As the doctor ran the cold probe of the ultrasound machine over my neck, I tried to stay calm. Then he pointed to the monitor and said, “Right there…”
“Yep, you have a tumor in your throat.”
I froze, stunned, and asked him to repeat himself. Deep down, though, I already knew what I had heard.
As the words sank in, I felt tears welling up, but I didn’t want him to see. I wanted to appear strong, composed. So I sat there, dumbfounded, while he continued explaining.
To be honest, I’m not sure what I had expected him to say. I had first noticed the lump months earlier, while getting ready in the morning. My parents insisted it was likely just a cyst, and I wanted to believe them.
Still, I needed certainty.
I saw two different doctors. The first ran her hand over my throat and quickly concluded it was a cyst. Relief should have followed, but instead I felt unsettled. When I hesitated and asked, “Are you sure?” I was met with a look that said, You’re overreacting. The second doctor was no different. He too dismissed my concerns quickly. My unease only grew.
I began to wonder if maybe I was overthinking. I’ve always been prone to worry, so I told myself, Seeing a third doctor would be excessive… and expensive. I tried to let it go.
But the lump was always there, staring back at me in the mirror. Months later, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Feeling anxious and unsure, I decided to see one last specialist.
That day, I didn’t even tell my parents. I anticipated them saying I was overreacting. After all, I was in my twenties, active, and healthy.
The third doctor’s words were like a punch to the gut. He went over the type of tumor I had and the potential complications.
“This tumor could cause your right eyelid to droop permanently and your pupil to dilate.”
“You may not be able to lift your right arm above your shoulder again.”
“It could affect your vocal cords.”
“You may experience numbness on the right side of your face.”
“It doesn’t appear cancerous, but we won’t know for sure without surgery.”
I tried to focus, to absorb what he was saying, but my mind was racing. I had to leave.
The moment I walked out of Northwestern Memorial Hospital, tears I’d been holding back came flooding down. I hurried down the 20th floor, through a sea of people, looking for privacy. Finally, I found a tucked-away bathroom stall, sat on the floor, and let myself sob harder than I ever had.
I called my parents, but my voice was barely intelligible through the tears. Then I texted them, shaking, asking to be picked up.
The tumor was a nerve sheath tumor, a rare type that grows slowly from nerve-protecting cells. Usually benign, these tumors can still be dangerous due to their connection to nerves. Untreated, they can press on the spinal cord or other nerves, causing pain or loss of function. Surgery is complex and sometimes impossible, depending on the tumor’s location.
Since mine hadn’t caused symptoms beyond a visible mass, my doctor recommended monitoring it with regular MRIs. But each morning, as I got ready, I wondered: Is it growing? Is it affecting my nerves? Could it be cancerous?
Years passed with frequent MRIs and appointments. The tumor grew over 20%, and surgery became inevitable. Doctors warned the operation could be hard on my nerves, which heal unpredictably. Still, the decision had to be made.
I scheduled surgery for December 29, 2021, at Mayo Clinic, where Dr. Spinner agreed it was the right time. On the drive there, I drafted a post about my upcoming surgery. Sharing my story terrified me. Would people judge me? Blame me? But I knew I needed to push past fear if I wanted to grow my business and step into my own power.
The night before surgery, I snapped a photo raising my right arm—the same one Dr. Spinner said might never fully lift again. I wanted a reminder of my strength before facing uncertainty.
The morning of surgery, I felt calm, grounded. No matter the outcome, I would take recovery one step at a time. With my mom and fiancé by my side, I felt ready.
The surgery went better than expected. Dr. Spinner successfully removed the tumor with minimal nerve damage. It was confirmed benign—a schwannoma. I do have slight numbness along my jaw, neck, and ear, but I’d take that any day over living with the tumor.
After posting my reel, “My Tumor Story and What I Know So Far,” I was overwhelmed by the response. Within a week, it had thousands of views. Today, it has surpassed four million. Messages of support, prayers, and shared stories poured in. Survivors of all kinds of illnesses reached out. One woman with the same tumor said my video was the sign she needed to finally share her story. The power of compassion, empathy, and connection left me humbled and grateful.
As my recovery nears its end, I’ve reflected on the lessons this journey taught me:
- Stay attuned to your body. Don’t ignore warning signs. Knowledge brings peace.
- Seek multiple opinions. You are your best advocate.
- Find the best specialists. Quality care saves time, stress, and worry.
- Have a trusted support system. Someone to help digest complex medical information is invaluable.
- Remember: your healthcare, your choice. Illness can feel out of your control, but your response is yours to own.
This journey taught me resilience, courage, and the extraordinary power of human connection. I hope my story inspires others to listen to their bodies, trust their instincts, and bravely face their fears.
