Editor’s Note: City of Hope Orange County in August brought an art installation to South Coast Plaza featuring four of their cancer survivors. What follows are edited excerpts from their stories.
Elizabeth Lucas
I am a retired artist, and I am living proof of a successful cancer treatment. In 1998 at age 62, I was designing a greeting card titled “What Cancer Cannot Do” based on the writing of an unknown author. It starts off by saying, “Cancer is so limited … it cannot cripple love, it cannot shatter hope, it cannot corrode faith.”
Little did I know that soon I would be diagnosed with breast cancer. Five years later, I had surgery for kidney cancer followed by a regrowth of the kidney cancer soon after. The kidney center told me I had only 12 to 18 months to live, and the survival rate was only 1% to 2%.
But Dr. Simon Tchekmedyian, who has cared for me since day one, developed an innovative treatment plan that caused my tumor to shrink.
All was well, until it metastasized to my lung.
Once again, Dr. T. and his son Dr. Nishan Tchekmedyian treated me successfully. They have been with me for over a journey of 24 years, and I am grateful that together we are now part of the City of Hope Orange County family.
Most ladies are timid about admitting their age but after surviving all these years I am happy to say that I will soon turn 86 and I’m cancer-free!
Cindy Brown
I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma in 2014 at the age of 48. Myeloma is a rare blood cancer that most commonly occurs in men 65 or older. Clearly that is not me. I was very sick and in debilitating pain at diagnosis, but I quickly made the decision that I was going to do whatever it took to not be defined by this diagnosis.
I decided to fight with every ounce of my being and my close friends gave me the nickname Cindy the Conqueror.
Many treatments, two stem cell transplant and over 70 nights in the hospital later I found myself in late 2019 running out of options.
My very talented and dedicated multiple myeloma specialist at City of Hope, Dr. Amrita Krishnan, sat down with me and my husband and said, “I will get you in one of my clinical trials.”
We had walked into that appointment scared and worried. I did not know how much longer I would have with my children and family. Dr. Krishnan gave us hope. This is what I needed. I started a phase 1 clinical trial in March of 2020, and I have been in remission since.
Will Godoy
I was diagnosed in late 2014 with stage 4 colon and liver cancer. I was faced with the reality that I might not have a tomorrow. I only had a few minutes with my wife and parents to comprehend the information before being rushed into surgery.
After surgery, I met with an oncologist who read off my diagnosis as matter of fact and I felt like a number not a person. This doctor let me know they would make me feel comfortable and I should be prepared that I might not survive the next year. This did not sit right with me. I talked with my wife, Crystal, and we quickly made a change.
We came to City of Hope, where immediately we met with an amazing team that made me and my family feel like we had hope again, a chance for more options. One of the early things they talked to us about was family planning since we had no children at the time and chemotherapy could cause complications.
My limited survival has turned into almost eight years and still going. Throughout this process, we were blessed with an amazing boy William who gets to see his dad thrive and enjoy every day.
I have been blessed with a lot of support throughout my journey, my company BJ’s Restaurants has been my advocate, my wife and son, my family, friends, and especially Dr. Misagh Karimi and all the doctors and nurses at City of Hope Orange County.
Leslie Bruce Amin
When I was approached to share my story, I was reluctant. My cancer journey wasn’t anything extraordinary. I am just one of the 264,000 women in the U.S. who are diagnosed with breast cancer each year. My cancer is garden variety. Generic. My cancer is so basic that 1 in 7 women in Orange County will develop it in their lifetime, higher than the national average.
But what makes my story extraordinary is how terrifyingly common it’s becoming, particularly in women under 40.
I was diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma on Oct. 23, 2020, which happens to be my daughter’s birthday. The doctor handed me a folder packed with information: biopsy results, names of doctors, a pamphlet on how to talk to my kids about cancer. I was told I needed to talk to a surgeon, and to pick a name from the sheet in front of me.
It was sterile and scary. I was being inundated with statistics and percentages. I was being rushed down the cancer conveyor belt and it seemed like the patient being treated was my cancer. Not me.
I walked out and got into my car, and I screamed. The kind of scream you only see in movies. Because people don’t do that in real life. Until they do. Until they’re 38 and diagnosed with cancer.
My daughter was 6 and my son was only 2. And I wasn’t sure I’d see them grow up. I felt like I had no control over what happened next. Tomorrow was something I was always certain about, but I no longer knew how many tomorrows I might have.
I began making a “Just in Case” list so my family would have answers to questions only I knew. I told my husband that he needed to learn how to braid my daughter’s hair because if I died, I didn’t want her going into first grade looking like the girl without a mom.
My diagnosis came smack dab in the middle of the pandemic. When hospitals were being overrun. I’ve heard heartbreaking stories of surgeries being postponed and treatments being delayed.
I fiercely believe in seeking cancer treatment at cancer-specific institutions, and it is always the first piece of advice I give. Find a cancer hospital. Find a place that just does cancer. If you can, go to City of Hope as fast as your feet will take you.
After completing my surgery, Dr. Laura Kruper told my husband that my cancer had reached a lymph node and I was not going to escape chemotherapy.
When I met Dr. Wade Smith, I came in like a bull in a China shop. I was on fire. I had questions. I had questions about my questions. I had done my own research. I had printed out studies. “Dr. Smith, I will tell you what I told my husband before we got married, ‘I’m not going to be easy, but I’m going to be worth it.”
He said, “Consider me your point person. You have a question, you have a concern … you call me. You email me. I’m your guy.”
And he was. He went out of his way to make me feel comfortable and seen. When I expressed concern over losing my hair, he began doing research to find a plan to help me keep as much hair as possible. While he could have easily dismissed it as superficial, he understood that it was deeper than that. It was my identity and my privacy. Nothing was silly or unimportant. He’s my oncologist, but he also is often my therapist and my cheerleader.
Ten weeks after completing treatment, I walked my daughter to her first day of first grade. She refused to wear the braids I had planned for, but it didn’t matter. Because of my journey, because of the care I was so blessed to receive, I got to be there. I got to stand with the other parents and wave. She was able to go to school that day with the confidence and comfort of knowing that when she came home, her mom would be there to hear all about it.
