My Left Leg’s Dramatic (but Harmless) Performance

I was going about life as usual, doing the regular everyday stuff, when I felt it. A lump. A big, undeniable, oh-my-god-what-is-that lump in my left upper thigh.

If you don't know my backstory, my right leg and I parted ways after a battle with cancer. So naturally, when I discovered something suspicious in my other leg, my brain didn't exactly take the scenic route. It went straight to worst-case scenario: "The cancer is back. In my good leg. Am I about to lose this one, too?"

Cue the panic spiral.

Suddenly, every ache felt suspicious. Every twinge felt ominous. I found myself Googling symptoms (pro tip: do not do this) and convincing myself I should probably start shopping for wheel attachments because clearly I was destined to lose both legs.

Here's the thing about survivorship that nobody really tells you: just because the cancer is gone doesn't mean the fear disappears with it. One weird bump, one strange pain, and your brain is back in the oncology waiting room. It's exhausting.

After a whirlwind of anxiety, I did the smart thing: I called my doctor. After an X-ray and MRI, I hopped on a poorly planned flight to Boston, where I did my best to enjoy the city between nausea-inducing thoughts of recurrence. Two days later, my X-ray results were in, and the report noted an "irregular" mass. There also appeared to be some growth in the bone in question. This was NOT a good report. It read like that of someone with a possible bone tumor, like the Osteosarcoma I had already dealt with twice in the last 11 years. After the longest 4 days of my life, I got a call from my Oncologist telling me that the X-ray report was wrong and the images were just poorly angled. I did NOT have any sort of bone tumor. He had reviewed them carefully himself and was absolutely not concerned.

Relief doesn't even begin to cover it. I practically floated through that phone call. I fully blacked out and had to email my surgeon's nurse to ensure I did in fact say thank you before hanging up.  But I also walked away with a reminder: it's okay to be scared. It's OK that my brain jumps to dark places sometimes. That fear? It just means I know what's at stake, and I love this life enough to fight for it.

So no, it wasn't cancer—just a lump with terrible timing and a great sense of drama. And while I wish my mind didn't immediately flash back to my worst chapter, I also know this: I've already survived the unthinkable once... actually twice, and I, as terrified as I was, I knew I had it in me to get through it again. Even if that courage was buried DEEP in a place I hoped never to have to go to again. And thankfully, it can now remain tucked into that place because I DON'T HAVE CANCER.

I giggled and sipped my way through those last two days in Boston. I thanked God, my angel of a surgeon, who facetimed me from his personal cellphone on a Friday afternoon, and all the people in my inner circle who held their breath along with me that week. You'll never be more thankful to have one leg than when that one leg is at risk.