Words Matter

Register to hear Perry read her story live at our upcoming Perkatory event on April 9th at 7pm ET.

I wish my doctors knew how powerful their words can be. Whether it’s on a diagnosis day, during treatment, or after treatment, words matter. And they stay with us. “I’m not gonna lie, I’m worried,” my surgeon said after I got that dreaded x-ray of my shoulder in November 2018. “We need to talk about your MRI” my oncologist said over the phone as the tumor in my pelvis was revealed in July 2025. “It’s going to be okay,” my surgeon whispered in my ear after first saying the word osteosarcoma in 2018. “I don’t know,” my oncologist has repeatedly said as we’ve charted new territory with this current treatment regimen.

With both of these diagnoses, I knew what was coming far before the words left my doctors’ mouths. But neither time was I ready to face what these words meant. They meant life would be put on pause again as our priority shifted back to my health. They meant I would spend countless hours at the hospital receiving treatment that would knock me down a few pegs in order to build me back up. They meant that normalcy would be out of reach for a little while as we adapted to new routines at the hospital.

Informed by experience from the osteosarcoma in my leg in 2011, I knew I shouldn’t ignore the ache in my shoulder as I continued to practice with my high school swim team. And I shouldn’t have ignored the ache in my hip as I jogged in Central Park last summer. But I did, in order to postpone the inevitable.

When a surgeon says he’s worried, you break down crying. Because you know what he means. He tried to soften the blow by making small talk with us and waiting to say “cancer” or “osteosarcoma,” but let’s be real. My parents and I had waited hours in the pediatric clinic at MSK knowing there was a painful lump on my shoulder. We knew what would soon be made official. We just had to hear it to make it our reality again.

When you break down crying in the exam room while getting diagnosed, your surgeon might want to comfort you. So he’ll give you a long hard hug and whisper in your ear “it’s going to be okay.” I don’t know if either of us believed it in that moment, but it was true. I was eventually okay. For a little bit.

Years later, I found myself in a similar position. Only this time I was seven years older and trying to figure everything out. This time it was a little more routine. I went into my follow up appointment knowing my alkaline phosphatase had been elevated and knowing about the dull ache in my hip. All signs pointed to another osteosarcoma, but only the MRI could tell us.

Even when you know, though, no one prepares you for hearing your oncologist’s voice on the other end of the line. “We need to talk about your MRI.” That’s all I needed to know this wasn’t going to be good news. And it certainly was not good news. There was a tumor in my pelvis that was later confirmed to be osteosarcoma and I was maxed out on most conventional osteosarcoma treatments. There was a diagnosis, but this time there was no clear path forward. And that scared the crap out of me. There are so many unknowns, but in an oddly comforting way my oncologist has consistently admitted that there were many things he does not have answers to.

This admission that my oncologist does not know what may or may not happen is scary because there is no true evidence that this drug combination will work. But this admission that he does not know also gives me a louder voice in the process. It has made my treatment a more collaborative process in making sure my opinions on the regimen are heard and respected.

“I’m worried”

“We need to talk about your MRI”

“It’s gonna be okay”

“I don’t know”

All of these words hit somewhere. And I wish my doctors knew how these words hit.