I attended an American Cancer Society CEO Council meeting last night, surrounded by dedicated individuals advancing the fight against the myriad diseases we collectively call cancer. Early detection topped the agenda, and we were each tasked with carrying that imperative back to our organizations. It is a critical frontier in saving lives. My own experience with cancer in my twenties underscores the harrowing challenges so many face, and sharing it reminds me why this work matters deeply.
It was May 1984, and I was a junior in college. For months I had been battling unexplained fatigue, often dragging myself late to classes, plagued by intense itching, swelling in my hands, and a nagging cough. I was a passionate backpacker, and this had increasingly complicated my outdoor experiences. I had mentioned these to my internist, who tested me for pneumonia, rheumatoid arthritis, and other conditions, but nothing clicked. That day felt different, though. Over the past few days my underarm had swollen dramatically, and my arm throbbed with pain.
I decided to skip my first class that day and head to the campus infirmary. Many of the staff were recent immigrants from India, and communication could be tricky with limited English. In the exam room the doctor listened to my symptoms, examined my underarm, then abruptly left. He returned with two colleagues, all animatedly discussing in Hindi while prodding my underarm. They paused, and one turned to me with halting, intense English: "You go home now." Stunned, I assumed he meant more rest. "I have a break after morning classes and can head back to my apartment at lunch," I replied. He shook his head emphatically. "No, no, no. You go HOME right now." It hit me then that he meant something far more urgent. "You mean return to Tulsa?" I asked, incredulous. "Yes, go home right now, do not stop, go straight to ER."
That 90-minute drive home felt eternal, my mind racing with worry. I arrived at the hospital ER and called my father from a payphone. He canceled meetings and rushed over. I barely sat in the waiting room before they pulled me into an exam area. Nurses and doctors huddled outside, whispering, then moved into action. An X-ray followed, and suddenly I was wheeled from the hallway straight into surgery.
My next clear memory was in recovery: a tall doctor leaning over my bed. He introduced himself as Dr. Underwood, an oncologist. My uncle had endured a grueling death from lung cancer just a few years prior, so the word oncologist sent chills through me. Dr. Underwood pulled up a stool, sat close, and asked if I felt alert enough to talk. "Yes," I said tentatively. He was straightforward: "We removed a softball-sized tumor from under your left arm." Trying to lighten the moment, he added, "We kept it so you could see it." I chuckled weakly and declined. When I asked what it was, he said pathology would confirm by morning, and I would be admitted overnight.
They moved me to a room, where I endured a restless night punctuated by MRI and CT scans as they attempted to pinpoint tumors and metastases. My parents arrived soon after. Dad, ever the stoic and optimistic salesman, tall, tanned, muscular, like a balding John Wayne, held firm. Mom, vibrant and passionate about everything, was shattered. She had lost her brother to cancer's brutal grip not long before, and endured a tough battle for survival with my younger brother following an auto accident.
The next day Dr. Underwood wheeled me to a quiet, empty wing of the hospital for privacy. Polite but unflinching, he delivered the news: "You have Hodgkin's lymphoma," what we used to call Hodgkin's disease, a cancer of the lymphatic system that can spread through lymph nodes. "We caught it late. It's Stage 3B, meaning tumors are present both above and below the diaphragm, with systemic symptoms like your fatigue and itching indicating aggressive progression." Staging like this, from I to IV with A and B subtypes, B for symptoms like fever or weight loss, guides treatment intensity and prognosis. The bad news was that it would be a grueling battle, demanding unwavering resolve. The good news was that he believed it winnable. Traditional radiation could work but often caused lasting damage, like secondary cancers or heart issues. Instead he had just completed graduate work with Yale researchers on a cutting-edge chemotherapy combination: ABVD-MOPP. ABVD, Adriamycin, Bleomycin, Vinblastine, and Dacarbazine, targets fast-dividing cells, while MOPP, Mechlorethamine, Oncovin, Procarbazine, and Prednisone, adds complementary attacks. Intense, but aiming for remission in six to nine months. Later I would learn that these potent drugs were key elements of mustard gas. He stressed persistence, sharing stories of patients who had quit and succumbed swiftly. And a sobering caveat: the regimen would likely render me sterile, dashing hopes of fatherhood.
I relocated home, a tough adjustment for an independent 22-year-old, and dove into preparation: scans to fully chart the tumors, dye injections into the lymphatic system, then surgery for a Hickman catheter, a central line tunneled into a major vein near the heart for safer, direct chemotherapy delivery, minimizing vein damage. The ensuing nine months were infernal, blending violent nausea, profound exhaustion, and cognitive fog from the drugs' neurotoxic effects. I countered this with a high-protein diet that increased my weight and kept my hair. However, my social circle shrank to a loyal few. Cancer's isolation is profound, as casual friends fade amid the awkwardness, leaving family and the closest friends as the lone lifelines. My parents and grandparents were my anchors. I also drew unexpected solace from my physicians and in one case their families, and whose spirited daughter would soon become my wife.
Finally, remission was declared, a milestone, yet bittersweet for survivors, as the shadow of recurrence lingers, often triggering scans and anxiety for years. I resumed school, but soon fell ill again, landing back in the hospital. Dr. Underwood returned, but after tests he warned gravely that if they could not identify the cause, I would need to prepare my final arrangements. Those words pierced my core with terror. I prayed fervently that night, and my grandmother called late about a church vigil. Miraculously, the next day Dr. Underwood arrived and beamed: a rare virus pinpointed, treatable. I would recover.
Discharged, I soon married, returned to school and work, yet cancer's specter persisted. Staff had cautioned remission might last only five years post-treatment. There were no records of long-term survival at my stage. I pushed forward optimistically, hitting that five-year mark, then seizing career leaps that kept me moving forward and moving around the country. Then, a stunning twist: a natural pregnancy. My first daughter, Sarah, arrived, defying odds. Chemotherapy's fertility impact is not absolute after all. In 2003, Stephanie joined her, another bouncing joyful surprise. But shadows returned a few years later. I learned of monoclonal gammopathy, an abnormal protein spike in the blood, often called MGUS, monoclonal gammopathy of undetermined significance, once linked strongly to multiple myeloma, a bone marrow cancer. It was a reminder that those inoperable tumors in my lower back remained. More uncertainty, and annual tests, ensued. Thankfully, over the years evolving research has shown not all cases progress. Mine is monitored now as stable background noise. Later in life, following a wonderful second marriage, I was blessed to have yet another child, Samuel, a vibrant bouncing baby boy.
Along the way I learned that attitude is essential to success in battling cancer, or any adversity, really. Focusing on the possibilities of the future rather than dwelling on past traumas or current hardships shifts the mental landscape, harnessing the power of positivity to build resilience and sustain motivation.
In the past decade I have begun to share my journey openly, especially with those facing ambiguous tests or fresh diagnoses. I urge screenings, advocating for the Comprehensive Metabolic Panel, a simple blood test assessing liver and kidney function, electrolytes, and proteins, which can flag early anomalies like elevated markers hinting at hidden malignancies. I connect personally with those affected when I can, offering empathy and encouragement. Early detection saves lives, and resilience turns the tide. Sometimes that advice is more direct. If you have doubts, I encourage people to go directly to MD Anderson's ER, where once admitted they will provide a diagnosis and treatment plan. A tough tactic, but sometimes necessary in a world too often dominated by insurance limitations and restrictive testing regimens.
I hope for a better world where cancer's grip is loosened by breakthroughs in prevention and treatment, but in the meantime I encourage people to pursue proactive testing and take ownership of their own diagnoses and treatment. Eternal vigilance is often required to catch subtle warning signs early, when intervention can be effective. By advocating for routine screenings and sharing my story, I aim to empower others to face their fears, seek answers, and fight with resilience, because every early detection is a chance to rewrite the outcome.
