Shawn's Survivor Story

In May 2014, at just 39 years old, I was diagnosed with liver cancer. I had no family history of cancer, never drank, smoked, or did drugs—I was healthy. I wasn’t even entirely sure where my liver was located. What I did know was that I had been feeling pressure in my abdomen and experiencing shortness of breath for weeks. Thinking it was just gas, I finally went to the ER, half-expecting them to laugh and send me home.

They didn’t. Instead, they found a tumor the size of a grapefruit on my liver, pressing against my organs.

Within days, I was at a cancer center in New York City. A surgery date was set, and just two weeks after my diagnosis, I underwent a liver resection to remove the left lobe of my liver and my gallbladder. I spent a week in the hospital recovering while they ran follow-up tests. By the grace of God, no chemotherapy or radiation was needed, and there was no evidence of the cancer spreading. My doctors determined the cause—a mutant gene.

With a clean bill of health, I went on with my life. At the time, my daughters were just 8 and 11 years old. I recovered in six weeks, with only a scar down my abdomen as a reminder of what had happened. We celebrated by going to Disney. Life moved forward.

Then, in October 2014, I returned to New York City for a follow-up appointment. I had new scans, then met with my doctor. When he asked how I was feeling, I answered, “Great!” His response changed everything: “Well, we found some new tumors—four in your lungs and two more in your liver. You’ll need to begin chemotherapy immediately.”

There had been no warning signs, no pain. Yet in an instant, I went from stage 1 to cancer-free to stage 4 terminal. My diagnosis: Combined hepatocellular cholangiocarcinoma (cHCC-CC), a rare and poorly researched cancer. My doctors told me I’d be on chemo indefinitely. The five-year survival rate was bleak. In my case, they gave me a year.

My first chemo was on October 16, 2014. My last was in mid-April 2022. Every week for nearly eight years. I took breaks here and there—summer vacations, school events, holidays—but chemo was a constant.

By 2017, the cancer had progressed significantly. I had more than 20 tumors and lesions in my lungs, and it had spread to my brain. On my birthday, September 19, 2017, my doctors gave me three months to live. They switched my chemo to a “last-ditch effort”—a treatment not even designed for my type of cancer. Surgery wasn’t an option.

I planned my funeral. I wrote out cards for my daughters for all the milestones I expected to miss—their birthdays, graduations, weddings, pregnancies. They were 12 and 15. I even transferred the electric bill into my husband’s name so he wouldn’t have to deal with the hassle after I was gone. I often joked that I’d be micromanaging from the grave.

Then, something incredible happened.

I underwent brain radiation, and that “last-ditch effort” chemo worked. Within nine sessions—just three months—85% of my lung tumors disappeared, and my liver tumors were gone. My body was reabsorbing the dead tissue. We got the news the week before Christmas. I was still running around, doing PTA mom duties, taking my girls to dance and gymnastics.

The brain tumor never came back. The radiation was a single high-beam treatment, but it left its mark. Scar tissue causes some short-term memory loss and confusion years later. Follow-up scans would sometimes show “something,” but second opinions always confirmed it was just necrosis—dying tissue where the tumor had been.

In total, I’ve endured countless blood draws, radiation, CT scans, MRIs, X-rays, more than 200 chemo sessions, and 8 or 9 airway surgeries. Yet, remarkably, I have no long-term organ damage. Lung radiation did leave me with a permanently collapsed upper right lung, and I use an inhaler when needed. At one point, a tumor the size of an open palm was crushing my airway. When chemo didn’t shrink it, I had 15 targeted radiation treatments—and it worked.

Today, my daughters are 19 and 22, and we are forever planning another Disney trip.

I’ve learned that statistics don’t define us. Research matters. Hope matters. And despite everything, I am still here.