Sarah: “I will never understand how or why I got cancer but I am well aware of blessings I have received from cancer.”

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My fellow women, I say be aware, know your body. If it doesn’t feel right, then it isn’t. The best cure for cancer is EARLY DETECTION. We may not be able to prevent cancer but we can cure it.

By Sarah Z. Salem
CANCER until now I still don’t quiet understand this six-letter world. This word, when said, pulls at every nerve in my being… a six-letter word that hijacks a life known and creates a reality changed. When I learned that I had cancer, it wasn’t a moment or feeling, it was a hurricane, a volcano exploding followed by an earthquake and severe after shocks that have yet to settle and the magnitude of the damage is still being assessed. My 21st year of living was anything but normal. As soon as I blew the candles out, things started to change, to be honest, I can’t really remember my 21st birthday party. All I know is, from that point on, my life was exciting, new, and different. I studied abroad in India and Japan, made a pit-stop in Hong Kong, I felt like the world was mine. I could brave the monsoons of India and conquer the Japanese volcano Mt. Fuji, little did I know my next battle would be one I could never prescribe for myself or train for, or so I thought. Upon returning from Japan, I noticed that while sleeping on my stomach I felt a shooting pain on the left side of my lower abdomen. Thinking it was nothing, I ignored the pain. I made silly comments here and there stating how bloated I felt and looked. It was only after sleeping next to my mother one night, when she suggested I see a gastrologist, just to see what was going on. And so my most defining, exhausting, challenge began.
Monday December 29, 2008
I was at our family gastrologist, sitting there, the doctor noted, “Yes you are definitely bloated. Yes we should do blood work. Yes, well do a CAT Scan, just to see what’s going on.” My response was, “Well we need to this all very quickly, I’m traveling to Egypt on Saturday to see my father.” So my mother being the matriarch that she is, had the blood work scheduled the same night, and scheduled the CAT scan the next day.
Tuesday December 30, 2008
While at a matinee movie, my mother received a phone call. It was the beginning of Marley and Me and she didn’t return until Marley, the dog, was dying. Knowing something wasn’t right I kept pushing for answers. “Its nothing, your blood work is off, they just requested more tests.” You know that feeling that against all want and better judgment, you know something is wrong. I was having it. That evening we made our way to the clinic for the CAT scan and more blood work. My father called to see if I was ready for Egypt, and at this point I knew I had to say something. I drank what until this day is the worst drink I have ever had. And in I went, five minutes later I came out all smiles, to find my sister and mother crying. They refused to say why, which further made me believe something was wrong.
Wednesday December 31, 2008
Morning came and it was New Years Eve, I was getting ready to go out and run some errands, when I found my mother sitting on the bed on the phone with my father and a sheet in her hand. The sheet was the report from the CAT scan and what was noted was so unexpected and out of this world that until this day, I don’t know how I didn’t lose my mind. The report stated I had an 11cm x 17cm x 12cm tumor on my left ovary. CRASH! SMASH! BAM! SHATTER! You name it, I felt it. I quickly went to see my gynecologist who further confirmed my condition, “You know, you look five months pregnant”. Which I laughed, knowing this was impossible. She scheduled me for a check up on Friday Jan 2, 2009, because no doctor was open on New Years Day.
Thursday January 1, 2009
*Crickets* Waiting. I sat around the house making underhanded jokes about possibly having “cancer”, desperately trying to hide my fear.
Friday January 2, 2009
I went to the oncologist and under went more blood work by request of my endocrinologist. Made my appointment to have the mass removed the following Thursday, signed away, “Yes you can remove anything and everything”. That night, while lounging with my 5-month pregnant looking stomach, my mother received a phone call from our endocrinologist. He was surprised to learn that I had not been admitted into the hospital yet. He quickly urged that I be rushed to the ER and put on fluids to lower my calcium levels which were at 16 as opposed to the normal calcium range of 5-9. He also informed us that my calcium levels had nothing to do with my thyroid. As my mother called me up, telling me to get dressed to leave, I felt my heart drop. It was that moment I knew I had cancer. Up to this point, no one had said the word, no one would confirm it, but I knew. I screamed “Oh my God I have CANCER.” I ran downstairs to the bathroom and called my best friend at the time. No reply. I fell to the bathroom floor and cried. I HAD CANCER. STOP. I pulled it together and we went to the hospital. We were met by the on-call doctor, who had taken a look at my CAT Scan, and we were surprised to learn that the area on the scan that we thought to be my stomach was actually the tumor, which had taken up about 4/5ths of my abdomen. From there on, I spent the next 3 days Friday, Saturday, and Sunday being pricked and poked. FEAR of needles, GONE.

Monday Jan 5, 2009
I was put into emergency surgery and had my left ovary and fallopian tube removed along with a mass that had grown 20 cm in diameter since it was first detected. It was classified as Stage I Hyper Calciumic Ovarian Cancer. But due to my age and the rare nature of my cancer, only 15 published cases in the last 100 years, I would undergo four rounds of chemo for three days every three weeks. And so I did, no question asked… to Fight or to Fight were my only options.
Tuesday January 20, 2009
My first round of chemo was scary and overwhelming. The only calm I found was in two strangers. The first, was a woman my mother’s ages, another ovarian cancer fighter who gave me pointers about how to deal with chemo. And another cancer fighter, in her early 30s who smile at me and mouthed, “You’re gonna do great” as I sat in the chemo suite getting the run down of the drugs that were entering my body. After completing my first round of chemo I was told within 16 days you’ll begin to lose your hair. Being the smart ass I am, I said YA RIGHT. I’m not losing my hair… So I left my hair in a bun and refused to brush it.

I cried. I cried so much, I now felt the weight of this disease, and it was at this moment I knew I was fighting.

Wednesday February 4, 2009
I woke up and found hair all over my pillow… I figure well I’m shedding, I have curly hair and well, we shed. I decided to take a shower, as I removed my bun more hair fell… No big deal. SHEDDING. As I began to wash my hair I notice more hair. Then a chunk, a huge chunk of my hair was in my hand. I once again as I had done before fell to the shower floor (before cancer I wasn’t o-so-dramatic that I would randomly throw myself to the floor, this was a new occurrence) I cried. I cried so much, I now felt the weight of this disease, and it was at this moment I knew I was fighting. Nothing had been as traumatic as seeing the hair on my head fall in shocking amounts. Not because of my vanity, not because abdominal surgery was a breeze, not because losing an ovary was a simple act of courage, but because I now identified myself with this horrible disease. It was the first physical change that I could not hide. I could not make my hair stay. I couldn’t hide from the fear that I was now living. I myself have covered my hair with a veil since I was 16, so for me, it wasn’t the fear of others seeing, it was the fear of me seeing myself. I pulled myself together, got dressed and sternly told my father. I need to shave my head. I walked in the salon and said with a quivering voice. “Hi, I need to shave my head, I’m going through chemo and losing my hair.” Quickly they took me to a chair. I took my veil off, sat staring in the mirror, looking at the person I had always been. The hairdresser began to shave, but my hair was so weak that it was just falling out and getting stuck in the clippers. So she cut my hair short, as she did so, I wept. I sat there watching the life I had known fall with each clump of hair, she shaved, as she shaved and I began to see a different me, a me that would have to fight. As she finished she told me with a smile “You have a beautiful head shape, really NO LUMPS!!!”. I smile, I never regretted going alone to shave my head, or crying it was a moment of great weakness and strength. Losing your hair while in chemo is never easy (I know, I’ve done it twice) but it also a sign that you’re killing the cancer. The drugs being pumped in your body are working.

Thursday April 9, 2009
REMISSION
Tuesday January 19, 2010
364 days since my first chemo. I relapsed. Relapsing for me was worse then the first diagnosis only because I knew what to expect. This time, I once again underwent abdominal surgery, to remove two small tumors one on my bladder and another between my right ovary and uterus. I underwent six rounds of chemo. The second time two things were different. First I was doing cancer on my terms, meaning no veil, which I had left on during my first experience, and tougher drugs. The drugs had far more side effects and left me lethargic and tired for at least a week, as opposes to my 4-day bounce back rate the first time. I also lost my eyebrows, eyelashes, arm hair, everything. But the second time around I was once again rallied around and supported through the entire experience. I chose to take my veil off for one reason. I need to be authentic and honest with my experience. I no longer felt it was my duty to protect others from what I was experiencing. If I were bald, you would know, if I looked like a mole rat (which I did) you would know. I learned that there is no strength in hurting to protect face, there is no problem in admitting that you are too tired and weak. My Temple Architecture faculty refused to let me quit school and helped me complete my Architectural thesis along with walking at graduation. My family and friends participated with me at Temple Relay for Life, where our team raised $5,000, making us the campus winners. Finally on July 7, 2010 I presented my final thesis defense to a room filled with faculty, my graduating class, friends, and family who had all surprised me and came to sit through an hour-long presentation. It was at the closing remarks that I spilled my heart. I told these people, these friends and families, that they alone had saved my life. They gave me a home when my home had become hospital beds and chemo suites. They allowed me to escape from the horror of this disease. They showed me love and support that I will never feel worthy of. They each gave love not asking for anything in return.
Tuesday April 26, 2011
9-month cancer free diagnosis!!! I am still on a maintenance drug and receive treatment every 3 weeks. I will never understand how or why I got cancer but I am well aware of blessings I have received from cancer. I have seen love in so many places from so many people. I have been let into a world that desires more smiles and less tears. The world of cancer SUCKS no doubt but the hearts and the people who fight, the caregivers, doctors, and friends are spectacular. I feel as if I was taken to the edge of hell and shown heaven. I thank God everyday for giving me the tools to fight, whether that is my amazing support system or the strength to hold on for more everyday. I share my story of cancer to share hope. Cancer is a disease that has no prejudice; it doesn’t care your color, creed, or level of greed. It is a disease of mutation and can happen to any of us. For my fellow women, I say be aware, know your body. If it doesn’t feel right, then it isn’t. The best cure for cancer is EARLY DETECTION. We may not be able to prevent cancer but we can cure it.
Throughout my journey I have met some amazing cancer fighters. I have also had a few friends who have left the world for another, and left the fight of cancer and the rest of us here on earth. I would like to remember Ramon Baez, who was always smiling and dancing, Khaled Elfarra, a ping pong extraordinaire, and Misha Daugherty, who taught me to fight. These three have taught me so much and I will remember them always.

Tags: cancer, cancer stories, chemo, chemotherapy, fighter, losing hair, muslim, ovarian cancer, rare cancer, veil