There was a time when I actually believed I had it rough. I thoroughly believed in the anxieties of the social environment, such as what one person thought of me, or if I said the wrong thing at the wrong time, or if the next confrontation between me and a friend would be the death of me. It seemed crippling at the time, undoubtedly, for a seventeen year old average male. It was especially difficult that morning as I ran the treadmill in the Arena club’s diverse gym, attempting to drain myself of such stress, pouring it out of each sweat gland with the rest of my teenage worries. Even The Bourne Legacy on my TV in front of me didn’t seem to be doing the trick that morning. I figured, if this wouldn’t work, maybe swimming, my natural escape, would do the job.

Well, my friends, the answer to that riddle was no. Even swimming laps downstairs in their large, outdoor pool, with the sun on my back and the cheers of several elementary and early middle school aged kids couldn’t help me swipe my “problems” away. What drives me nuts now is that I can’t even remember what was bothering me at the time. The rest of the day went on as normally as a summer day could go, with the exception of the X-ray that I had that evening.

You see, throughout the past three months, I’d been dealing with some pretty incredible chest pains. It was local to my left, upper sternum, something I’d dismissed as an afterthought of digging two ditches for a friend’s father for their backyard pool. It was about a week before that day that we’d been at the beach, where I would yet again attempt to tan fair skin against an unforgiving sun (you’d think I’d learn my lesson after a second degree stomach burn the year before). However, an asymmetrical rise had appeared on my chest, a bump if you will. You could feel it if you touched it, a round and hard mass that was definitely beginning to make itself known. It was about then that we decided this was something that needed to be addressed.

We eventually got to the local radiology department after a day that had dragged to an extraordinary extent. I followed the instructions of the tech there who had me turn to several positions of attention while they ran their tests. It didn’t take gruesomely long like I anticipated and then I found myself back at home, playing Halo on my Xbox while the same old worry plagued my brain. It wasn’t an hour later that we got a phone call, one that my mom was taking unnaturally serious.

I didn’t hear the other end, but it was something along the lines of, “you need to get down to the Johns Hopkins emergency room immediately.”

So we were off. I was in daze and the rest of my family were worried ill. What could it be, of all things? It was just some chest pain. Nothing I hadn’t dealt with before, working for my dad’s construction company for the four summers prior.

We went into the hospital, which was about an hour-long drive from the house. We didn’t have to wait long to get noticed, as we were taken into several rooms throughout the building for further testing (blood drawings, MRI like scans, the goods). It didn’t help matters with my overwhelming anxiety that I had to hear the aftermaths of two terrible accidents unfolding in the halls as the world crumbled climatically around those poor souls.

That evening, while we waited in a room that looked very similar to one of a hotel, I tapped my foot nervously and impatiently as we awaited the results. That’s when two oncology doctors walked into the room, grim faces and downcast glances, and one of them, I swear, was holding a box of tissues. I was beginning to panic, especially when they dropped the big word down onto our heads.

That’s right, that one word. The one that you hope you never have to hear a doctor tell you for the entirety of your lifespan, not to mention only seventeen years into it. The word that brings time to a screeching halt. Cancer.

Boy, do I wish I could’ve had that day back. I mean, I’d been sitting there, almost even up to the diagnosis itself, stressing over social anxiety. High school drama and social anxiety. Big, scary words from doctors tends to put that into perspective.

It was a rough night, for sure. Nobody was getting sleep for hours to come, and I mean, how could you? Granted, they never said my life was in danger, as I believe they tested for the Varsity cancers like leukemia before they even came to tell us the results.

After about an hour of “sleep” finally went by, the next day took another rapid turn to the right. Turns out, we were leaving the room, and headed straight to intensive care down on the third floor. And you think you’ve heard a potty mouth on a kid before?

At one point, the beginnings of an all-out panic attack were beginning to grip my shoulders, and I was cursing every vulgar word to come from man’s tainted lips as I attempted to regain my sanity. My nurse there, one of the sweetest people I’d ever met or will probably ever meet, sat with me and taught me an exercise that helped me bring myself back down to Earth.

What was going down was, apparently, I had fluid around my heart now, enough to where this was a major cause for concern. It was being influenced by my tumor that was pushing my chest out like an obnoxious dollar store balloon, which was now brushing against my lungs, heart, and other important areas, including nerves that led to my brain.

At this point, I had to turn to my dad and ask him if he’d cut off some sadistic voodoo priest in traffic.

They ended up hooking me to several machines down in the ward, enough beeps and boops to give R2-D2 a headache. There were these circular stickers that they placed all over my chest, which magnetically hooked to the wires that connected to each monitor necessary for them to keep me under proper surveillance. The pings of my heart monitor were thankfully on the low side, so I found myself growing use to the consistent noise very quickly, much to my own surprise. However, with all the wires and what not, I ended up feeling more synthetic than flesh and blood.

The nurses of the intensive care ward introduced themselves, with surprisingly contagious grins and empathetic behavior. We clicked with each one almost instantly, chatting up a storm powerful enough to blow the looming, depressing clouds atop our heads away for a good while. Next, my team of doctors, who would be keeping up with me throughout the process, greeted us for the first time.

As we talked to the doctors over a period of a few hours, the word lymphoma popping up here and there, along with several tests that would have to take place to determine my treatment plan. Two scenarios given were Hodgkin’s and non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and they were leaning towards the former. At first, this seemed like bad news, as the one labeled with a name would be looked at as the most infamous, given its special attention. However, we were told that this was the “good” cancer. If I unfortunately had to be diagnosed with one, Hodgkin’s was what I’d want.

I was assured, though, that either way, I would end up being okay in the end. It’s almost unimaginable for myself, even now, to imagine the wave of relief that nailed me during this conversation. The universe around me felt lighter, and breathing came much more naturally.

However, the rough side of things was that each procedure was, for lack of a better word, nasty in nature. Usually, people would be put under. In my own special case, due to where the tumor lied and the fluid around my heart, doing so was risky. I was given the option to take each procedure awake, however start immediately, or to have an operation to remove said fluid, and then wait a few days to begin.

I wanted answers, as you could probably expect. The idea of days passing before they even began poking the monster with a stick was just torturous. I pretty much figured out my answer in seconds, that I would take it awake. My mindset then was “oh, how bad could it be?”

I occasionally slap my ignorant self across the bald head.

A day or so went by afterward, and thankfully there was a small television and Xbox in the room. It was a tad awkward how it was set up, more for personal use and not for the rest of the family that resided in the makeshift beds around me. However, the Hobbit and Portal 2 kept me entertained.

The first big operation was talked up quite a bit, and I won’t lie to you, it sounded bad. They were going to practically cut me open, and then slice a portion of the tumor in my chest for samples. Cue the shivers and goosebumps.

When it was time, the team in charge of the operation introduced themselves and assured me that it wasn’t going to be as bad as I thought. I kept the TV on while they set up their utensils, consisting of needles and scalpels lined up on the table beside me like some twisted horror film. First things first, they took a needle about the length of your pointer finger, and stuck me in the exact place my tumor was, and they must’ve ruptured a dormant wasps nest on the way in.

It slid down like a knife through butter, and felt almost slippery as it burned. I was biting my lip a little too hard at the time. The fluid in the tube had a cloudy tint to it, and as they pushed it in, believe me, I acknowledged its presence.

They withdrew the needle, all two inches of it, and the man that stood at my side grinned at me. “Hardest part done,” they said. “The rest is a breeze,” they said. Turns out, that was just the numbing agent.

The next part was the highlight of the show. It was another syringe looking object, however this time it ended with a tube about as thick as your thumb. The man held it suspended as they rubbed an orange cream around the spot they were going to make their withdrawal. Thankfully, I didn’t feel the scary object entering my flesh. I did feel it when it scraped up against my bone. I also felt a portion of my innards leave as a chunk of the tumor was sliced after the incision. It felt wicked as hell.

I must’ve said that out loud, because they all started laughing out of disbelief. The entire tone of the room seemed to change.

It was fascinating to watch, believe it or not. They all worked together as a team, coordinating and working in harmony with each other along the way. There was no ego, no competition among them. They all acted as one unit, probing the tumor with the tool and examining the sample to make sure it was good enough to make accurate examinations. When it was done, they looked enthusiastic.

I was bandaged up, given my complimentary lollipop, and got back into Bilbo’s adventures to the Lonely Mountain.

Several other procedures took place over the next week, each one done by familiar faces. The same tool kept showing its ugly face over the course of these several operations, taking different samples from different parts of my body. The most exciting one was when they had to take a chunk of bone from my hip to search for traces of the cancer. You read me right, my friend, a chunk of bone.

I’ve pledged 100% honesty to my family and friends on how I’ve felt physically and emotionally throughout this experience, so I’ll pledge the same thing to you. It hurt. And just when I thought the ordeal was over, after they’d withdrawn the tube and were checking things over, as I’d even taken a sigh of relief and relaxed, I heard them say, “Sorry bud. We’re going back in!”

That voodoo priest must be laughing his wrinkly rear-end off right about now.

Last, but certainly not least, was the pick line they needed to place into my shoulder. This line was what was needed for whatever treatment I was going to receive, giving the fluid direct access to the evil son of a gun residing comfortably inside.

I was placed underneath a tent like tarp, with nothing but my arm poking out from the side for them to see.

It was almost similar to an IV, which was a tube that they’d place into my arm to draw blood or inject a medication, such as a steroid to keep my tumor from growing. They’d stick a needle into my arm at any point where a vein was easily accessible, before connecting it to a tube and then to a syringe. The difference here, however, was that the tube needed to be fed up my arm, through my shoulder, across my chest, and straight above my heart. This way, there would be nothing standing in the way of whatever they needed to give me.

Of course, no matter how skilled you are, completing such as task could be considered quite difficult. I was told to expect the whole thing to take around an hour and a half, which sounded brutal at first. However, once they began, sticking me with the familiar numbing needle, I hardly felt a thing. And thank the heavens that I could fit a portable DVD player inside the little tent to watch a film while everything went down.

The woman responsible for wiring me up took her time, as she needed to, before having an X-ray specialist scan me over to make sure the tube was fed right. The first time, unfortunately, it wasn’t, as it had actually taken a detour up my neck instead of the route it was supposed to take. However, the next time they tried, they nailed it, and it had only been forty minutes.

You can imagine that after all these procedures of me getting poked and probed over the course of three days, my body was rendered obsolete and non-functional, and so I slept that night soundly for the first time since our arrival.

Information came to us slowly, as the chunks of myself that I had generously lent out were examined closely. The team of doctors kept us updated, telling us that I would need cycles of chemotherapy, a nasty drug that can actually cause cancer as well as kill it, so it needed to be handled with extra care. That kind of made me uncomfortable thinking about it. Following that, I’d need radiation to clean up the mess that was left over.

Then, one week after being moved to the intensive care ward on a Saturday, I was released to a room upstairs the following Sunday. Two good friends of mine had actually stopped by on this day, so they helped haul our belongings up with us, making it much easier. Me personally, I watched as they wheeled my bed there, the monitors placed inside with me as they continued to beep messages that sounded like a call out for the assistance of Obi-Wan.

The next few days blew by like an autumn breeze, as I finally was able to change out of my week old clothes following a well-deserved shower. The room I was in was much more comfy, a bigger flat screen television that played TBS throughout the entirety of my stay, a few chairs to the side of me and a smaller bed in the windowsill. The view out the window was incredible, let me tell you.

Family and friends poked their heads in from time to time, bringing pizza and gifts. At one point, my dad brought hot wings from CR Wings for us to chow down on, and the smell was driving the nurses on our floor crazy. They kept investigating to find the source, and then would moan out of jealousy and hunger. I felt pretty guilty at that point, honestly, as I took a bite of my thirteenth wing.

As the second week went on, the doctors would arrive with news regularly. Every time they did so, the smiles on their faces were growing wider and wider.

The first set of news was that it was undoubtedly Hodgkin’s. A round of high fives went around the room. The next bit of concern was directed at what stage it was in. My bone marrow samples hadn’t been checked yet, so this meant it was either in stage 2A or 4A. It’s nearly impossible to catch this type of cancer in its first stage, considering it’s a slow, symptomless grower. You’d have to be checking in the exact spot for to notice it’s presence.

2A was what we hoped for, as it was just local to the tumor inside me. 4A was a bit scarier, as it would’ve spread to the rest of the body. However, each was not just treatable, but curable, a word that none of them would ever use lightly.

The next day brought cheers as the doctor announced the results, 2A.

Now it was down to the treatment. Chemo started the next night, and my dad and I awaited the infamous medication to come through the door.

My dad was proud of an analogy he’d come up with not only to comfort me, but to explain to the kids when they probed him with questions. He compared my situation to the movie Independence Day, where the tumor inside me was the evil mothership, and that the chemotherapy was the virus they infect the aliens with to attack their defensive systems at the end. Then, the radiation would be Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum, delivering the nuke to finish them off. I was cracking up when my nurse walked in wearing a yellow gown over his clothes.

I was reassured, despite all the stories of getting sick and feeling incessantly ill from the treatment, something I was not all that excited for.

Dad was up on his feet, pacing in front of my bed as my nurse hooked up the chemo to my IV, giving me a pep talk that I would, in fact, beat this thing. That it had nothing on me, and that I would push through it.

The style to his words made it seem like a Marine Corps drill instructor, so much so that I braced for a maggot at some point in his speech.

We sat up that night, and waited for the stuff to kick in.

As I write this to you, I am four cycles into chemotherapy, meaning that I am done with that portion of the treatment. Now, I am awaiting a simulation to determine how I am to receive my radiation. My hair has fallen out, yes, but is due to grow back soon, and I type with numbed fingers (an unfortunate side effect). However, I have yet to get sick, a factor I attribute to my daily diet of jalapeños. According to my family, I have garnered a positive outlook throughout the experience.

It has been rough at times, yes, from stumbling because of weak legs to an incredibly increased anxiety. I’ve been outpatient at Johns Hopkins for about two months now, going back every week for blood work, or in the past to receive more chemo. I’d go on a Wednesday for an entire day to get the dosage, followed by quick hour long sessions on Thursday and Friday.

Wednesdays were brutal, I won’t lie, especially when my mom was firing off question after question, to the point where I was pulling my hair out. Literally.

The entire experience has actually been positive for me. I believe that, in the end, it will be nothing but beneficial to me, and more importantly, my family, as our outlook on life has not just changed, but improved. Everybody seems happier, grinning more frequently and growing a lot more patient and accepting. I, personally, feel like a happier person, appreciating the life that for a short period of time, I thought had drastically shortened incredibly more so.

Meeting all these great people has been such a great bonus, from cancer survivors to patients, to the several great nurses that watched over me, and still do when I stop in for further procedures, to my extraordinary team of doctors. The word is that by January, I’ll be cancer free, and back in school in time to graduate.

Shane 1, Cancer 0.