By: Patrick Rossi, 29, Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma 

Before my 25th birthday, I was just your run-of-the-mill accountant with social anxiety.

I was afraid of speaking up, going out of my comfort zone, or being judged – which I always was since I was always my harshest critic. I had this incredible ability to make myself the loneliest person in a room even when I was surrounded by friends and family.

During college parties at my own house I would have to sneak away as I couldn’t handle all the people around me. Hell I had to leave my own sister’s wedding early because it was just too much. It always felt like I was fighting myself.

My one saving grace was my hair: it was thick, black, and grew so fast that I had to cut it every three months. Throughout high school and college I was super critical of myself, but the one thing that gave me confidence and grounded me was my hair. In a sense that was my suit of armor.

Then three days before my 25th birthday during the middle of the coronavirus pandemic, I got the news: “yup its lymphoma.” And ever since, my mundane life as an accountant was changed forever.

After my diagnosis I had to step out of my comfort zone. My decisions were no longer my own, and things that in the past I had been uncomfortable doing such as speaking up for myself and being assertive were forced upon me. I quickly learned that if something feels off, say something, you aren’t being mean or an asshole, you’re being your own advocate. And for the next three months and six treatments later, I learned to speak up.

Support from my family, friends and unconditional love from my golden retriever who greeted me after every session made it bearable, and to be honest it beat tax season.

After everything, I felt this renewed confidence in myself and that I could push myself further than I previously thought. I was in complete remission; my hair was coming back, I felt like a new person, and started feeling a bit indestructible. By June after the vaccine roll out, I met up with my college friends and had an amazing weekend, things were finally going my way.

Then I came home, quite literally to the single toughest week of my life. I learned that week my beloved dog was diagnosed with cancer, and a friend had unexpectedly passed away. And the weird spots on my arm? The biopsy results were positive. My cancer was back.

My renewed confidence was shattered, the happiness I had just a week earlier was now gone, and for the first time in my life I had to come to the realization that in the next few years I had a higher chance of being dead than alive.

What I went through for the next eight months was hellish. What little control of my life I had while going through the first round of chemo was far greater than what I had under this new strict regimen.

First, I got three treatments to bring the cancer back into remission. Then after a month it was time, and they moved me into the main hospital. As a born and raised Long Islander, it had been a goal of mine to escape the suburbs and move to NYC…but as you learn, life has a funny sense of humor.

I did get to stay in one of the most expensive studio apartments in the Upper East Side, with food catered for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Hell, the short rib was better than some of the restaurants I’ve been to.

The trade off is you’re forced to be irradiated and poisoned for a month. As a fun little add on I got an Allogeneic Bone Marrow Transplant to replace my immune system, as the old one was trying to kill me with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma or as Larry David put it the “Bad Hodgkins.” But I got the transplant and I was still breathing.

After a month I was ready to move out, and I was eyeing a studio by the cultural mecca that is Penn Station and looking to showcase my new look that one friend described as “a dollar store Lex Luthor.”

I was discharged to the Hope Lodge and there I would slowly start to feel human again. I was able to go for walks, I was finally allowed to eat out since early on while recovering I had no immune system.

I even started keeping track of all the things I would eat so I wouldn’t waste money on mediocre pizza like Joe’s.

Then essentially overnight while home for Thanksgiving I developed a rash on the palms of my hands and bottom of my feet. My body was fighting itself: the new immune system started to attack my body. It was so painful that things like holding my phone or having socks on made my skin feel like it was pressed against embers.

We rushed back to get treated and started the long process of battling Graft vs Host Disease. This is where my new cells target and attack my old cells – which let me tell you is not much fun. However, we learned that one of the benefits is this can mean my new immune system is targeting the cancer and learning how to fight it. What developed was a fight between my old sick self and my new self that was forcing me to live kicking and screaming.

Just like everything else, this would create another journey with blood work every three, four, or five days. Recurrence scares, infections, blood clots, sepsis…I didn’t know where I would be from one minute to another. I could only take things a minute at a time.

After six months, I was finally able to go home. The journey was far from over, but for the first time in almost two years I had my life.

But what I was left with was a mangled body and mind. I couldn’t wash both my hands at the same time. I couldn’t bend my back. Walking to the end of the street was arduous. I gained 60 pounds in three months because of some of the drugs I was on with muscle atrophy to boot.

And my hair that I loved and worked so hard all my life to take care of grew back weak and thin. What I was left with was a pale imitation of its former self. When I looked into the mirror, I couldn’t see myself.

But I had my life back. Once I finally had some control I could start my recovery and follow a new mantra: just keep going, just keep moving. Now was the time to rebuild me, it was/is a long and never-ending process.

Before, I’d never do anything on my own. Then after eight months of recovery I started a new job and truly moved to NYC. I went to a museum on my own, then a coffee shop, and then a concert. I started to walk, then I started to run, and it wasn’t easy.

Panic attacks, self-doubt, self-criticism was all there and made these activities at times almost unbearable. But then I did them again, I refused to fall back into the old me: the new me was again forcing me to live, kicking and screaming.

Before you knew it, I’ve seen all the big museums, running 3 miles, then 6, then 13. I managed to read Dune before the new movie came out, while enjoying a latte by myself. I started taking dance classes!

I was pushing myself like never before. However, the one thing I desperately wanted to hold onto was my hair. But like many parts of the old me, it wasn’t healthy.

As a final act to come to terms with my new self I finally shaved my head. I had to move on, I had to accept. In a sense, the person I was is now gone. I still have the same personality and outlook, but who I am now is fighting for a new life, just like my new cells did three years ago.