There are so many of you who personify what the Cancer Fears Me slogan is all about! You refuse to give in to the many defeating emotions that cancer tries to inflict. This page is all about you and what you are doing! Please send us your story or someone you know who shows what Cancer Fears Me really means.

CFM Spotlight: Shannon, ACC Cancer Survivor

The mirror reminds me every day. A four-inch scar reporting to me daily that life really is short. A thin red line representing the most terrifying roller coaster ride of my 27 years.

On January 29, 2004, about a month before my 27^th birthday, I was diagnosed with Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma (ACC), a rare form of cancer that most have never even heard spoken, and on which little research exists. CANCER. I remember with clarity the day that would change my life forever: 3:30 p.m., winter, snow on the ground, my husband miles away in Las Vegas, a doctor asking if I had brought anyone with me to hear the news, and a diagnosis of what felt like death.

Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma is cancer of the salivary glands. Mine inhabited the submandibular gland just below my chin. I could feel the malignant tumor protruding from my neck.

It's difficult to describe the emotions and cognitions that consumed me in the days and weeks following my diagnosis. One of the hardest parts was burdening the ones I love with such devastating news, especially in light of the fact that this cancer was so unfamiliar to everyone. No sense could be made of it. I was healthy. I was 26.

I left the doctor's office sobbing and drove home to my dog, who graciously tried to kiss my tears away. Immediately, the internet became my first confidant, and the response wasn't hopeful. Words like perineural invasion and metastasis triggered further panic. Not good news. Where were the stories of the people who lived forever after being treated?

My parents arrived to console me after my mom called to casually ask the reason for my doctor visit that day. All of the sudden, life was in slow motion. I called my husband, Brian, on his cell phone and there was silence. CANCER. It was all so surreal. I thought about my life being cut short and whether or not I would still be here in ten years. My mom spent the night so I wouldn't have to be alone. I couldn't control my tears. Every time I would regain my composure, forgetting for a split second what I was facing, the word cancer would quickly knock me down again.

Within less than one month, on February 20, 2004, I would be cured, hopefully for life. Surgery day was early and long, arriving at the hospital at 7:30 a.m.with my mom, dad, and Brian supportively by my side. The one thought that consumed me was "Why can't they be cutting my leg?" "Why does it have to be my neck?"

A strong sedative erased the thought and I underwent a four hour surgery to remove both the tumor and the gland in which it lived. My next memory is of Brian standing over me smiling from ear to ear. Surgery must have gone well. By the end of April 2004, I had sought expert opinions on my personal ACC in three different states (West Virginia, Maryland, and Texas).

I wish I could say that's my happy ending. I believe it will be, but "ending" might not be the appropriate word. Hopkins is still a big part of my life. No one seems to know a lot about why or how the cancer comes back. I just know in the back of my mind that it might. I'm pretty good at keeping the thought repressed, but every once in a while, my fears release themselves in big tears. Thank God my husband understands. I continue to drink green tea, eat lots of vegetables, and pray. I will pray everyday for the rest of my life that the annual x-rays prove to be consistently "unremarkable."

I believe God answered the prayers that family, friends, and kind strangers prayed for my healing. I believe that miracles happened along the way and I'm so thankful. I have been overwhelmed by the amount of love and support I encountered along the way. Looking back, I can say that this experience has somehow been a positive one in the grand scheme of things.

My brother once asked me if I like my scar. After all, it is in such a visible spot. A dermatologist informed me that a laser could help to erase it. The truth is, I do like my scar, and I never want it to disappear. I feel fortunate to have such a meaningful souvenir and I'm proud to share my story with anyone who asks.

I've been cancer-free for four years. Here's to at least sixty more of the same. Cheers.

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