By Jo Dunne, 26, Synovial Sarcoma
Early last June, I celebrated Eid at the family home of a good friend. I remembered walking up to the doorstep and being greeted by his seven young nieces, giggling in their flowing dresses and henna reserved for special occasions. They instantly pinned me to the step as they twisted and braided my hair – a texture unlike any they had ever felt before. “Le cheveux glissante,” they called it. I felt like one of those oversized Barbie head hairstyling toys from the Dollar Store, and laughed it off, letting them continue experimenting. Little did I know that it would be one of my last days in Cameroon. Much less one of the last days I would have my hair.
The very next week, a casual report I made to the Peace Corps doctors about pain in my knee turned into a series of orthopedic assessments and ultrasounds that found an inconclusive mass. My first MRI images in Yaounde were developed on film. It was eventually presumed to be a type of benign tumor, and as the rest of my cohort prepared for mid-service training, I boarded a plane for medical evacuation.
Any Returned Peace Corps Volunteer (RPCV) will tell you that one of the hardest parts of service is reintegrating into life in the U.S. When I returned home, I felt overwhelmed and isolated, as I had experienced the extreme inequality of power and resources in the world that most other Americans have never fully grasped and will never understand. I returned back to a culture with a rushed sense of time while having to choose between 12 brands of peanut butter at the grocery store. Going through this reintegration and a medical crisis at the same time, is something I can only describe as whiplash. One day I was negotiating the price of tomatoes at the village market. The next I was being wheeled into surgery wondering if I would still be able to feel the nerve endings in my leg when I woke up. One day I was giving a lecture on malaria prevention to new moms lined up on wooden benches in the health center, no one batting an eyelid at thebirds flying in and out to their nest in the corner of the room. The next, I was in a cold, sterile American hospital room with the surgeon telling me that the pathology report came back: the tumor was malignant and I would have to go to a major, specialized hospital since the type of cancer was so rare.
Synovial sarcoma. The odds were roughly one in a million. I barely had time to process that as I moved across the country to start an intense regimen of radiation, chemotherapy, and a second surgery. Nearly as hard as the treatment itself, were the implications of being both an AYA and an RPCV. I had been away from the U.S. for so long that I didn’t have a close community of friends in one place, nor did I have family physically near the treatment center who I could stay with. I didn’t get a meal train, a GoFundMe, or a partner’s hand to hold as I underwent painful medical procedures. Instead, I relied on Worker’s Comp and other various assistance programs, mealprepped myself for the days I would be down after chemo, and took the metro to appointment after appointment, with long-distance visits from family and friends being both sporadic and cherished.
The more “typical” challenges of navigating a rare cancer also hit me hard, especially the lack of research and resources, coupled with the absence of solidarity from a community of survivors who had gone through what I was going through. The first time I met another sarcoma survivor at CancerCon, just after my treatment ended. I have yet to meet someone else who has also faced synovial sarcoma.
One particularly helpful perspective I learned early on was the acceptance of co-existing truths and emotions. I could be grateful that my cancer was caught early enough to achieve remission, while grieving that it had to happen in the first place. I could acknowledge feelings of isolation from facing treatment without a caregiver, alongside my resilience and abilities to cope.
I still struggle with guilt over the fact that if any of my Cameroonian friends were in the same situation, they would probably never get a diagnosis, much less access to the same quality of care that made it possible for me to survive it. But I am inspired every day by the knowledge that my second shot at life gives me the chance to contribute to building a more equal world. My lived experience will make me a better advocate as I return to the field of social work, striving for the elimination of poverty and improved access to healthcare both nationally and globally.
I joined the Peace Corps for a number of reasons. At the heart of it, was the desire to grow in awareness of the most pressing social issues the world faces and to approach my work and life with greater empathy and intentionality. It astounds me to think that the two years I set aside for my service still taught me those lessons, just in a way I never anticipated and never would have asked for. Of course it didn’t come easily. Sometimes I question whether my experience truly made me a better person, or if it just broke me in a way that can never be repaired. But perhaps with time, I can come to accept that maybe it’s both.
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