What the Tumors Took: Living with What Cancer Left Behind

I was 32 when I heard the words “You have cancer.” It was March of 2020 — the world had seemingly just shut down, and so apparently had mine. As the COVID-19 pandemic swept across the globe, I found myself facing a second invisible enemy: breast cancer.

Appointments became a solo act. There was no hand to hold during biopsies or my double mastectomy surgery, no shared glances with my loved ones in waiting rooms. My parents were thousands of miles away and stuck behind closed borders and screens, their helplessness echoed my own. Cancer is always isolating, but going through it in lockdown was something else entirely.

This was the first of three times I would be told I had cancer before turning 36. Each time, I lost a bit of something — a sense of safety, a version of my body, a life I thought I had a choice in building. But I also gained something I didn’t expect: clarity, defiance, and the unshakable truth that even after the tumor is gone, so much of cancer still remains.

I’ve never liked the word “survivorship.” It sounds triumphant, like the hard part is over and now you’re meant to stand tall, grateful and glowing. But surviving, in its most basic form, just means your lungs are still converting oxygen to CO₂, your heart keeps rhythm, your brain signals. It says nothing about how you’re living — about the mental, physical, and emotional fallout that trails behind those last scans and chemo bell rings. It doesn’t account for the anxiety that tightens your chest before every follow-up, or the grief for the life you thought you’d have.

Less than a year after my initial diagnosis, I faced the unimaginable: a breast cancer recurrence. Just when I thought I was beginning to find my footing, I was thrown back onto the roller coaster — the myriad of appointments, tests, and decisions that drain every ounce of mental energy. The fatigue wasn’t just physical; it was crushing decision fatigue, having to weigh treatment options again with no clear answers, no guarantees. Statistically, only about 6% of people with my stage experience a recurrence, but for me, those odds didn’t offer much comfort. It was a brutal reminder that cancer doesn’t always follow the rules — and that surviving once doesn’t mean you’re safe from facing it all over again.

Then, in January of 2023, came the third and most devastating diagnosis: ovarian cancer. This time, the battle came with a loss I hadn’t anticipated — the ability to have children. It was a choice I thought would always be mine to make, but cancer took it away before I even had a chance to consider it as an option. That loss cut deeper than any treatment side effect or scan result. It wasn’t just about my body anymore; it was about dreams, futures, and a part of my identity that now feels permanently out of reach.

I was wholly unprepared for the long tail of these cancer treatment journeys — the way it reshaped my body in ways that don’t make it into the glossy pink ribbon brochures. Doctors will tell you your hair will fall out, but not that when it grows back, it might never be the same — it might be thinner and patchier. And then there’s the weight gain — not from indulgence, but from medications, slowed metabolism and the sheer toll of survival. My body became something foreign, altered by necessity, not choice. It’s not about vanity; it’s about mourning a version of yourself you didn’t realize you’d have to say goodbye to.

My doctors also didn’t mention the possibility of the permanent hearing loss and tinnitus I’d experience from having chemo, the muffled and sometimes high-pitched, shrill reminder that something in me broke and won’t be fixed. What made the hearing loss even more devastating was that I’m an audiologist — a doctor who specializes in hearing and balance. I’ve spent my career trying to help others navigate the very loss I was permanently facing. It’s one thing to counsel patients on the implications of hearing damage; it’s another to live it. The irony was brutal, but so was the realization that this side effect — so often downplayed or outright dismissed — could dismantle pieces of one’s identity.

When providers brush off these outcomes as minor or inevitable, they miss the bigger picture: we are more than lab results and tumor margins. We are people with careers, passions, and relationships built on the very senses that cancer treatments can quietly take away. The failure to acknowledge that isn’t just clinical oversight — it’s a disservice to the lives we’re fighting to reclaim through survivorship.

That personal loss became a turning point. I couldn’t undo the damage to my own hearing, but I could do something to help others avoid it. So, I built a program from scratch at my institution — one that brings audiologic care into the cancer journey from the start. We now counsel patients on advocating for preventative hearing loss measures, including discussing the use of an approved treatment with their care team, monitoring for early signs of ototoxicity, and educating both patients and providers on the lasting impact of treatment beyond survival. It’s about empowering people with information, with choices — and with the message that their quality of life after cancer matters just as much as getting through it. What I needed then, I’m determined to provide now.

Survivorship feels like a finish line, but for many of us, it’s more like a slow, confusing middle — one that demands just as much strength, but offers far less recognition. Survivor’s guilt is a quiet shadow that follows many of us, but it doesn’t look the same for everyone. For some, it’s the ache of wondering why they lived when friends, family, or fellow patients didn’t. For others, it’s the pressure to “stay positive” and be grateful, even on days when finding gratitude feels as impossible as hunting a dragon. It can show up as anger, silence, or the compulsion to downplay your struggles so others won’t feel worse.

Sometimes it’s an undercurrent of fear — the lingering question of what if the cancer comes back. I’ve never ‘celebrated’ being cancer-free. They say you can when active disease is not detected for five years, but I am not sure I will ever be able to. Being so young, my doctor told me “you are probably going to live to see cancer again.” I’m hopeful the second and third diagnoses satisfy this rather casual statement she bestowed on me.

Survivor’s guilt isn’t just about mourning loss; it’s also about wrestling with the complex emotions of being chosen, of carrying on while others can’t. And yet, it’s rarely talked about openly, leaving many to navigate it alone.

As an audiologist and lifelong science enthusiast, I went into each of these cancer journeys probably more informed than most. I read clinical studies, reviewed drug mechanisms and asked pointed questions — knowledge was my way of maintaining some sense of control. But even with all that information, what truly sustained me were the stories of other patients. Reading firsthand accounts of what it really felt like to go through treatment, to navigate life afterward, made me feel less alone. Support groups became lifelines — spaces where I could talk openly and honestly with people who just got it, no explanation needed. In a world where so much was uncertain, those shared experiences were a grounding force.

I share my story not because it’s tidy or inspiring in the way people often expect cancer stories to be, but because it’s real. Three diagnoses by age 36, permanent hearing loss, the end of my fertility, and a body forever changed — these are not just medical facts; they are lived experiences that deserve to be seen and understood. I want others to know they’re not alone in the quiet aftermath, in the decision fatigue, the guilt, or the grief for what cancer takes that can’t be scanned or staged.

I share this for the person sitting alone in a waiting room, for the young professional trying to keep up appearances in the office, for anyone feeling unseen as they navigate the road ahead. There is life after cancer — complicated, beautiful, painful, resilient life. And even when so much is taken, so much remains.