My father was having an unfathomable day – losing one’s job of 15 years must happen occasionally, but how many times does your son get diagnosed with cancer on the same day?

At times, I wonder how we actually made it. But here I am, celebrating my Diagnosis Day one year later, deciding to share it with you.
I was desperately trying to come to terms with the news. Hearing my doctor diagnose me with Hodgkin Lymphoma was surreal. My doctor had shuffled my parents and me into the nearest unoccupied treatment room. Sometimes the memory plays when my mind wanders.
“It’s not uncommon for someone 20 years old to be diagnosed with this cancer,” the doctor said.
 This frightened me. I realized I was about to enter a world no man wants to- and I didn’t have a choice.
I continued with school despite the planned treatment, because it was already passed midterms and leaving then would be a waste. I also wanted something to take my mind off of the treatment. I couldn’t survive mentally if “cancer” was the only thing on my mind.
Chemotherapy started soon and it was harsh and potent. They pumped me with anti-nausea meds before each treatment, which ironically would sometimes cause me nausea.
I quickly became a pro at taking pills. My medicine cabinet began to overflow. When a new side effect appeared, a new batch of meds would also. I became a regular at the local CVS drugstore.
No cancer patient has it easy. Complications tend to arise at the worst of times. The weekend of my sister’s engagement party, I was admitted to the hospital with a life-threatening infection. I wouldn’t be able to fight the infection by myself; my body was too weak. I was spared. The infection hadn’t spread to my blood- but I couldn’t go to the party; I couldn’t see how happy the couple was.
My hair started falling out when I was in the hospital that same weekend. I remember staring at the no longer pure-white hospital pillow in shock. My hair was strewn all over it. I must have stared at it for a few minutes, silent and traumatized. Now I couldn’t smile to myself in the mirror and pretend the pain was from something else. I cried to myself when the hair-trimmer made its noisy passes. Maybe my dad couldn’t hear me over the sound.
Time passed, and the last dose of chemo was two weeks behind me. I found myself picking out a tie for my sister’s wedding.
“Are there any ties that go well with a bald and sickly looking fellow?” I wondered.
Despite the unease I felt, it was still the happiest day in my life. But I cringed whenever I heard a camera take a photo. That’s one more ironclad memory that will be displayed for generations. “Who is the bald guy standing next to you at your wedding?” I imagined people saying.
There were hundreds of people at the wedding who hadn’t seen me in months. They knew of my situation but had never seen what I had morphed into. I smiled to every one of them and insisted that radiation will be easy. I lied so much that night.
Eventually, my radiation treatment ended and I was finished.
Not three months into remission, I was climbing Masada in 105-degree weather in Israel. I’ve recovered, but the illness has left me scarred, bruised, and tattooed.
This story coincides with the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis. I decided to write this anonymously with the hope that my idea will spread- sharing is therapeutic and I encourage anyone with a story to share his or her tale.