On
July 24th 2012, my life changed forever. I look back on that morning
and remember what my biggest concern was: getting to my summer job on time.
That all changed when my mother picked up the phone when my pediatrician
called. I had just gotten some blood work done so I thought it must’ve been the
results. The look on her face said it all, it immediately went to a look of
seriousness that I had never seen before. Something was wrong with the blood
results.
We
were told to come home to North Jersey from the shore immediately to have more
tests done. Once in the car, we were told to go directly to New York City to Memorial
Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. That’s when I knew whatever was going on was very
serious. But I still hadn’t got any answers. It was only when I was sitting in
an oncologists office with my parents that I fully realized what was wrong with
me. Three little letters would change mine, and my family’s lives forever: CML,
otherwise known as Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia.
Growing
up, I had always been athletic. A successful high school track and field career
led me to earn a spot on the University of Virginia’s track team. The summer of
2012 was after my first year on the team at UVA. Leading up to my diagnosis, I
didn’t feel sick, the year before I had been competing in Division I track
meets and working out daily. I thought the constant fatigue was from the
tougher workouts and adjusting to a higher level of competition. But then the
bruises came, and they stayed.
The
day I was diagnosed with cancer, I was sporting a baseball size bruise on my
hip that had been there for two months. Naturally I thought nothing of it;
little did I know this was one of the only symptoms of my cancer that I ever
experienced. In the weeks leading up to my diagnosis, the bruises were getting
so bad my older brother, Tommy, kept badgering me to get a blood test to make
sure everything was all right. That’s when everything spiraled out of my
control.
Too
put the numbers into perspective, on a normal, healthy person’s blood report,
the white blood cell count is between 4 and 10, my pediatrician had never seen
a white blood cell count higher than 50, when I was first diagnosed, my white
blood cell count was 317, 30 times the normal amount. That’s why I was
immediately called into the cancer center, and that’s why the doctors were shocked
to see a 19 year old, “healthy looking” track runner sitting before them. 317
was dangerously high, so high that I spent 6 days in the cancer center while
medicine brought my white count down to a safe level. Once I dipped under 100,
I was allowed to leave. The picture below is the day I left the hospital.
CML
is caused by a mutation in my chromosomes, which codes for the overproduction
of abnormal, underdeveloped white blood cells in my blood and bone marrow. This
type of cancer is slowly progressing, so slow that doctors said my white blood
cell count had probably been growing for months to years without my knowledge. It
is, however, easily managed with medicine. I was extremely lucky that I did not
lose my hair, or have to undergo intense chemotherapy. Instead of intense IV
chemo, I take oral chemotherapy pills everyday twice a day, since the day of my
diagnosis. Since there is no permanent cure for CML, I will have to take the
medicine for the foreseeable future. The meds keep the disease at bay and I’m
able to live a normal life. Other than bone marrow and blood tests every couple
of months, not many people can tell that I’m a cancer patient.
As
of today, I’m in the last stage of remission, very close to having no trace of
cancer in my blood or bone marrow. The year and a half in between diagnosis and
remission was nowhere near easy. I found myself trying to adjust to so many new
changes that I was getting overwhelmed easily. Some days were better than
others. I remember asking a few times, the quintessential cancer question: why
me? Why did this have to happen to me? Teens are often told at length that we
all feel “invincible” during our young adult years; I was one of those people.
I
never thought something of this magnitude would ever happen to me. But at the
same time, I found myself asking another question: why not me? How did I get a form of cancer that is so easily treatable
that on the surface I look like any other University student? While I’m able to
interact with the rest of the world, sicker men, women, and children are
fighting the fight from the confines of a hospital bed. They deserve the real
credit, they’re the real warriors, carrying on through the pain and emotional
stress, determined to get to the day when they can hear the words “cancer
free.” To those people still fighting, I am in awe of your unending strength
and perseverance through the darkest of times. You are the very essence of the
human spirit and you inspire others around you to help end this terrible
disease.
In
the end, I believe that cancer has given me more than it has taken from me. It
has given me a new perspective on life and the support of the people who
surround me. To my family, friends, teammates, coaches, co-workers, doctors,
and anyone who has given me kind words of support, I am eternally grateful. Your
encouragement has made every day of my fight so much easier. I don’t think I
take as many things for granted anymore, and everyday I’m reminded of how lucky
I am.
Cancer
has given me a first-hand experience, which I hope to use as fuel to get others
involved in the fight. Everyone knows someone who has been affected by cancer
and in my opinion that number is way too high. Thankfully, events such as Relay
for Life exist, and people of all ages are able to get involved and raise not
only money, but also awareness, support, and most importantly, hope. The fight
to end cancer is far from over, but I am grateful that there are so many
selfless individuals who take part in these events every year. The hope that
one day we will all live in a world without cancer is why I relay, thank you to
everyone taking part in this year’s event to help eradicate this disease. Together
we can bring and end to cancer!
With Relaylove,
