A typical teenage girl graduating from high school should have normal things on her mind: boys, college, and friends. She should be thinking about whether or not her hair looks better up or down in her graduation gown, or what kind of food to serve at her party. She shouldn't be thinking about cancer.

This girl, just three days prior to graduation, was sitting in a surgeon's waiting room. She was trying to look busy with her Sudoku book, but could think of nothing but what that doctor was going to tell her.

"Think about this," her sister said to her, "there are three signs to tell if a doctor is going to give bad news. First, he has a serious look on his face. Second, he doesn't look the patient in the eye. Last, his first word is 'well.'"

All the girl could do was nod, wondering if this surgeon would show any of those signs. She prayed he wouldn't.

It felt like eternity had passed before she and her family were called back to the exam room and the surgeon walked in. It was as she feared; the surgeon walked in with a stern look, his eyes were averted, and when her father asked "what's the word, doc," he said the dreaded first word. "Well..." That was all the young girl heard before tears fell like rain from her fragile face.

Her surgery was scheduled for the 27th of June that year. The days leading to it felt like years and minutes all at once. The night before the surgery, she could hardly sleep. All she could wonder was if she would make it through this nightmare alive. Her doctors attempted to convince her otherwise, but she could not help but wonder what lay ahead for her.

In the prep room before her surgery, she was given her IV and changed into the usual stiff patient robes. Her hair was bunched into a cap, and she was as ready as she could be. The nurse in charge of her took her arm and started to walk her back to the operating room. Turning her head one last time to wave to her parents, tears trickled down her cheeks. The nurse whispered kind words to her as they walked, but her words fell on deaf ears. The young girl could only wonder whether or not this would end.

Two days later, she was able to return home. She bustled about as though she had never had surgery in the first place. As she meandered through her house, her surgeon's voice rang through her mind. We removed her entire thyroid, as well as six lymph nodes trailing down the left side of her neck. The first two were metastasized cancer. She probably has had this cancer for about eight to ten years. Ten years? She would have been seven years old! It really was unbelievable in her mind. Her hand traveled to her neck, feeling the thin scar that trailed across the base. Was it really possible?

Soon after her surgery, the girl went to her endocrinologist to discuss treatment. Dr. H was a very to-the-point woman, always on the move. "You will need to remain off medication and go into the hospital for your first radioactive iodine treatment in August," she said. You will be given 149 millicuries of RAI and remain in the hospital until the radioactivity is below 5 millicuries. You cannot be visited by anyone, and a nurse will visit periodically. Everything you touch in the room will be protected by either gloves or plastic wrap, so feel free to use the phone and shower. You'll be able to leave after two days or so." Two days?! No no no, she thought, that's way too long to be cooped up in a hospital room! The girl merely shrugged her shoulders and decided to accept what could not be changed.

The first treatment went well, as did the second in January of the following year. Her endocrinologist decided to wait 9 months to scan her instead of the normal 5-6, so that the iodine could have more time to work. The now young woman could only wait.

Sitting in her endocrinologist's office that September, the woman waited with her mother and sister. When Dr. H came striding into the room, the young woman held her breath. Right when she saw her doctor's thumbs up sign, all she could do was hold her head in her hands and cry. All the anguish, the pain, the fear, the emotion she had bottled up inside her during the last year and a half reflected in those tears. Later that month the woman confessed to her sister that it almost felt too good to be true. Unfortunately, it was.

Dr. H called that week with news that her blood work came back telling her she was not in fact cancer-free just yet. She was to get a PET/CT scan as soon as possible. The yellow glow she saw on the PET/CT scan results a month later sealed her fate. She would have to go for surgery once more.

Her surgery was not for another month. During that time, all the young woman could think of was if she was going to die. She felt more afraid than she had in her entire life. Sometimes she would cry, blasting her music so it would drown out the sound. Why did the scan have to shatter the dream that had come so close to coming true? Why wasn't this going away? Wasn't this cancer going to be simple? They said she would live, they said she would beat it, but when? When?

In that surgery, on November 30th, she had 29 lymph nodes removed on the left side of her neck. Two of them were metastasized thyroid cancer. The road to recovery, this time, was to be much longer than a couple weeks. Her left arm was not completely mobile, since nerves were cut from her ear and cheek down to her shoulder and upper chest. She also could not feel her neck, left earlobe, half of her left cheek, nor her shoulder and upper chest; the nerves would not return for quite some time.

On March 19th, 2008, her waiting became worth it. That day, that glorious day, the same blood tests that gave her grief before, finally gave her relief. She was, finally, normal. She was, finally, cancer-free.

If you haven't realized by now, this woman was, and is, me. I am the girl that was diagnosed with cancer three days prior to graduation. I am the girl that has endured two surgeries and two treatments. I am the woman that was teased into believing she was cancer-free merely 6 months ago. I am the woman that has cried tears of sorrow and joy, anger and relief. I am also the woman that can tell you, finally, that after two and a half years, she is cancer-free.