Cancer has a way of flipping your world upside down. Sure, we often hear that phrase, but trust me, it’s spot on. I’ve gone through a multitude of changes, both physically and emotionally, but the biggest surprise? Cancer turned me into a much more laid-back version of myself, and I never saw it coming.
It all began during a routine appointment with my gynecologist, who, after a thorough examination, casually said, “I feel something.” After switching doctors, I finally felt like I was in the right place. This new doc was different; she actually examined me properly, checking my lymph nodes and neck. When she returned to a particular spot multiple times, I knew something was up.
Fast forward a week, and I was facing an ultrasound. Two weeks later, I underwent a biopsy, and shortly after that, I got the dreaded news: thyroid cancer. Specifically, papillary thyroid carcinoma. This led to surgery to remove my entire thyroid and subsequent radiation treatment. Now, I’m a changed woman.
Physically, I’m not the same. I’ve lost the organ that regulates vital hormones affecting my metabolism and body temperature. I can’t handle the heat like I used to, my hair has taken a new direction, and I’m dealing with digestive issues and irregular periods. I take a synthetic thyroid hormone, and while it’s working out so far, I can’t shake the feeling that my body might rebel at any moment.
Mentally, I’ve morphed too. I used to be sharp—like, razor-sharp. I could recall every detail of a conversation, from where we were to what everyone was wearing. Professionally, I had all the facts at my fingertips. I was the queen of quick responses, with a mind that never stopped working.
Now, as I approach 43, I’ve had more anesthesia than most people encounter in a lifetime. I can’t help but think that the physical changes have impacted my cognitive abilities. I started noticing a shift when I struggled to recall simple things while out in the world. One day, a student asked me a question, and I didn’t have an immediate answer. Panic set in. Suddenly, I was hyper-aware of my interactions, walking on eggshells and trying to keep up appearances as if I hadn’t just faced a health crisis.
Then came the summer, which turned out to be the best one yet for my family. I was forced to truly let go—like, really let go—and the result was liberating. I realized that the world didn’t crumble when I relinquished control. In fact, life continued without the extra stress I had been carrying.
Now, I remember less, and that’s okay. I may not recall exactly where we last chatted or the topics we covered, but I’m more present in conversations. I say what I feel in the moment, rather than what I think I should express. There’s less pressure to have all the answers; in fact, I never really had them to begin with. I’m more compassionate with my kids, who often need time to process. I now take up the space I need, and it feels incredible. I’m not afraid to show the parts of me that are still figuring things out.
Whether it’s the emotional toll of cancer or the physical changes I’ve endured, I’m no longer the same person I was. My neck may resemble that of an 85-year-old chicken, but if cancer helped me transform into the free-spirited flower child I didn’t know I needed to be, then I embrace it.
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In summary, cancer has reshaped my identity in ways I never anticipated. I’ve become a less anxious, more compassionate person, embracing the unknown and the imperfect.