Diagnosis
That first night in the hospital was rough. I couldn’t lie flat without triggering a hacking cough that brought up bloody phlegm. I was on oxygen because I couldn’t keep my levels above 90 on my own. There was a constant parade of visitors, including a chest X-ray at 2 a.m. I was put on NPO—no food or drink—after midnight because my biopsy was scheduled for the next morning.
I woke up groggy and parched, begging the nurses for a sip of water. But I had to wait until nearly 11 a.m. before I was finally wheeled down for the biopsy. My nerves were shot, but another dose of fentanyl took care of that. When I woke up, it felt like nothing had happened—the pain would set in later.
By Friday, I didn’t need oxygen anymore, and my coughing had mostly stopped. With liters of fluid drained from my chest, I felt great! I was ready to go home.
Then the oncologist came in. He sat down and got straight to the point: I had a very aggressive form of cancer and needed to start an intensive, five-day inpatient chemotherapy regimen immediately.
I was stunned. My biopsy had just been sent out for testing. He had no concrete results. How could I take this seriously? Didn’t he see that I felt fine?
To be perfectly honest, this doctor had a terrible bedside manner—abrupt, arrogant, and almost gleefully ominous. It felt like he was trying to scare me, and I wasn’t about to let him. I refused to agree to treatment without biopsy results. He left, promising to return the next day.
And so began the waiting game—getting a biopsy just before the weekend is not the move.
Over the next few days, the thoracic surgery team checked on my chest tube while the oncologist made his rounds, backpedaling on certain details and continuing to speculate. He didn’t inspire confidence. Then, the thoracic surgeon delivered what seemed like good news: the biopsy sent to the Mayo Clinic had come back inconclusive. A glimmer of hope—but deep down, I knew something wasn’t right.
The heaviness in my chest that I’d noticed back in January (or really, December) was still there. And then I remembered something unsettling.
In December, I was sitting at my kitchen table, working on my computer, when I suddenly paused, looked out the window, placed a hand on my chest, and thought, I have cancer.
At the time, it seemed ridiculous, and I brushed it off. But now, it felt like premonition—or clairsentience.
By Monday, the oncologist returned. The hospital’s pathologist was working hard to identify the cancer. At first, they thought it was non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Then, they suspected Hodgkin’s. We’ll know soon.
A few hours later, he popped his head in and said he got a text from the pathologist: It’s non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Then he left.
This was the first time I burst into tears. I was at a loss—how had this happened? Would I survive? What would my life look like now?
Luckily, Jordan, my boyfriend, is a master researcher. While I was in the hospital, he dug up dirt on my assigned oncologist (yes, there was dirt) and read reviews of the small regional hospital I was in. If I needed treatment, this was not where I wanted it.
Fortunately, I have a cousin—a former ER nurse turned holistic-minded mama—who has deep insight into the system and connections in the natural healing space. She told me about Hope4Cancer in Mexico and that the University of Colorado had a top-rated lymphoma department.
I dove into research, reading about treatment options, clinics, and outcomes. The clinic in Mexico looked incredible—but it cost $46K out of pocket, no insurance accepted. There were similar clinics in Arizona that blended targeted chemotherapy with holistic healing, but they also required significant out-of-pocket expenses. My family assured me we’d figure it out, but the real issue was time—I wouldn’t be able to get in for weeks.
Time I didn’t have.
After one more conversation with the oncologist and thoracic surgery team, it was clear: I couldn’t afford to go home and take my time making a decision. If they removed the chest tube, my chest cavity would fill with fluid again, collapsing my lung. This was an emergency.
So I made the only decision that made sense. I asked to be transferred to the University of Colorado. The transfer was granted, and by Tuesday night, transport was lined up.
Jordan brought me a few t-shirts, boxers, and pajamas from home, my mom rushed back to her hotel to grab her luggage, and before I knew it, I was strapped onto yet another stretcher, wheeled to the ambulance bay, and handed over to a team of flight nurses—truly incredible people.
A short drive to the Kalispell airport, a quick transfer onto a small plane, and we were on our way to Colorado. I was reconnected to oxygen and had my vitals checked every twenty minutes during the two-and-a-half-hour flight. The worst part? Being strapped to the stretcher with barely any range of motion. The discomfort of sitting on my butt for days was excruciating.
Finally, we landed in Denver, where another ambulance waited to take me on the last 25-minute leg to UCHealth Anschutz. The difference was immediately noticeable. The flight nurses even marveled at the state-of-the-art facility as they escorted me to the 11th-floor Bone Marrow Transplant wing.
We arrived around 11 p.m., and all I wanted was to sleep. But that wasn’t in the cards. The nurses got to work—checking vitals, drawing labs, and running an orthostatic test, measuring my blood pressure lying down and then standing up.
That’s when things went downhill.
The combination of altitude change, low blood sugar from skipping dinner, and sheer exhaustion caused me to black out. That earned me a bed lock—no getting up on my own, even to use the bathroom.
At 2 a.m., a nurse inserted a PICC line—a catheter that entered through my right arm and fed directly to my heart. This central line would allow for efficient medication administration and blood draws without needle pokes.
Rest was a luxury I would quickly learn not to expect.
The next day, I met my primary oncologist, Dr. Bair—worth the transfer alone. A massive upgrade from my previous oncologist. He and his team, a mix of nurse practitioners, physician assistants, and genuinely kind nurses, took my case seriously and ensured my biopsy results were confirmed before starting treatment.
But the diagnosis remained the same:
Primary Mediastinal Large B-Cell Lymphoma—an aggressive but treatable cancer.
And when they say large, they mean large. Nearly every doctor and nurse who rounded on me commented on the sheer size of the mass in my chest.
An aggressive cancer calls for an aggressive treatment. My chemotherapy regimen, R-EPOCH, is one of the most intense. It includes:
Etoposide phosphate
Vincristine sulfate
Cyclophosphamide
Doxorubicin hydrochloride
Rituximab (an immunotherapy drug)
Prednisone (a steroid)
And so, my fight began.
