By: Emily Sloan, 31, Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma
November 19, 2022, is a date I’ll never forget. I call it my cancerversary, though that word feels too casual for what it represents. That was the day everything changed — and, strangely, the day everything finally made sense.
In the weeks leading up to that moment, my body had been sending alarms that no one could interpret. I had bounced from one doctor to another, collecting misdiagnoses like unwanted souvenirs: viral infection, bacterial infection, Eagle Syndrome, stress. Each visit ended with more confusion and fewer answers. My immune system had shut down, my energy vanished, and deep down, I knew something was very wrong.
That morning, I sat in a sterile inpatient room on the acute oncology floor, surrounded by the faint smell of disinfectant and the hum of fluorescent lights. I stared at the clock, its ticking impossibly loud, counting down to whatever came next.
When the oncology fellow (whom I had only met one day prior in the emergency department) walked in, I knew before he spoke. His face told me everything.
“We suspect it’s lymphoma,” he said.
Just two words — suspects lymphoma — and the room split in two. On one side was my life before that sentence. On the other was everything that would come after.
Oddly, my first feeling wasn’t panic. It was relief. After months of pain and guessing games, I finally had an answer. The mystery had a name, and even though that name was terrifying, it was something solid to hold onto.
The doctor kept talking about next diagnostic steps — but the words blurred into static. I nodded automatically, trying to memorize the sound of my own breathing. It was the only thing that still felt real.
That night, I sat alone in my hospital room. I had been moved to the critical care oncology unit. My dad had passed away in 2014 due to complications with lupus, and my mom was already battling myelofibrosis — another blood cancer — so I knew this news would hit her like a wave.
When I finally called, I could hear her trying to stay strong. Neither of us had words big enough for what was happening.
For the next few days, I lived in suspended disbelief. Then, on November 24, the diagnosis deepened: Burkitt’s Lymphoma, stage 4, with secondary Hemophagocytic Lymphohistiocytosis (HLH).
I had been holding everything in until that sentence shattered the illusion of control. Suddenly it wasn’t just about survival — it was about everything I’d lose along the way. My health, my hair, my future plans, the version of myself who still thought time was guaranteed.
Within days, treatment began: six rounds of aggressive chemotherapy, followed eventually by a stem cell transplant. My life collapsed into cycles of hospital rooms, port flushes, lumbar punctures, and sterile hallways where daylight felt like a rumor.
Looking back now, I realize that November 19 wasn’t only the day I learned I had cancer. It was the day I stopped trusting that life would unfold according to plan. It was also the day I started learning what resilience really meant.
Before cancer, I used to crave certainty. I wanted answers, diagnoses, solutions. That day gave me an answer I never wanted, but it also forced me to live in the gray — the uncertain space between fear and hope.
What I didn’t know then was how much community I would find in that space. People I’d never met before would soon become lifelines — fellow patients, survivors, nurses, and friends who checked in every day, who understood without needing explanation.
Sometimes it was just a text that said, “Thinking of you.” Sometimes it was laughter over how absurd the hospital food could be. Other times, it was silence — the comfortable kind — sitting together in shared exhaustion, knowing that words weren’t needed.
Those connections carried me through the worst days. They still do. They remind me that even in isolation, we are not alone — that healing isn’t just physical, it’s relational.
When I think of November 19 now, I see it as a strange beginning. Yes, it marked the end of one version of my life, but it also cracked something open in me — an awareness I can’t unsee.
I think of that moment often: sitting in a cold hospital room, hearing the word lymphoma, feeling both terrified and relieved. It wasn’t cinematic or brave. It was messy, quiet, and unbearably real. But it was also the moment I began to know that I still had a chance at life.
Now, each year when that date comes around, I pause. I don’t always celebrate it, but I honor it. It’s the line between the life I expected and the one I’m still learning to navigate.
That day will always belong to cancer. But it also belongs to me; to the version of me who sat in that hospital bed, took a deep breath, and stepped into the unknown.