My Cancer Origin Story
I was initially diagnosed with cancer in August of 2012.
It was immediately obvious something was wrong. An eight-centimeter tumor was bulging from the right side of my neck—impossible to ignore. It appeared during the summer while I was deep into football training, arguably in the best cardiovascular and physical shape of my life. I was seventeen years old and felt invincible.
That summer, I was in Maine visiting family. They noticed the mass right away and insisted I get it checked out as soon as I returned home. At the time, I brushed it off. I genuinely thought I had slept wrong or pulled a muscle in my neck. Teen logic.
As soon as I got back to Maryland, my mom took me to see an ENT specialist. A biopsy was performed, and the sample was sent to Johns Hopkins. Three days later, my entire life changed. I was meeting my oncologist, having a port installed in my chest, and starting chemotherapy at one of the most reputable hospitals in the world.
I honestly don’t remember much from that year.
My mom slept in my hospital room every single time I was admitted, curled up on a narrow window bench during each inpatient stay. I was hospitalized for five to six days every thirty days to receive a chemotherapy cocktail of Ifosfamide and Doxorubicin. My nursing staff was incredible. I often had the same nurses, cycle after cycle. They knew me. I knew them. That familiarity mattered more than I realized at the time.
Alongside chemotherapy, I also underwent low-dose radiation to my neck. A rigid plastic mask was molded to my face and bolted to the table during each session to keep my head and neck perfectly still. The smell during radiation was awful—something like sulfur. I hated it. I went Monday through Friday for five weeks, totaling twenty-five sessions, all while still receiving chemotherapy.
Toward the end of 2012, I had a short break after radiation and before surgery. In December, I underwent a massive operation to remove the tumor in my neck. The surgery also involved skin grafts—from my thigh to my wrist, and from my wrist to my neck. The doctors had to be confident the grafts would “take,” which can be especially difficult after radiation and chemotherapy.
The surgery lasted twelve hours.
My head oncologist, a plastic surgeon, and my radiation oncologist were all present. The tumor was removed along with multiple lymph nodes in my neck, my spinal accessory nerve (which affected my shoulder), and a major vein that had to be replaced with one taken from my forearm.
I woke up in the ICU with a breathing tube down my throat, IVs everywhere, a catheter, and a steady drip of morphine. I couldn’t move. Whether it was the anesthesia or sheer exhaustion, I was completely immobilized. I had to write on paper to beg the nurse to remove the breathing tube and catheter—please. Time in the ICU crawled. Eventually, I was up and walking within twenty-four hours and transferred to a regular ward once I was stable.
I spent seven days in the hospital recovering. One moment that sticks with me vividly is watching the 12-12-12 concert on the tiny TV in my room with my mom.
When I was finally discharged, my dad flew out to help take me home. The car ride from Johns Hopkins to Frederick, Maryland was brutal. I got sick almost every time I made that drive. I had multiple surgical drains attached to my arm and neck to collect excess fluid. While my neck healed fairly well, my arm—where the skin graft was taken—was a different story. The bandage had to be cleaned and redressed daily to prevent infection. It was excruciating. That pain lingered for weeks.
As I recovered from surgery through December and into January of 2013, reality set in. I was a senior in high school. I had missed almost the entire year. College loomed, and graduation felt uncertain.
The school district arranged for a county-approved homeschool teacher. The first didn’t last long—I was lazy, foggy from chemo, and admittedly kind of an ass. Chemobrain was real. The second teacher was patient, flexible, and exactly what I needed. Eventually, I earned the credits required to graduate that summer.
But I wasn’t done yet.
After healing from surgery, I completed two more rounds of chemotherapy—one in January and one in February. Finally, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. This chapter had an ending.
In March, I returned to school. I saw friends, teammates, and teachers. I was completely bald and had no eyebrows, but I didn’t care. I felt strong. I felt proud. I felt like I had conquered something massive—cancer, high school, and the chance to attend prom.
That summer, I continued frequent follow-ups at Johns Hopkins—monthly at first, then gradually spacing out over the years. Life began to move forward.
College decisions followed. Where would I go? Who would accept me? What would I study? I applied to several universities in Maryland. Some waitlisted me. Others rejected me. One accepted me—Frostburg State University.
In hindsight, community college close to home may have been the smarter move. But I was desperate to escape. And escape I did—subconsciously—for years, until I finally confronted my demons in 2019.
That’s a story for another time.
Thank you for reading. I’ve officially dubbed this piece my cancer origin story—the moment my life was permanently transformed twelve years ago. I’ll continue this journey next by sharing what happened when cancer returned in the summer of 2024.
