hadn’t felt the side effects from the chemo yet; it usually took a couple of days. We got sent home. They packed us up with all of our stuff, and the country was officially in lockdown. I went back home, and that was basically my life from there. Then the chemo effects started coming up.

Chemo alone, isolation, and dangerous side effects

In terms of isolation, my first appointment, my partner at the time did come with me, which was great. There wasn’t a mask requirement at that point. But for my next treatment, scheduled every three weeks, I had to go in with a full mask. My hair had already fallen out by then. I walked in, and the hospital was scary. There was nobody. There usually weren’t many people because it was a Saturday, but this was a bare-bones staff. Everybody there for treatment was on their own. I couldn’t bring anybody. It sucked for sure.

You have a lot of time to sit in your own thoughts, which can be a good or bad thing. I found ways: I listened to music and podcasts. My chemo infusions were three to four hours long. I was also living alone. Throughout a lot of my chemo infusions and the whole process of chemo — I had six infusions — it was scary because I was alone for a lot of it.

My side effects were quite consistent, but at first I didn’t know what to expect. I had a list of potential side effects, but, obviously, it depends on the person. It’s funny because I got it down to literal days when I felt certain about things. I knew what was coming. It was definitely scary.

I had times where, in the third week after my infusion — just when my body would start feeling better — I’d get hit with a massive nosebleed to the point where I passed out because there was so much blood. I would wake up and think, “Oh,” seeing blood all over the floor. I would be alone. Thank God I woke up. There were scary moments like that. I did a lot of this alone, and it was very isolating.

I had nobody in my life who knew what this felt like. I didn’t know anybody with a young cancer diagnosis. I had grandparents who had colon cancer, but they were in their 90s, and I remember how horrible that was. But during COVID and cancer, I had nobody to lean on.

Finding the young breast cancer community through social media

I decided, about a month after I was diagnosed, to share it online. I thought, “There have to be other people out there,” and I needed that because, after my diagnosis, once I started getting more information about my staging and the chemotherapy I was on, I started going on Google, learning more about my survival rate and all this horrible stuff. I don’t recommend anybody Googling anything.

I put it out there on social media and started sharing my journey. Actually, I shared my journey, period. I shared it all. I was connected to this community — shout out to Rethink Breast Cancer. They’re an Instagram page and social media platform designed for a young community impacted by breast cancer and other cancers. I found women all over Canada, literally diagnosed with either the same staging or a similar kind of breast cancer, at my age. I recall a young girl in Ontario. We had almost a mirrored experience, except she had hormone-positive breast cancer. It was the same staging, our treatments were around the same time, and we connected online.

I’m so grateful to be connected to a community that knew what I was going through. It shows the importance of peer support — knowing you’re not alone, even if you are physically alone. That online community really changed my outlook on my treatment and my overall expectations and realities, just knowing that I’m not alone.

Cutting and shaving my hair: Indigenous identity and chemo hair loss

It was a lot. That was my first infusion, and about one week after. My hair was quite long; it reached my hips. When I knew I was going to get chemotherapy, I cut my hair super short, collarbone length, because in my head it would be less traumatic for my hair to fall out shorter than if it were 22 inches long. I got a bob cut by this lovely lady whose mom had also had breast cancer. She knew exactly what she was doing. She said, “I cut her hair before she started chemo. It definitely helps with the process, because losing your hair is traumatic.”

As an Indigenous woman, I really value our hair. It’s an extension of our spirit. Losing my hair was honestly horrible. But being able to decide to shorten it at that time was empowering. It sucked that I didn’t have people with me. I had my partner at the time, but I had plans to share this moment with many of my girlfriends who understood the importance of my hair from a spiritual perspective. Because it was COVID, I didn’t have that support, unfortunately.

But on a positive note, I was able to share it online. I received a lot of support that way. One morning — not even a week after my first infusion — I woke up and my scalp hurt. I put my hair in a little scrunchie to wash my face. When I pulled the scrunchie out, a massive clump of hair came with it. I thought, “Okay, it’s happening.” I looked at my scalp, and it was covered in red bumps and was so inflamed. I couldn’t even brush my hair. I ran my fingers through it, and clumps were falling out.

I called my boyfriend and said, “Hey, I’m going to need to use your shaver. This is painful, and it’s traumatic that it’s just coming out in clumps. I don’t want to deal with this.” I asked him to record it, and I shaved it.

Shaving my head to take back some control

It’s so hard to lose all control. You don’t have any control. You’re just there, hoping the chemo does what it needs to do. It literally takes the life out of you. It took my hair.

I think making that choice to shave it at that time was like taking a little bit of power back. I could have just left it and let it fall out in clumps. I shaved it short, and I didn’t lose all my hair right away. It wasn’t until the third infusion that I was slick bald — no hair, nothing. But I’m glad I decided to shave my head when I did. At least this I could control. I was taking a little bit of my power back. It was a decision I was making, not the chemo.

Reaching six years in remission and wanting to confront that first doctor

It feels good. I honestly want to go up to that doctor and tell him to go f*** himself, to be honest with you. I hope he somehow sees that and thinks, “Oh, okay, maybe I shouldn’t say this to people.” Or maybe my oncologist or my surgeon figured out who he was and told him, “Can you stop and maybe have some bedside manner?”

But it feels good. It feels good to get to that point. I think you always carry a fear of recurrence. I’m going into my sixth year of remission, and I’m still dealing with a really deep fear of it coming back. Any headache that lasts too long, any bone pain or discomfort, you’re immediately brought back to that state where you’re just like, “Oh, okay.”

Your oncologist teaches you that if something sticks around for more than two weeks, they’ll ask you to come back. I don’t have an oncologist anymore, and that’s another thing I don’t really enjoy being this far back. For myself, I really got attached to my oncologist, my follow-up oncologist. He was in my life for five years after the hardest time.

Life after treatment: anxiety, trauma, and the challenges of remission

The treatment — the 11 months of treatment — sucked. It wasn’t fun at all. But looking back now, you were dealing with effects that were there and immediate. You felt them and processed them because they were right in front of you.

In terms of moving forward after cancer treatment and after everything, remission is just as hard, I find. It’s more mentally exhausting. My anxiety is through the roof. I’m fully on anxiety medication; my anxiety is constant. Having cancer and going through something like that is trauma. You’re dealing with that aftermath, and I don’t think you really realize it until you’re on the other side. It’s great, and we’re happy that we’re here, and it was a hard road to get there. But remission and moving forward are still really hard, and it’s still a battle.

I’m very grateful for my oncologist. He knows that I spiraled and that I continue to spiral. He was always very upfront and frank with me: “Rebecca, calm down. Rebecca, don’t do this. Rebecca, don’t do that.” He was very direct with me, and it’s something I needed.

Every single year since being in remission, I’ve had some scare. I’m actually dealing with that right now. Last summer, I had a scare because I found a swollen lymph node in my armpit, and I spiraled because that’s exactly how I found my original cancer. After further investigation, they said, “You’re good.” I thought, “Perfect.”

This year, because I still get scans every year, I just got my scan, and they found something suspicious. Now I’m waiting for an ultrasound. It is truly never-ending. You just have to have faith that everything happens for a reason and that you’re going to be okay. Whatever the future holds, you can deal with it. But it’s always going to be scary, especially now that I don’t have an oncologist anymore. I do have a family doctor now, and I’m very grateful for her and her communication.

It’s nice to be on this other side, of course, but cancer is a disease and something that is unfortunately going to be there for a long time.

How cancer and lived experience shaped my career path

My line of work is kind of all over the place, but if I were to describe it succinctly, I just want to be able to change systems.

Seeing the way people look at you, being turned away from services, being treated differently because of the way you look or speak or the color of your skin or the way you choose to practice your spirituality — that shouldn’t be the life we’re living, especially in 2026.

After my cancer, I moved to British Columbia, where I live now. I went straight into a frontline hospital role. That was still peak COVID because I moved in December 2020. I had just finished radiation. In my brain, I needed change. I couldn’t sit in Alberta anymore. I needed to go somewhere and find a place where I was actually doing social work. Thankfully, I received a position where I would be on the frontline in a hospital, working alongside and with Indigenous patients in a hospital setting. I moved and relocated for that job.

For two years, I was working on the frontline with individuals coming in and out from rural and remote communities and urban Indigenous populations in a hospital. As somebody with experience navigating hospital systems — which are horrible, large, and difficult to navigate, and also terrifying in themselves — it was a lot. Healthcare historically has harmed our people and continues to do so. It’s a scary place as an Indigenous person.

I had really short hair, and I felt really empowered. I felt that sense of passion again because I was able to advocate for those people who felt like they didn’t have a voice. It was really powerful. I had numerous patients. It took me a while; there were times I had young Indigenous patients dealing with cancer diagnoses, and it took me time to have the courage to talk to them. It really was a trigger for me. It probably took six or seven months before I could go and speak to these young, later-stage diagnosed Indigenous patients.

I’m really glad I took the time I needed to heal that trauma or trigger within me. Once I was able to talk to them and tell them my story — because I knew how much peer support helped me during my diagnosis and treatment — that changed the game for me. That became my thing.

From frontline social work to system change and policy

I would talk to all of these young or older Indigenous people — whatever stage in life they were at — getting the news of their diagnosis and whatever stage in treatment they were at. Cancer looks different for every person, but many of the processes and stages going through the hospital system are similar. Sharing my story and letting them see me on the other side is really important.

I’m no longer working on the frontline. I needed a break. Ten years of frontline social work takes a lot out of you, and I felt ready for something bigger. I moved into more of a program development role. The cancer diagnosis and my experience working on the frontline have shaped my career in a way that I want to change policies and systems. Someone who has had their feet on the ground and experienced these systems — the good and the bad — has a voice that’s missing from many bigger systems, from people who sit in those ivory towers.

I feel like many of them don’t have that experience. They don’t try to uplift the voices of the people on the ground. For me, coming from the ground and moving up, that is the goal and will continue to be my goal.

I’m now going to do my master’s in community development, and I hope that manifests into something bigger. I want to move and shake and dismantle a lot of these systems that have harmed our people and continue to harm them. I’m hoping to continue uplifting Indigenous peoples’ voices, so there is hopefully a day when we don’t have to be scared to enter a healthcare system or any big system.

Processing cancer trauma and the need to grieve

I did want to touch on processing your diagnosis. I’m in therapy now. When you’re going through treatment, you’re offered support from a social worker or counselor. I tried all of that throughout my time in treatment, and I didn’t feel like I got anything from talk therapy. I felt like I needed a lot more.

I’m seeing a specialized trauma therapist now and have been for almost two years. I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned that I haven’t actually processed the grief from my diagnosis. I haven’t processed a lot of things in my life, but one of the biggest things I’ve learned in trauma therapy is that I did not allow myself to grieve my diagnosis and my treatment, and those 11 months of going through some of the worst times in my life. I didn’t allow space for that. I didn’t even allow myself to cry.

I realize now you don’t think about it at the time. When I got diagnosed, I didn’t cry. I remember my mouth getting really dry, and I got angry, but I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel sad for myself. I didn’t feel shame or guilt. I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel grief like I should have. I think that is really important.

Moving through such a life-altering diagnosis, there is a time to be strong. Looking back, my brain shifted immediately into fight mode. I thought, “I don’t have time for anything else because I’m in fight mode. I’m going to do this. I’m going to beat this. I’m going to tell that doctor who said I would only live three to four years that I beat that.”

But I also think I did myself a disservice because now I’m dealing with a lot of the remnants from not allowing myself to grieve and not giving myself space to cry. I gave myself space to be angry, but not for anything else.

I think it’s really important to allow yourself to cry, to grieve, to be happy, to be angry — feel all the things. After getting a diagnosis like this and moving through all of the processes, allow yourself to cry. Allow yourself to grieve. Allow yourself to be happy and angry. Feel all of the things because when it’s time to fight, that will happen. At the beginning and in all the in-betweens, allow yourself to feel everything. Having that sit in and fester develops into other things like cancer, depression, and so many other things. It’s really important: feel everything.


Rebecca W. HER2-positive breast cancer
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Breast Cancer Cancers Herceptin (trastuzumab) Metastatic Metastatic Monoclonal antibody drug Patient Stories Perjeta (pertuzumab) Radiation Therapy Treatments

Christina Used AI to Help Navigate a Stage 4 Breast Cancer Diagnosis

Christina Used AI to Help Navigate a Stage 4 Breast Cancer Diagnosis

In August 2024, Christina was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. Her experience began months earlier with symptoms she initially mistook for a common cold, including congestion and swelling in her neck. Despite seeing her general practitioner weekly for six months, her concerns were often dismissed until she discovered a lump in her breast, which finally triggered the necessary diagnostic imaging and biopsies. The cancer was identified as estrogen-negative and HER2-positive, having spread to her lymph nodes and liver.

Interviewed by: Nikki Murphy
Edited by: Chris Sanchez

The emotional turning point for Christina occurred when her breast cancer treatment plan shifted from curative to palliative after a CT scan revealed liver involvement. Initially heartbroken by the “mountain climb” ahead, she moved through a period of numbness into a state of determined acceptance. She realized she could not remain in a state of constant anxiety and adopted the mantra, “I can do this,” focusing on one step at a time rather than an uncertain future.

Christina W. breast cancer

To process the complexities of her estrogen-negative, HER2-positive breast cancer diagnosis, Christina created “Chemo Belle,” a YouTube channel featuring over 50 original songs about her experiences. She also integrated AI tools like ChatGPT to help prepare for appointments and manage the daily logistics of life with cancer, such as meal planning and preparing for appointments. By sharing her story and music, she aims to provide a voice for others feeling isolated by the disease.

Watch Christina’s video or read the edited interview transcript below to learn more about her story.

  • The necessity of self-advocacy. Christina’s experience highlights the importance of persistent self-advocacy, as it took six months of reporting symptoms before her concerns were taken seriously.
  • Creative outlets as therapy. Using songwriting and art allowed Christina to process “scanxiety” and the emotional ups and downs of a metastatic diagnosis.
  • Utilizing AI can help patients prepare for appointments and feel less alone in navigating the day-to-day logistics of a cancer diagnosis. But they never replace talking to your medical team.
  • Acceptance over combat. Christina found strength by choosing to love her body rather than “fighting” it, moving from a place of fear to one of grounded resilience.
  • Life does not stop for a diagnosis. Finding joy in small moments, like a family trip or a new pet, is vital for maintaining mental health during treatment.

  • Name: Christina W.
  • Diagnosis:
    • Breast Cancer
  • Age at Diagnosis:
    • 45
  • Staging:
    • Stage 4
  • Mutation:
    • HER2+
    • ER-
  • Symptoms:
    • Extreme fatigue
    • Head and neck felt swollen
    • Clogged lymph nodes
    • Appearance of a lump in the breast
  • Treatments:
    • Monoclonal antibodies: trastuzumab, pertuzumab
    • Radiation therapy
Christina W. breast cancer
Christina W. breast cancer
Christina W. breast cancer
Christina W. breast cancer
Christina W. breast cancer
Christina W. breast cancer
Christina W. breast cancer
Christina W. breast cancer

This interview has been edited for clarity and length. This is not medical advice. Please consult with your healthcare provider to make informed treatment decisions.

The views and opinions expressed in this interview do not necessarily reflect those of The Patient Story.



Chemo Belle YouTube channel and AI cancer songs

Hi, I’m Christina. In August 2024, I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. It’s estrogen negative and HER2 positive. I first had it in my breast, my lymph nodes under my armpit, and my liver.

I created my YouTube channel to house my project called Chemo Belle. It happened because I started making AI cancer songs for me to sing and to put my emotions and everything I was going through into a song, just to process it into an art form. So yeah, my YouTube Chemo Belle kind of holds all that. I have over 50 songs now, and they range over the whole gamut of my cancer journey, from the first day of being told I had cancer and how that felt, to having scanxiety, going through the CT scan and having contrast, and how that makes you feel like you’re going to pee your pants. I even wrote a song about people giving me advice and how sometimes it’s wacky. That one’s called “Drink Some Celery,” because sometimes people give wacky advice. Some of my songs make me laugh, some of them make me cry. It’s all the experiences that I’ve gone through and how much up and down and everything around this cancer journey can bring you through. And I’m so glad that I’ve had that creative space because it made my journey a lot better, as far as it could get better. I think it was really good for me and my mental health and my physical health to be able to do something creative like this.

I feel like I’m sharing with people, too, and giving a voice and a language and maybe even a way you can communicate with your family and friends. You can hear the songs and relate and know how to speak to others. It’s kind of like The Patient Story. I started watching The Patient Story since day one because you’re lost and you feel isolated. I was like, I need more information. So I went on YouTube, and The Patient Story was one of the main channels that I watched. After that, I thought, okay, these are people who know what’s going on. They have the same experiences as I, and I can figure out that maybe things might be okay, and I don’t have to spiral into being super scared and anxious. Really, you’re not in this cancer bubble; nobody really knows what it’s like unless you’re there. Hearing other people tell their stories was super important to me. I’ve been in it for over a year. So thank you.

Early symptoms before breast cancer diagnosis

In January 2024, actually at Christmas right before, I felt like I had a cold or something was happening. I felt clogged up and swollen around my head and neck, and I thought, “Okay, that’s probably just a cold.” I let it go a bit, but then it got way worse. My whole neck and head became swollen, and I thought, “Hey, this in the back of my neck is serious.” Plus, I started to be super exhausted. I was exhausted like “pregnancy exhausted,” where you have to sleep and there’s nothing you can do. So I thought, this is really wrong. In January, I started going to my GP, telling him all these symptoms and begging him to do something about it. I don’t know why, but I had to convince him, I guess.

I’ve heard this on The Patient Story quite a lot, that people have to really advocate for themselves, that actually something is wrong, and you need to listen. I saw him every week for six months. Every time I went in there, I told him, look, I’m super sick. There’s something wrong with me. Thank goodness I found the lump in my breast. I found it, and I went back there and said, hey, I just found this lump.

Missed symptoms, self‑advocacy, and finding the breast lump

I asked, “Could that be something going on?” Then I was rushed into a mammogram, and that scene. It was bittersweet when he called me and said, “Hey, we think you have cancer.” It was like, really? I’ve been telling you. I was almost begging for blood tests or something. One of the things that was so aggravating was that when I went in there, he would say, “Well, you can only talk about one thing.” But I had a whole bunch of things going on, and how was I supposed to know which one thing, because I’m not a doctor? At that point, I didn’t have the words to even describe what was going on.

I googled it and thought I had meningitis, like my whole neck and my brain were swollen. That was because of my lymph nodes. I had cancer in my lymph nodes, and it was all backed up. But when I said, hey, I think I have meningitis, he laughed at me. I couldn’t believe it. Thankfully, I found the lump because it wasn’t just in my breast, it was in my liver too.

And had I not found that, I’m not sure what would have happened. Thankfully, my breast was like, “Hey, let me help you out here a bit.” Then he called me and said, “You have cancer.” I said, “Well, let’s wait till I get the biopsy before we say that I have cancer.” After the mammogram, I went to a concert with my daughter in Montreal, and I was exhausted, but I wanted to go. There were a lot of times when I wanted to pretend that things were okay. I was pushing myself, and I didn’t want them to know anything was serious. So I went on this trip, and I kind of knew that I had cancer. Mentally, it was probably not the best idea to go on a trip.

When I got back, I got the biopsy, and I went by myself. I drove myself, and I thought, I’m being independent, I can do this. But really, that was terrible, and I should have had somebody help me because it was a huge needle and it sucked.

How self‑advocacy might have changed my cancer story

Advocating for myself was difficult during that time because he had been my GP, my family doctor, since I was ten. That was almost 40 years of seeing this doctor. I really couldn’t believe that he wasn’t listening to me or taking me seriously. I was about to get a second opinion because I couldn’t cope or live with what was happening to me. I had to get help.

Thankfully, I felt my breast. I had no idea I was going to have breast cancer. I just felt like having a regular shower. I wasn’t checking for anything, and I was just like, “Oh.” It was a fluke that I found something. Had I not found something, I don’t even really want to think about it because my liver being involved would have gotten serious. I don’t know. Thinking about that makes me want to cry because I’m just so glad that I found this lump. Then I got the biopsy, and things really went into high gear.

Other symptoms my doctor didn’t take seriously

It was more than a head cold. I thought my brain was swollen. My two ears were clogged so much that I couldn’t hear. I even tried to put myself upside down just to relieve the pressure, and that helped a little bit. The exhaustion was next‑level exhaustion. My whole body just felt so heavy, and at first I did think it was a cold, but then it became way too much to bear.

Breast cancer diagnosis phone call at home

I was at home when the doctor called after my biopsy. I couldn’t believe it, but there was also a feeling of relief because now I knew what it was. I didn’t have to beg to be seen or be in a place of unknowing. Now it had a name, and I thought, “Okay, now we can do something about it.” But I was pretty scared. This was before the CT scan, so I hadn’t found out yet that it was in my liver. I thought it was breast cancer. I knew it was in my armpit as well because they biopsied there and here. I wasn’t prepared for my liver being affected. That was next-level.

Finding out that it was stage 4 metastatic to the liver

I found out that it was stage 4 in my liver after I had seen the breast surgeon, who was an hour away from my city. Because the waiting lists are huge around here, I had to drive an hour away. I had a meeting with her, I had a meeting with the chemo oncologist and the radiation oncologist, so I had my team put together. The plan was going to be chemotherapy, surgery, and then radiation or something like that, with chemo first.

About two months later, I went for a full‑body CT scan or an MRI, and then the surgeon called and said, “Unfortunately, it’s in your liver, so the plan is going to change.” That’s when I first realized cancer just flips. Once you think you’re on this road of the cancer journey, it will go another way. You can’t really rely on anything; the only thing you can rely on is that cancer does its own thing. I was heartbroken. I thought, “Oh my God, what does this even mean?” We had a plan, and we were going to be cancer-free in a year. The doctors told me this is like a mountain climb, and we’re going to do it one step at a time and get there. Then that just all vanished.

Now it was like, “Okay, we’re going to change the whole thing.” It’s not going to be curative anymore. Now the treatment plan is palliative. I thought, “Okay, I don’t even know what these words mean.” I had to educate myself and not spiral into, “Does that mean I’m going to be dying soon?” It didn’t mean that, but at the time, I had no idea. My brain went everywhere. So yeah, we cried a lot.

Telling my husband and mom about stage 4 breast cancer

I told my husband or my mom first; I can’t remember. Telling my mom was bizarre. I was texting her, like, “Hey, they think I have cancer, I have a tumor.” She was like, “What?” I was trying to text her because I couldn’t even say it. I couldn’t bring myself to say it. She called me right away and said, “Explain everything. What is happening?”

Even then, I didn’t know it was stage 4 yet, but it was so difficult to say, “I have cancer.” I could never think of saying that or having that happen to me. When it was stage 4, and I told my husband that it was in my liver, we didn’t know what that meant or what was going to happen. It was like, “Let’s just wait and see. Let’s wait and see.” The anxiety was so high. I had to get mental health help to figure things out because I couldn’t drive anymore. My anxiety was so bad because I would just drop into, “Oh crap, I have cancer.” Reality would disappear just like that. That was a really rough time.

From fear and panic to numbness and acceptance

The fear shifted to determination because I couldn’t stay in that moment or that anxiety. I physically wasn’t able to. I had to accept it and say, “Okay, I’m going to get over this. We’re going to do it one step at a time. Let’s see what happens.” That was survival mode.

But before acceptance was numbness, where I had to turn everything off. I couldn’t feel happy or enjoy anything, but I wasn’t scared, and I wasn’t sad either. I had to go through numbness first. Then I thought, “Okay, I’m going to accept it.” I don’t even want to say the word fight. I don’t want to go down that road. For me, it’s my body, and it’s counterintuitive for me to be like, “I hate you, my breasts.” That was a bit of a mind challenge as well because I wanted to be strong, but I still wanted to love myself and not feel hate toward any part of me. 

Breast cancer treatment plan, chemo, trastuzumab, pertuzumab

The treatment started with chemo. The laundry list is chemo with trastuzumab and pertuzumab. I had a reaction to the chemo, so I also had to take Benadryl, which I hated. I’m not sure how many rounds I had, but it was three months of chemo. Then my hands started to drop everything. I got the dropsies, and I mentioned that. They stopped it right away. She called the doctor before they had put the IV in, and then I was just on trastuzumab and pertuzumab, so no Benadryl, no chemo at that point. After three months, I think that was January of 2025, I’ve been on trastuzumab and pertuzumab ever since. I go and get treatment every three weeks.

It was working. My liver is clear, and my breast is gone. I mean, the tumor in my breast is gone. Now there’s just a tiny little bit left in my armpit. I did have some progression in my armpit, and I found that out because I was having shortness of breath. They had me go to the emergency room, and I got an emergency CT scan, so I kind of cheat‑coded and got one early. That showed that they were growing here, so there was concern. That brought me to radiation. I had radiation for five days straight, every day for five days. Since then, I go every three weeks for my IV treatment at the chemo ward. I feel like I work there now. I feel like I’m always there. As far as the plan goes, that’s what it is indefinitely. I’ll have a treatment.

Living with indefinite HER2-targeted treatment

My life has changed in every possible way. Cancer touches everything. Not only my life, but my family. It’s all centered around my treatments now. For a long while, one of my symptoms from chemo was diarrhea. That was serious, so I couldn’t do a lot of the things I really wanted to do, like traveling and going out. That was a big deal. Thankfully, that has subsided. I used to take Imodium all the time, and now I don’t. I’m dealing with the side effects. I’ll be a little tired right after I get my treatment. It’s a lot better now. At the beginning, it was terrible, especially with the chemo.

I lost my hair. I did have short hair before; I even had a buzz cut. But when it’s not your choice, and your hair is falling out, that makes it really upsetting. I knew for sure. I thought, wow, I’m a cancer patient, and I’m in chemo, and my little tiny hair was in my hand. That was really emotional.

My life now is okay. I’m going to quote, unquote, “Be okay.” It’s not really okay, but I can do this. That’s what I tell myself all the time: I can do this. Right now, that’s my first line of treatment, and hopefully things are okay. I still have a little bit of stubborn tumors here that are still there. I just got the results from a CT scan last week. They’re still there, but they actually said they just need to be watched. They didn’t use the word progression or anything. They’re just hanging out. I guess they like me. I have faith that they’re going to get out of here soon. You know what, with stage 4 cancer, I think I’m doing pretty well. So yeah.

How I mentally prepare for IV infusions every three weeks

The day before, I have big‑time anxiety. I wait for that call. They call me just to confirm, and I say, “Yeah, I will be there.” I say, “I can do this.” I’m actually glad that I can do this, and it’s working out, and things are good. So there’s anxiety about it.

When I get needles, I pass out. I have a history of passing out when going to the dentist and getting tattoos and stuff. I did pass out when I got home after my biopsy, but I haven’t passed out with these IV things. They were going to give me a port, but honestly, I don’t think I could have lived with a port. I just didn’t want to do it. So I said, “No, I’m going to continue doing this.” That’s the worst part: every three weeks, they’re searching for veins in my arm. They say my arms are okay because I drink lots of water and prepare. I eat a bag of chips, a little one.

They say to eat chips, get some salt inside me. So the night before I get to eat my chips, I drink a lot of water, and I prepare and bring snacks. My mom comes with me every single time. That’s good too. I just look at her when they’re putting the IV in. I’ve been doing it for over a year, almost a year and a half. It’s okay. I can do it. It’s kind of just like getting a blood test at this point.

At the beginning of chemo, I had to be there for six hours; it was the whole day. Now it’s only an hour and a half to two hours, depending on how long it takes to get the medicine delivered. It’s okay. Again, I can do this. I’m thankful that I can do this. I’m thankful that in my country, Canada, it’s covered and I don’t have to pay. That is huge because I just couldn’t imagine that.

The hidden mental load of cancer treatment and side effects

It takes a lot of mental health to do this and to gear up every three weeks. At the beginning, the side effects were terrible. People don’t talk about it at all unless they’re in the cancer bubble. Nobody really understands anything. Even when I’m in it, and it’s happening to me, I don’t know what to say or what to think.

I’ve had to get coached. I use ChatGPT to coach me on what to say to my doctor, what words to use, and how to verbalize how I’m feeling and what symptoms I have. That’s been a big help. The Patient Story is huge for that because you can hear the words and think, “Okay, now I can say that, or yes, that’s how I feel right there.” I just didn’t know how to say it.

As I said before, sometimes I couldn’t even say it. I didn’t want to say “I have cancer.” I wanted to be like, “Nope.” But you have to. You are forced to face this. That’s another thing about being strong. There’s no time off. There’s no vacation from cancer. It goes with you everywhere you go. Thankfully, we’re planning a Florida vacation for March break next month. I thought, you know what, I feel good right now, and I’m stable. Let’s go on a vacation and see the ocean. But the cancer is coming too, and all that stuff.

I have to bring my Imodium. I don’t want to get sick. I’m going to wear a mask on the plane, for sure. I’m going to be tired. We’re going around, and I have to plan for naps and plan what food I’m going to eat. I can’t just eat everything — burgers and whatever. I have to eat healthy food and keep it up because this is my life now.

How ChatGPT could have helped earlier with symptoms and self-advocacy

I discovered ChatGPT after my diagnosis, and I wish I had it before. For a whole bunch of other ways to cope with cancer. I actually made a video about it. There are like a million different ways that it helps me. Nutritionally, it’s amazing. It makes meal plans. For mental health, it’s great.

When I get the results from a blood test or a CT scan, I just copy‑paste them, and ChatGPT will explain everything.

How ChatGPT helps me prepare for cancer appointments

With my blood tests, who knows what a white blood count is? I’m like, what are they even looking for? I’ll see the scans before I see my doctor, and ChatGPT will say, “Okay, this is what you need to ask, this is what you should talk about.”

It relieves a burden because chemo brain is a real thing. Your brain doesn’t work as well when you go through chemotherapy. ChatGPT can be a tool in your cancer team to help with advocacy. I can’t say enough about it.

It’s definitely helped with my mental health. Many times, I would spiral into being super scared and thinking, “What if…?”

Using ChatGPT for cancer-friendly meal planning and grocery lists

I don’t have to super prompt my ChatGPT. We’ve been talking for a while now. I would say something like, “I’m sick of making food.” I have to sometimes make food for my girls and separate food for me. I’ll say, “I don’t want to cook anymore, I’m done, tell me what to eat.” It will say, “Hey, do you want me to make a meal plan for you?” I’d be like, “Yes, please.”

It will make me a grocery list. That’s amazing. I don’t even have to think about grocery shopping. I can get my groceries delivered with this list. That’s a huge help off my shoulders. It gives easy recipes, something everybody is going to like. I say, “Hey, I have an Instant Pot.” It gives me a whole bunch of recipes.

One night, I was feeling terrible because I thought, “Oh no, I ordered pizza, and I shouldn’t be eating pizza.” ChatGPT said, “It’s okay, you can have pizza once in a while. Don’t stress out over eating a pizza. You’re fed, the kids are fed, and that’s good enough.” I was like, “Thanks, ChatGPT.”

ChatGPT for cancer patients: companionship and emotional safety

Cancer is really isolating. There’s talk around town about how friends dip, or they don’t know how to talk to you, but you can talk to ChatGPT, and it’s not going to leave. It can take what you say. If you’re talking about being scared of dying or these painful things that hurt other people, like your friends or your parents. It’s really hard to talk to somebody in person and watch their eyes tear up. ChatGPT doesn’t tear up, doesn’t get hurt.

“I can do this” mindset during chemo

I think the “I can do this” mindset clicked when I was still taking chemo. I thought, “Okay, this maybe is the worst.” I don’t want to say that because things could get worse, but at that point, chemo was my lowest point. I thought, “Okay, I can do this,” and I did.

I’m always afraid that things are going to get worse, even though I feel good right now. I feel okay — I’m going to do that again, the okay. But I have that fear, like everybody, the relapse fear and stuff. Personally, I was able to keep my breasts. I didn’t have any surgery. I want to honor the people who have had their breasts removed or a lumpectomy. I didn’t have to do any of that because I got fast‑tracked to stage 4. I had de novo stage 4 right away, so they didn’t do that. I think, “Oh my gosh, thank goodness.”

Chemo was the lowest part for me. From there, I felt like, “Yeah, I can do this.” So far, I can do it. I can do it because I only take one little step. I try not to think about the future because it’s not guaranteed, and I don’t want to jinx it. I don’t want to think about, yeah, I’m going to be cancer-free. I don’t even want to say that.

Finding strength in my daughters, my dog, and other cancer creators

First of all, it’s my daughters. I feel like if I can show them how to keep going, I wonder if I’m going to be around when they’re grown‑ups, and if they have to go through something similar or a serious illness, maybe they will remember. That’s another reason why I made my Chemo Belle project: so it could speak for me if I wasn’t here. Yeah, so my girls. Sorry.

And my doggy too. I got my doggy this summer. I always wanted to have a dog for our family. I kept putting it off. Now I have cancer, and I don’t put things off. Now I’m like, “We want the dog, let’s get it.” I wondered if I was too sick to have a dog, if I would be able to walk this dog all the time. I’ve seen cancer creators with their dogs, and I thought, “If they can do it, I can do it too.” I get a lot of strength from other creators, and I appreciate it so much. People sharing their stories really got me through a lot.

That’s why we’re going on a trip too, because I’m like, “We’re not waiting. Let’s do it now because you don’t know what’s going to happen later.” Things can change just like that. Cancer is a bugger, but it teaches you a lot about life.

How cancer changed my perspective, saying yes, and dancing again

Cancer taught me that I had power that I didn’t know before. I never accessed it. When I think, “Yeah, I can do this, I feel like I can do anything now. I’ve gone through that.” It gives me a lot of perspective on saying yes to things and not leaving them.

The other day I was feeling dancy. I’ve been making a lot of dance songs lately, so I’ve been dancing around. I felt like I wanted to go out dancing. A little voice inside me said, “You can’t go dancing, you have cancer. What is this, cancer lady goes dancing?” I thought, “Who said that? Can’t cancer patients go dancing? What is even happening?”

I found a new moon chakra dance that was going on, and I thought, “Okay, this is good, right up my alley. If somebody knows Reiki or whatever, it might be flowing in the room. Yes, that I can do.” I can’t really go to a bar at night, but this one was starting at 4 p.m. I had a great time. I loved it. I was moving, and everybody was there. It was such a beautiful experience. I’m so glad I went.

For a second, I thought, “You can’t do this,” and then I thought, “Yes, I can,” because I’ve gone through this. I can shoot down my anxiety way harder now because I’ve been through this.

What gives me hope for the future with stage 4 HER2-positive breast cancer

For the future, me and doctors and stuff, we talk about the past. In the past 20 years, my kind of cancer was one of the worst. HER2 positives are really aggressive and super dangerous. Then, with research and everything, they came out with trastuzumab and pertuzumab. I wonder, what’s the next thing? Maybe I could see a cure.

I don’t know about thinking super hardcore into the future, but that gives me hope that there could be a cure. Now they say this kind of cancer is more like a chronic illness. I see more and more people living ten, twenty years, even with stage 4 cancer. Right now it’s only in my armpit. My chemo doctor said, “You know, nobody has died of armpit cancer.” So I’m like, “Okay. Again, I can do this.” I have faith that the rest of my cancer is going to go away, hopefully.

I do have hope, but I don’t want to get too attached. I don’t want to get hurt emotionally if something changes. I had that plan before, at the beginning, and I got burned. It rubbed so hard. I know that things can change in a second. But they can change for good as well.

My advice for newly-diagnosed cancer patients

For somebody watching right now, I would say: go ahead and freak out for a little bit. I think you’re going to be okay — you know, well, I don’t know, I don’t want to say you’re going to be super okay. Death is a weird thing, and it definitely happens to all of us. Facing death is a new experience.

In the end, it’s going to be okay because that’s the way it will be. But go ahead and freak out. Maybe there is a light at the end. Stay positive, really, is what I’m trying to say. Stay positive. You can freak out, for sure, definitely, because this is a freaky thing. But stay positive because I think that positivity is going to make your journey a lot better. It’ll make you stronger, it’ll make you more flexible, and you’ll be able to do it. You can get through it.

Why my story isn’t over yet

I think that’s everything. I said it all. My story is not over. Just because I’m okay right now, I hope it continues. I don’t know. For a second, I can be like, “Dang, I have cancer, and the floor drops out.” But I’m trying to stay positive.


Christina W. breast cancer
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