Sarah's Story
In September of 2004, my mother was diagnosed with papillary carcinoma, a thyroid related cancer. Unfortunately, that was hardly the end of my family’s battle with cancer.
Five months later on an April afternoon, while completing my homework, I noticed an unfamiliar growth on the left side of my neck. Oblivious to the unfortunate actuality of this unwelcome lump, my mother and I visited Dr. Phillip Amoils at Santa Clarita E.N.T. to further explore this newfound protrusion. IT’S MONO! My mother exclaimed … STOP KISSING THOSE BOYS! My doctor ordered a fine needle aspiration to identify the cause of this mysterious lump. After five painful pierces in my neck and a comforting speech from my pathologist Dr. Barbara Florentine, I was dismissed for the day to go home and wait for lab results. I confess I was completely unaware of the countless times I would soon return to Henry Mayo Newhall Hospital.
Within a few days, I was called back into my E.N.T.’s office to review results from the aspiration. April 13, 2005, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma; a children’s lymphatic blood cell cancer only seven months after my mother’s diagnosis.
I was overcome with emotions as the dreaded news poured from my doctor’s lips. The surreal news brought confusion, hope, doubt, and above all fear upon the already dull, gloomy office. As I was gazing off into the distance, the doctor explained the one necessity I had been praying wouldn’t become my reality.
“You are most likely going to lose your hair” he said confidently yet shamefully as if trying not to upset me.
“Ok” was the only pathetic word that could escape from my lips.
I vainly considered friend’s reactions to this disturbing news. How could I possibly prevent people from seeing my bald head? When you’re fifteen, your looks, fashion, the mall, and boys are truly the only things you base your life on. When we left the doctor’s office, my parents and I gathered into a family hug. My mom cried as she consistently repeated everything was going to be fine; I think more for her own sake than mine. I had never seen my dad cry before until that unfortunate day. However, I knew what had to happen and accepted it. I trusted my doctors and knew my parents would do everything for the best possible care. I was ready to open this chapter of my life with an open mind and without fear. I never cried. Meanwhile, my friends at school were preparing for prom which I was expected to attend. Only two days after my diagnosis, I attended prom at Universal City Walk, the last school function I would attend for the rest of the year.
Over the next few weeks, many tests and procedures were completed in order to prepare me for chemotherapy at UCLA Oncology located out of Henry Mayo Newhall Hospital. One significant procedure I distinctly recall was the harvesting of my eggs. Once a week my mother and I drove up to Beverly Hills to partake in the uncomfortable fertility procedure needed to enable me to harvest eggs for what might be my sterile future.
In the middle of June, I started chemotherapy with Doctor John Barstis and the wonderful nurses at the UCLA oncology center in Santa Clarita. Every other Tuesday for eight weeks I visited the center reluctantly. After only my first chemotherapy treatment, I was hospitalized because of complications and placed into reverse isolation for 5 days. While my friends signed yearbooks and celebrated the end of school, I remained in isolation at Henry Mayo. Because of my inability to partake in school functions, my best and most loyal friend Season, brought the school to me. She made a DVD which I watched on my mother’s laptop of all the kids at school who had heard of my illness. All of my friends had optimistic words wishing me well and that they hoped to see me soon. I must have watched that DVD 100 times during my time in the hospital. Season also had all of my friends sign my yearbook for me which she brought to the hospital to help comfort me. Season and her family also made me my very own Live Strong bracelets which she distributed around school. They were light pink and read, “iCARE4SWEiCHEL”.
After that week of isolation in the hospital, I returned two days later for my next chemo treatment. I sat in a recliner chair while my nurses scurried around taking blood counts and hooking me up to the chemotherapy IV and preparing my ABVD “cocktail”. Let me tell you, if that’s what real cocktails are like, I want nothing to do with them. After treatments I stumbled out of the office drugged and nauseous, I would continue to sleep and stay in my room for three days. After my third chemotherapy session, my newly cropped hair began to fall out. When I woke up in the morning, hair was surrounding, me on my pillow. So, on Mother’s Day weekend, I asked a friend who is in the hair business to shave my hair off. With the lose of my hair came a new realization, I was sick… and it showed… it was even more obvious when my eyebrows fell out and my long lashes became thinner. As I look back at pictures now, I notice my pasty white skin and think, “how could everyone have acted so normal around me?” While other kids spent their summers lying out on the beach with their friends, I remained in my room. As summer progressed, gearing up for the next chemo treatment became more and more difficult. My family decided to take me to the happiest place on earth “Disneyland”. However, we didn’t exactly plan out how my wig would stay on during Space Mountain… I merely developed the twist and hold theory… twist the underneath hairs around your fingers and pull down firmly… it worked quite well and gave me enough movement to pose for the candid pictures! Dr. Barstis told me live life as normally as possible and I tried my very best to do just that. One thing I just could not keep up with was dancing as an active member of the Santa Clarita Ballet Company. I was determined to dance in A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, our spring gala, even though I had no hair and wearing a taped-on wig while dancing was a difficult task. Finally, in July my fatigue overwhelmed me and I was forced to drop out of my ballet company. I did have another goal to look forward to throughout the summer. I was hoping to participate in the Western United States Irish Dance Championships at the end of November. My doctors always supported my decisions and told me to go for my goal… however my mother was very skeptical of how I could possibly partake in such a vigorous sport with such little energy. I continued to pursue my goal and ended up dancing at those Championships in November.
Toward the end of August, I met with Doctor Barstis. He told me the first good piece of news I had heard in months. I had completed chemotherapy and was now ready for radiation. I was ecstatic and relieved that the days of nauseous anxiety would soon be over. I was then sent to Doctor Robert Zimmerman, a high art tomography radiation oncologist at Vantage Oncology in Santa Clarita. I completed my 28 days of daily radiation treatments in November 2005.
However, just before my first radiation treatment, my grandfather’s voice started to become hoarse. One month later he was diagnosed with Anaplastic Thyroid Cancer.
Cancer had been apart of my family’s life for over a year now and as I reach the end of my mother, my grandfather, and my own journeys, I feel more confident and alive than ever before. Being diagnosed with cancer is such a frightening experience. The word cancer alone is enough to make anyone fearful for their lives. However, throughout this whole experience I have gained more knowledge than I could have ever learned from a textbook. Previously, my freedom and health were assumed. I considered both to be basic necessities rather than privileges. Life is valuable beyond comprehension yet taken for granted by most. I have learned the true importance of life is not only learning but experiencing and appreciating those lessons God hands you. That is why Relay For Life is critical to us survivors. It allows us to never forget the battle but also to celebrate our victories. It honors those who pioneered paths for the unplanned route so many of us each year are forced to go down. Thank you for listening to me and for caring but most of all for making a decision to take part in Relay for Life. Together we can celebrate cures past, present and future!