Science- When she was was 19, Alex Dvorak was diagnosed with lymphoma.
- Throughout her treatment, she was entirely dependent on her family for her survival and well-being.
- Now in remission, she lives in
New York City, the epicenter of thecoronavirus outbreak in the US. - Because of her risk status, her parents wanted her to return to their home in Maryland. But doing that, she writes, would have stripped her of her hard-won independence.
"We're picking you up and taking you home."
This was my dad's directive when he called me in late March. It was my parents' last-ditch effort to rescue me from Manhattan and take me to the suburbs of Maryland where I grew up. The novel coronavirus was ripping through the country, and New York CIty, where I live now, was the worst-hit.
"I'm staying," I said.
Had they called two weeks prior when I, like many New Yorkers, was frantically stockpiling supplies, I probably would have taken them up on their offer. But while my mom and dad were at the peak of their panic, I had already accepted this new way of life.
I explained that I was feeling quite good, actually. That I was waking up with purpose as my freelance work had doubled. That I had never felt healthier. But tensions rose as they mistook my sunny demeanor for ignorance about the magnitude of the pandemic in the city.
Their argument was sound. New York was the hotbed for the virus, the point on the US map lit up in dark red. I shifted tactics to practical matters. I listed my preparedness: food for the next month in the freezer; plenty of cleaning supplies. Most importantly, I was also staying inside.
They poked holes in my plan. Shelter in place would last longer than a month. What would I do when my food and sanitizing products ran out? What if I got a cavity or the flu? Or, worst of all, what if I contracted the virus? What was my plan then?
They believed I couldn't do this without them. They reminded me that my heart and lungs had received significant damage as a teenager. "You are high-risk. There aren't enough beds, enough ventilators," they argued.
Their message was clear: cut the nonsense and come home. But as the world united in compassion and understanding, we dug our heels in deeper.
The pandemic reignited my family's deepest trauma: that I will succumb to illness despite their best efforts
When I was 19, I flew home from college for a short visit. Sitting in my pediatrician's office, my mom, eyes red, said, "You have lymphoma." (My doctor genuinely hoped my mom could soften the blow by delivering the news of my
Within minutes I lost control of my body and my life. I was immediately transferred to the ICU. "You go to college in LA?" the nurse asked. "It's a shame you'll have to drop out." Decisions I once took for granted — where I lived, who I could see — were handed over to my doctors and my disease.
After three months of chemotherapy, in total surrender to my cancer, my sister carried my IV pole as I walked laps around my hospital wing. My dad trekked through blizzards to pick up my prescriptions. My mom washed my body on the days I couldn't. I was dependent on my family as if I were a child.
One night my parents snuck in a much-needed moment for themselves by visiting a neighbor for drinks. I didn't last 20 minutes alone before I called them frantically, tears streaming down my face. "Please come back," I said. My anxiety level with cancer had escalated to a point where I couldn't be alone without succumbing to a panic attack.
When I was cancer-free, I was reassigned to a long-term care program and handed a stack of papers thicker than the Bible. "Long-term effects," they were called, also known as the list of ways I might die in the coming years. My doctors gave me a set of rules to live by. They warned me never to scuba dive as my lungs couldn't take the force. At age 30 I would start blood thinners to prevent early heart attacks.
Two years into remission, my odds of relapse dramatically dropped, and I put aside my stack of papers to live with hope.
While the physical cancer was behind us, my family struggled to break free from the new patterns established in treatment
I was still the undivided focus of our unit; my parents' love and concern was intensely focused on upcoming scans, checkups, and changes in my long-term care. Sometimes I would sneak in a doctor's appointment or get a lump on my breast checked out without telling a soul, just to save them — and maybe me — from the added anxiety. For me, part of the cargo of being a cancer survivor is juggling my loved ones' emotions on top of my own.
I moved out of my childhood house to New York in search of the independence, the hustle, and the opportunity I wanted more than anything. I broke free from my bubble of illness and was a part of the world again. It was exhilarating to walk through the city with ambition, passing crowds of New Yorkers doing the same. For the first time since my diagnosis, I lived with an open future, no end date in mind.
Once I settled into the city, I rarely visited Maryland. I soon learned that every corner of my parents' house held a traumatic memory. On a weekend visit, I slept in my childhood bed, and was woken up by the phantom pain of my old at-home IV. With every toss and turn, I felt the sharpness of the needle in my chest. I sat up in a cold sweat, and checked my bedroom mirror to make sure I wasn't bald, stuck in the Groundhog Day of treatment once again. I couldn't get back to Manhattan fast enough.
Moving to New York meant my lymphoma was finally in the past
The physical separation of where I was sick and where I was healthy was the difference between anxiety and freedom.
Yet as my parents made valid points over the phone a few weeks ago, they began to poke holes in my armor. Were they right? Did I need them to get through this? Was my pride getting in the way of seeing this situation clearly? I closed my eyes and got still, as I do when I need to make a decision. I wanted to alleviate their worries, because I still felt a great deal of guilt for interrupting their lives when I was diagnosed.
Then I remembered that, according to my oncologists, my immune system was back up and running at full capacity. I was more energized and vibrant than I'd ever been. I had the power of years of self-care and self-sufficiency to respond to a crisis with vigilance and high spirits. Remission was a slow and steady drumbeat into adulthood, which now felt like a solid foundation on which I could always rely. I knew within minutes that I was not going home, because I was already home.
To lose New York now would be to take 10 steps — 10 years — back
It would mean losing every inch I fought and crawled to get here. Every debilitating belief I overcame that I would never feel special again, or laugh, or thrive, or make it on my own. To lose New York would be to lose my sanity and my safety.
"I'm staying home," I told my parents. They weren't calmed by my confidence, but I was. I felt peace and clarity in knowing this was the right choice for me. I wasn't willing to give up my independence at the hands of a disease again.
Three weeks into quarantine, shuffling through packs of New Yorkers on busy streets felt like a distant memory. I tried to soak in the remnants of electricity from Midtown, seated at my windowsill staring down at the empty streets.
After a widespread call to action, I walked onto my balcony at precisely 7 pm and clapped as loudly as I could for our healthcare workers. At first, the solitary echo of my claps bounced off nearby buildings. Then, in response, distant cheers and celebrations erupted from rooftops and stoops. The energy of old New York was palpable. One day we would emerge to fill the streets with spirited commotion once again.
Alex Dvorak is an essayist and TV writer based in New York City.
Read the original article on Insider