Meaghan Schaefer shares about her cancer journey.
I have several souvenirs from my cancer journey: A four-inch scar on my neck where a golf ball sized mass was extracted. A wig. A photo of my daughter holding a trophy from the softball championship game I missed. At my last oncology appointment, when my doctor dismissed me as her patient, I replied sincerely, “I hope I never see you again.”
I was likely the most ignorant patient she ever treated. I didn’t try to take control by doing online research. I wasn’t curious about a medicinal cocktail that must be administered slowly because it can trigger a serious allergic reaction since it is made of rats. Not tested on rats, actually made of rats. I discovered I have a high tolerance for rodents scurrying through my bloodstream.
My doctor described my treatment plan as “aggressive,” meaning she intended to take the medical equivalent of a sledgehammer to that golf ball sized mass in my neck and wherever else cancer might be lurking. I had questions about chemotherapy.
Would the liquid dripping into my body, attached to a rolling hanger emitting incessant, aggravating beeps, protect me from future disease? While dealing with lymphoma, might it take a crack at any other simmering cancers? My doctor patiently explained that chemo doesn’t work that way.
