Survivor Stories

Morgan’s Cervical Cancer Story

Life was going well. 

I was 24, had a great social life, and had moved into my first apartment, I was becoming more established in my job, and I was diving into a new relationship. I’ve always been one to be proactive with my health so as per usual, I went in for my yearly exam. For the first time, I received a letter back stating I had abnormal results. It was then I was scheduled for a colposcopy and further testing. I didn’t think twice because a lot of my friends had been through these motions before and they were fine.
The time came for my appointment. I was expecting everything to be normal, but the pain and hemorrhaging were trying to tell me otherwise. The provider referred me to a gynecologic oncologist next.
 I never connected the dots regarding what seeing an oncologist could mean for me. I was 24; what could possibly be wrong? The oncologist performed a few biopsies and then he and his Physician Assistant met me in a small conference room afterward. He flipped open a women’s health booklet to a teal-colored page and said, “I’m sorry Miss Newman but you have cervical cancer.”
On February 4, 2015, my life forever changed. I was alone, hysterical, and in shock. Walking out of those hospital doors seemed like a bad dream. I remember picking up my phone to make all of those difficult calls. Then, I had to go home to my boyfriend at the time and tell him that all the dreams we discussed just a couple of nights before would be gone.

 My treatment plan was chemotherapy concurrent with external radiation followed by vaginal brachytherapy. In August of that year, I was considered in remission. I beat cancer! But that celebration would be short-lived as the next follow-up scan would show nodules in my lungs. After a couple of biopsies and other tests, the doctors concluded the spots to be a metastatic recurrence.
After weighing my options, I sought a second opinion. This was a life-or-death decision for me. I am so glad I did because it truly made a world of difference. I felt understood and most importantly, I felt heard. After just three chemotherapy treatments, I was scanned and the results were completely clean!

It has been nearly six years since I heard those words and I continue to remain in remission. I am fortunate, I know I have beaten the odds. I can’t explain why or how, but I know that I can make my survivorship count. Shortly after treatment, I stumbled across Cervivor, a global community of patient advocates who inspire and empower those affected by cervical cancer. Their values aligned with mine and in 2017, I signed up for Cervivor School. I have been involved in patient advocacy ever since. It has come full circle. Now, I serve as the Community Engagement Liaison for the organization.

Tim’s Anal Cancer Story

My crazy story starts at the beginning of April 2019 when I went in for hemorrhoid surgery.
I had been dealing with pains on and off for a year, and my doctor was treating me for hemorrhoids with sitz baths and over-the-counter creams. A month before April 2019, I started missing work because I was in so much pain when I walked. I was a saw operator, very physical work, so it was really hard to keep working. And when I walked, it felt like I had paper cuts in my anus. It was so painful, I literally cried with every step I took.

I called every doctor I felt would deal with my problem, and, finally, a doctor agreed to see me the very next day. I took off work and went.

The doctor asked me to get up on the table and lie on my side, but even trying to step up to the table was so painful it made me cry. So, my doctor told me to just stand for the exam. When he looked at my anus, he did not even touch anything. Then he asked me if I could go to Toledo Hospital in 3 hours. I said “yes!” When I got to the hospital, I got surgery for what I thought were hemorrhoids and was told to come back the next week for a follow up.

While I waited for the doctor, I saw medical things written on a white board in the room and thought to myself that someone must have a very serious illness. When the doctor walked in looking troubled, I thought to myself, “he must be having problems in his life.” Then the doctor asked me if I remembered him talking to me right after the surgery? I told him “No.” That’s when he stared into my eyes and said those three words no one wants to hear. “You have cancer.”

When I heard the word cancer, it was like everything went numb. Emotions started flowing out of my eyes. My eyes teared up so badly, I couldn’t see my doctor for five minutes until I calmed the tears a little.
So, I left the doctor’s office with a list of things I needed to do now to beat the cancer. I was so freaked out and didn’t know how to talk to my mom and dad and tell them I have cancer. My family doesn’t talk much about medical things, so that was really tough.

By the time I had my port put in, I was starting to heal from the surgery and feeling no pain. For the first week of chemo and radiation, I was feeling like this was going to be easy. But in my second week, I started to feel sick to my stomach whenever I would eat or drink anything. I also started to have bad diarrhea and that felt like razor blades were cutting me when I went to the bathroom. I’ve never screamed harder or cried so hard ever in my life. Those were the radiation burns, but at the same time, I started to get mouth sores. The mouths sores burned the way hot sauce does or the way it burns when you bite into a slice of pizza that too hot. It was terrible. I even had mouth sores near my throat that were making me gag. I tried everything to calm the burning, but they would just get worse.

The mouth sores got so bad, under the tongue and in the throat, that I could hardly talk or eat. My doctors gave me some magic mouthwash and said that if the sores didn’t get better, I’d need a feeding tube. But I lucked out, the magic mouth wash worked, and the mouth sores calmed down; I was able to eat and drink.
Then, I started getting really bad cramps in my stomach and groin. I was even hospitalized and had to take a few days off from radiation. I almost gave up on treatment, but my team at Flower Hospital were so supportive, and they helped me push through the last couple of weeks.

During treatment, I also had to quit my job, lost my apartment, and had to move in with my parents. I didn’t even have a cell phone, so it was hard to apply for Medicaid and benefits. But my hospital helped me with all this. They were great.

After finishing treatment, I fell into a depression because I was no longer able to go to work. I was hardly able to walk or even do yard work without being in pain. I had pain in my stomach and groin area if I walked a little too much, or uphill, or upstairs. Every time I thought I was better; it would get worse again the following day. I even had to wait six months for physical therapy because it was too painful. Still to this day, I have a lot of weakness in my legs around the hip area; it’s like a burning feeling and when that happens, I have to sit down. I also had incontinence for three months after treatment and had to wear diapers.

I also have lower back problems now. Sometimes I’m not able to sleep because of the pains I get at night trying to lay down.

Things are better now, but I still have some pain need to sit down and rest a lot. I can do some work in the yard. I am even trying to work a few days a week and hope I can go back to work. It feels so good to go out and work. I hope I can do that again.

It’s been a tough journey. But I wrote on my hat “keep pushing limits” and I did. I pushed through treatment. I survived.



Mary Guevara: Learning to Thrive After Anal Cancer

My journey began years ago with an HPV diagnosis at the age of 22.  It was 2007, and the Gardasil vaccine was just beginning to hit the American market.  Doctors were not very vocal about it.  I had precancerous cervical cells, so I underwent a small procedure and was sent on my way.  Yearly screening never showed the virus again.

Fast forward to 2017.  I began to feel itching, bad itching. I was also feeling discomfort near my bottom, but nothing was consistent.  I was told by multiple doctors that because of my young age and two recent pregnancies, I most likely just had hemorrhoids, but no one ever checked.  I was given cream, which I ironically still had in my medicine closet until recently, and was once again sent on my way.

In the summer of 2020, I began bleeding occasionally during bowel movements.  COVID had shut down the world, so seeing a doctor wasn’t as easy as usual.  Everytime I thought about calling, the symptoms would calm and I would put it off.  Eventually my tumor prolapsed, and then I knew something was seriously wrong.  However, cancer had still not entered my mind.

That November I was taken for a colonoscopy which turned into a local resection of a 3.3cm tumor.  On November 16, 2020, at the age of 35, I was diagnosed with stage III HPV-related squamous cell carcinoma of the anal canal.

Life as I knew it abruptly stopped.  I am a teacher and had to walk away from my classroom and students.
My daughters’ sports had to be paused and I was about to learn quickly that I couldn’t keep up with the demands of parenting.  I underwent six weeks of brutal daily chemotherapy and radiation.   I was burned in places I never knew could burn.  The pain was more than I could tolerate at times, and I spent endless hours in the tub looking for relief or crying in my bed.  Walking and eating became a daily challenge. My trips to the bathroom included tears while getting there knowing the torture I was about to endure.  My 8 and 9 year-old daughters became instant caregivers.  They became my medicine dispensers, my time keepers, my personal nurses and most importantly, my strength.  It was hard to stay hopeful and positive when you no longer trusted your own body and your mental health was declining because of the sheer weight of cancer, the physical pain of treatment, and the fear of the unknown.  Would treatment even work?  Will I celebrate another holiday with my family?  Can I do this?  

I beat cancer.  I came out on top.  I survived.  I had an army around me, cheering me on and lifting me up.  Still though, with each scan, each scope and each hospital visit, the fear remains.  It doesn’t weigh on me like it used to, but it certainly has not disappeared.  I am finally thriving.  I am teaching again;  I am able to be the mom my daughters deserve, and I am no longer afraid to plan for the future.  I live for each moment, each memory, and each breath. I appreciate life in a whole new way and have a perspective on things some will never have the chance to know.

Remission accomplished.

My Gift in Disguise – Robert Miller on Head & Neck Cancer Diagnosis

On October 26, 2018, at 9:36 a.m., I received an entirely unexpected and highly personal gift. Slightly larger than an American dime, this gift’s most interesting aspects included an irregular shape, an uneven texture, and a random color pattern. The gift was accidentally discovered by my dentist and then confirmed by numerous doctors after they analyzed multiple imaging tests and two neck biopsies. The process of locating the site where my stage four squamous cell head and neck cancer originated reminded me of a childhood fortune hunt. Only now the hunt focused on me and my misfortune.

Once the tumor was precisely located, I knew it was big trouble, and I was scared. As I sought to better understand my cancer, I began to perceive some interesting benefits it might offer, and soon I developed a new perspective. I began to realize that my gift might have good, if hidden, aspects. Either way, cancer was about to unquestionably change my life forever. It was time to focus on the positives.
And so it began. I rejected the bad, the scary, and the unknown, focusing my efforts on one positive thing after the next. Yes, the negatives were all there staring me in the face day after day, but I refused to allow them to control my life. Slowly my feelings recalibrated, and now I understood with a new intensity how precious life is and that each moment truly counts. My faith has been enhanced, and this gift has given me a keen, focused approach to my days. I only wish I had attained this level of personal introspection long ago.

I also gained exclusive access to a special place that  was so visually stimulating to me and high-tech that I marveled at the design each time I entered that room. The gracious and highly trained hosts tasked to guide me through my radiation treatments led me to my special place, where they encouraged me to relax and put myself in a restorative position similar to a yoga pose. I was encouraged thirty-seven times to lie down for that special savasana session. This luxury occurred five days every week over seven weeks.
This gift kept right on giving. Every day challenged, inspired, motivated, and humbled me. Able to express my emotions, I learned that crying privately was not a bad thing. I was blessed to have the love and support of my wife and our five children and six grandchildren. Naturally I had challenging days. Truthfully, my treatment was beyond brutal—almost tortuous—but it was worth the pain. Chemotherapy and its side effects became the true life test, shaking me to my core.

Thankfully, steroids and anti-nausea drugs lessened the effects. Chemo pushed me into a world of confusion and fog. My sense of time seemed out of sync. I developed a love-hate relationship with my chemotherapy. I define the love part as being able to fall sleep at a moment’s notice, knowing that conserving my energy would help fight off disease. The hate side of chemo was the way in which it made my body feel electrified and jumpy, causing frequent waves of nausea to wash over me like a tide during a storm. I also lost all taste for food—it was horrible, now something to avoid.

It was humbling to lose my sense of taste but interesting as well. I am thankful for the experience because it has taught me to appreciate the simple pleasure of eating and tasting food. My doctors explained that this problem will improve over time, perhaps taking a year or more. So far I have recovered 60 percent of my ability to taste. Swallowing was a totally different animal. Six weeks into my radiation, with seven more treatments to go, I hit the wall. My pain level rose to a ten, and I could not swallow anything. Dealing with this much pain was impossible. I crouched on the floor, my body rocking back and forth, while desperately trying to sip water and Ensure. Each breath and swallow felt like a thousand shards of glass were being pushed further into my throat. I spent three days under palliative care with IVs for hydration. Gone was the morphine that had ceased to work. I now had a fentanyl transdermal patch to get my pain under control. This was supplemented with dilaudid transmitted through my IVs every four hours. I came home with the fentanyl patch, the dilaudid, and Tylenol and Motrin around the clock.

I hope you now understand the positives and negatives of receiving the gift of stage four squamous cell HPV head and neck cancer. The treatment from my amazing medical team worked, and today—cancer free—my prospects are bright.

Cancer is now a permanent part of my legacy and knowing this I plan to remain in control of my cancer—I am determined that it will never control me.

As for fragility and mortality, I know they are always going to be there, but I am moving away from both, at least for now. It’s not my time. But I’m grateful to have been forced to confront what is inevitable in life.
What I hope to impart is that the next time you are surprised by an unexpected and challenging event consider that it may be a gift in disguise.