It isn’t all completely clear—the days leading up to those words are still a blur. A blur bleeding together and crashing to a halt, “You have bad cells—cancer.”
I was thirteen when I heard the news. Actually, I overheard the results over a phone call meant only for my mother. Regardless, I knew the truth. It was overwhelming to say the least. Actually looking back, I can say I didn’t have a clue. CANCER?
Let’s rewind. I was in seventh grade at Waynesboro Area Middle School, about to begin my eighth season of community softball, and scheduled for my annual physical exam. Everything was routine—my weight, normal; my height, short; asthma, had it. Then a pause. My right temple. The doctor moved in close. It was light-pink in color, raised a centimeter off of my skin—nickel size.
An urgent surgery was scheduled. Five blue stitches snuck out from under my bangs. A softball accident, I told everyone—a very believable story. I didn’t mention the awaiting biopsy results. Until a few weeks later, when another appointment was made with a plastic surgeon, they had to go deeper, a few inches. I had bad cells—skin cancer.
Those cells are gone. The scar will forever remain. Look closely, you’ll see it—but if you don’t, you’d never know. Ask me about it? It’s a battle scar. What battle? I’ll probably tell you a story about how accident prone I am. Throw in the other eight surgeries I’ve had since I broke my wrist in sixth grade and hope you forget you asked that question or at least notice that I’m talking in circles to avoid the answer.
But yes, the truth is I’ve had a run in with cancer. BUT I do not fight back for myself. I’ve heard the stories others have told, I’ve seen the loss in their eyes. I fight back because my cancer was nothing compared to the world that my eyes were opened to after hearing the news. My cancer had an easy fix: no chemo, radiation, or long-term medications. But even without the extensive medical procedures I know the effect the word “cancer” had on me and those around me.
It is pain no one should ever have to experience. Have you ever seen a person’s face when you tell them those three dreaded words? I hope you never have to. Their reactions will last just as long as your scars.
I’ve had other surgeries since that year—more cancer scares. In total, I have four additional scars from my battle. But please, I do not want your sympathy, I do not want extra attention, I do not want your condolences. I am one of the lucky ones. I’ll fight back until everyone’s cure is as simple as my own—until “I have cancer” is a phrase of the past. That’s what I want from you—your support for everyone who has fought, is fighting, and will fight cancer. Fight back—it’s worth it.
I was thirteen when I heard the news. Actually, I overheard the results over a phone call meant only for my mother. Regardless, I knew the truth. It was overwhelming to say the least. Actually looking back, I can say I didn’t have a clue. CANCER?
Let’s rewind. I was in seventh grade at Waynesboro Area Middle School, about to begin my eighth season of community softball, and scheduled for my annual physical exam. Everything was routine—my weight, normal; my height, short; asthma, had it. Then a pause. My right temple. The doctor moved in close. It was light-pink in color, raised a centimeter off of my skin—nickel size.
An urgent surgery was scheduled. Five blue stitches snuck out from under my bangs. A softball accident, I told everyone—a very believable story. I didn’t mention the awaiting biopsy results. Until a few weeks later, when another appointment was made with a plastic surgeon, they had to go deeper, a few inches. I had bad cells—skin cancer.
Those cells are gone. The scar will forever remain. Look closely, you’ll see it—but if you don’t, you’d never know. Ask me about it? It’s a battle scar. What battle? I’ll probably tell you a story about how accident prone I am. Throw in the other eight surgeries I’ve had since I broke my wrist in sixth grade and hope you forget you asked that question or at least notice that I’m talking in circles to avoid the answer.
But yes, the truth is I’ve had a run in with cancer. BUT I do not fight back for myself. I’ve heard the stories others have told, I’ve seen the loss in their eyes. I fight back because my cancer was nothing compared to the world that my eyes were opened to after hearing the news. My cancer had an easy fix: no chemo, radiation, or long-term medications. But even without the extensive medical procedures I know the effect the word “cancer” had on me and those around me.
It is pain no one should ever have to experience. Have you ever seen a person’s face when you tell them those three dreaded words? I hope you never have to. Their reactions will last just as long as your scars.
I’ve had other surgeries since that year—more cancer scares. In total, I have four additional scars from my battle. But please, I do not want your sympathy, I do not want extra attention, I do not want your condolences. I am one of the lucky ones. I’ll fight back until everyone’s cure is as simple as my own—until “I have cancer” is a phrase of the past. That’s what I want from you—your support for everyone who has fought, is fighting, and will fight cancer. Fight back—it’s worth it.
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