Ann Lovell

I never wanted cancer to define me. For more than 40 years, I’ve openly shared my health challenges – Hodgkin’s Disease in 1981, infertility and infant loss in the 1990s, and breast cancer in 2018. But I’ve never wanted the darkness of illness to overshadow the light of the extraordinary gift of life I’ve been given. Even in the hardest days, hope prevailed – and still does.

While my hope is grounded in personal faith, it finds its heartbeat in relationships. The bonds I share with my husband, family, close friends, and the medical and survivor community continue to sustain me as I navigate the twists and turns of long-term survivorship. Hope is the pulse behind my story – a story I share to remind fellow survivors that forward is always possible.

Hope despite the initial diagnosis

Technologies evolve, and through the years I’ve been the recipient of many cutting-edge advances, including my initial cancer treatment in 1981. Up until the late 1970s, few survived Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, but thanks to the pioneering work of researchers and care teams, breakthroughs in treatment by 1981 had led to a 75% cure rate with chest and abdominal radiation and a 95% cure rate with radiation and MOPP chemotherapy combined.

Yes, the treatments were brutal – hair loss, weight loss, nausea, and multiple hospitalizations. While infertility was expected as a long-term effect, the lasting impact of radiation and chemotherapy was yet to be studied. Still, my primary goal – and my parents’ goal for me – was to live.

Although those early days of treatment were difficult ones, by God’s grace, I came out the other side. I finished treatments my junior year in high school and picked up a boyfriend named Joe along the way – a boyfriend who celebrated 40 years of marriage with me in May 2025. I graduated high school in 1983 as valedictorian and senior class president, went on to earn a degree in political science, and began a career in federal service.

Hope prevailed.

Hope despite infertility and infant loss

Understanding that infertility was a given, Joe and I sought help in the early 1990s when we began discussing family. We learned that another cutting-edge technology – in vitro fertilization – was an option. After our second IVF attempt, we were thrilled to learn we were expecting triplets. Our prayers for a family had been answered.

But the toll of a triplet pregnancy on my body – especially my heart, lungs, and kidneys – was more than we anticipated. I was hospitalized for weeks, trying to keep the babies from being born too soon. In March 1993, Trey, Katie, and Clay were born and died prematurely. Trey lived 24 hours in the NICU, and we held him as he died. Katie and Clay each lived about three hours and spent their entire lives in our arms.

Losing the triplets was devastating, but even in the depths of our grief, hope refused to let go.  Later that year, following another IVF cycle, we learned we were pregnant again. Another daughter was born in July 1994 – a living reminder that hope endures. Today, she’s a nurse at Duke University Medical Center with a master’s degree in nursing.

Hope despite ‘late effects’

In 1999, our family moved overseas to work with a global nonprofit. From 1999 until 2012, we served in the Philippines, South Korea, and Thailand. We adopted our youngest daughter while living abroad and returned to the U.S. in 2012.

I first heard the term “late effects” in 2008 while living in Seoul. A colleague’s sister had died from heart inflammation – a late effect of Hodgkin’s treatment she received in the 1970s. That conversation and subsequent research led me to a Harvard study outlining the long-term damage caused by treatments from that era. Essentially, the article said, long-term multi-system damage and a shortened life span are to be expected for those treated with MOPP chemo and radiation. This was new information to me. I printed the article and tucked it away.

Life continued. We moved to Thailand in 2009 and returned to the U.S. in 2012. Back in the U.S., I first began experiencing symptoms that the 2008 article described: high blood pressure, fatigue, chronic cough, and shortness of breath. Most doctors were hesitant to ascribe my symptoms to long-term effects. Many attributed them to aging, but scans began to reveal a story my body already knew.

Then, in 2018, I was diagnosed with Stage 1 breast cancer, the most common late effect among women my age who underwent chest radiation. Fortunately, I’d had regular mammograms for several years, and early detection is key to survival. Because of my prior treatments for Hodgkin’s, my oncologist advised against radiation and chemo. I underwent a double mastectomy with reconstruction and took an aromatase inhibitor for five years, along with infusions to prevent bone metastasis.

Hope prevailed.

Hope for the future

Today, I’m seven years past breast cancer and regularly monitoring for other late effects. After moving to Nashville, my oncologist referred me to the Vanderbilt Cancer Survivorship Clinic. In my first visit, the Physician Assistant spent an hour walking me through the effects of MOPP chemo and radiation – heart valve issues, lung scarring, fatigue, and chronic pain, symptoms that have now been part of my life for years. These symptoms aren’t unusual for Hodgkin’s survivors, the PA said, and they can be treated.

The clinic’s collaborative approach has added a cardiac oncologist, pulmonologist, and physical rehabilitation specialist to my care team. I am feeling better – better than I’ve felt in years. My blood pressure is normal. I’m breathing easier. Chronic pain is diminishing. And I know who to call when new symptoms arise.

Survivorship clinics, like the one I’m part of, are a model worth expanding. I’m encouraged when symptoms like tachycardia and abnormal blood counts are met with calm expertise – treated as “just another Tuesday.” It reminds me I’m not alone and that my experience is understood.

Hope beyond survival

As I reflect on the past and look forward to the future, I realize survival has given me more than time; it’s given me perspective and a heart full of gratitude. Not only did hope carry me through difficult seasons, hope continues to shape my life today.

My husband and I remain committed to enjoying every day we have together. We recently completed a bucket list to visit all 30 Major League Baseball parks. Minor league parks are next with a few national parks thrown in. Joe has proven time and again that he is committed to standing by me until the end, whenever that may come, and that we will have fun along the way.

I have daughters who are thriving and making a difference in their worlds. I’m confident they’ll grow far beyond anything I could have asked or imagined. I can’t wait to watch their lives unfold.

I’ve seen the world. In the last 25 years, I’ve visited 25 countries and lived in four of them. I’ve witnessed the dazzling, the beautiful, the gritty, and the hard. I’ve seen the good and the bad of the human condition. Spoiler alert: The good wins.

Hope will prevail.

You were diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma at age five. Are you aware of anyone else being diagnosed that young?
No. That was 1969; medicine has improved so much that I wish it would have happened to me today instead. But 54 years later, I have no complaints, because I did get treatment, although it was experimental. They said to my parents, “We’re going to try,” but they didn’t give me any chance of survival. When I left the hospital after a three-month stay, they said: we hope he makes it to ten. Later, they said: we hope he makes it to 18. When I got to 18, they said: we don’t know. I beat the odds then, and I’m beating the odds today.

Do you remember what happened when you were five?
I recall the day my mother had either an Avon or Tupperware meeting at our house in Fortuna, California, and I came running through the room. One of the ladies said, “Barry, stop!” She saw a lump on the right side of my neck. The next day we went to the doctor’s office, and I was diagnosed with mumps. That went on until my family decided it wasn’t mumps. The doctor cut some tissue out and sent it in. The next thing, he called and said: you have Hodgkin’s disease, and you need to go to San Francisco. I didn’t know what it was, but I understood I had cancer.

We drove seven or eight hours to Mount Zion Hospital and met with Dr. Alan Schroeder. I didn’t understand what he was talking about, but it involved cobalt radiation. That was just the start. I had seven surgeries while I was there. My parents had to leave me; my dad worked, and my mom needed to take care of my brother and sister. There were three kids in my hospital room, all on IVs. Several kids on the unit passed during those three months.

What happened when you got home?
When I walked in the door, my sister said: that’s not my brother. I had changed physically; I didn’t have hair on the back of my head. But my parents never talked about it, didn’t protect me and said: go be a kid, be yourself. I had a lot of energy, like any five-year-old, so I was playing sports as soon as I was strong enough. Sports were a huge deal in my family; my dad was a baseball pitcher and basketball player, and my brother, Garry, was an all-conference basketball player at Santa Clara University. He’s six-foot-three, and I was supposed to be tall like him–if not taller. But having my thyroid irradiated stunted my growth. I was going to play baseball at Santa Rosa Jr. College, but my health didn’t allow me. It took a while to figure out that my lungs had deteriorated.

I started coaching, including basketball at the University of Idaho and at Piner High School back in California. I got college offers, but every time I had an opportunity, I got hit with something. I had a heart attack in 1991, when I was 28. But I came back and coached at Saratoga High School and West Valley College. I kept having health problems, and I kept bouncing back. My cardiologist called me Mr. Indestructible.

Were there more late effects to come?
Yes. I was working with special ed kids, something I did for years, which involved walking to parks and different places each day. But then I couldn’t walk very far, and my arm was ice cold. None of my doctors could figure it out, but I thought I’d had a stroke. They finally saw that one of my carotid arteries was closed, and the subclavian arteries, which go down your arm, were blocked. I had surgery to open the arteries; 20 minutes afterward, my surgeon checked on me and said: the bypasses are failing; we’re going back to the OR.

Six months later, I was working at a high school and, during the middle of class, I nearly dropped to my knees. I called my doctor and described what happened; the next day, I drove to San Francisco and was back in surgery. We figured out my body was rejecting the plastic they used in the bypasses. Now I have at least 15 stents in my heart and carotids. They’re afraid to do a coronary artery bypass, but I’m not afraid. I had seven surgeries when I was five years old.

At this point, I’m in poor health; I’m on oxygen full-time. I fell at a friend’s house and had to go to the emergency room, where they took an x-ray and found a tumor on my kidney. They did a procedure and are checking me every few months. I have my limitations; I understand that. I used to be the most active person you can imagine. I’m glad I got to do those things. But now I’m sedentary. I can’t walk far; I throw the ball to the dog, and then I have to come home.

Have you become a bit philosophical over the years?
I think I have. I’ve had some disappointments, including that there was no follow-up from the hospital–not one word–despite the amount of radiation they gave me. In 54 years, no one got in touch to say “how are you doing,” “are you having any health problems” or “we’re conducting a study.” I don’t blame anybody, but I’m sad about that.

I always wondered what happened to my doctor. Four years ago, I looked for him. There were three Alan Schroeders in California, so I took a chance and found him at home, trimming his hedge. He was 92. I said: my name is Barry Mendenhall, and he said: “Oh my God.” I hadn’t seen him since the 1980s. When I went to shake his hand, he said: “I’d rather have a hug.”

My best friends today are the same friends as when I found out I had cancer. I never found the woman I love when I was younger; I was always sick or something was going on. About 15 years ago, I met Mamie Galliani, and we live together in Eureka. She is so important in my life. My father is 82; we talk most days. My mom passed a few years ago, but she got to see me grow up. My grandmother was a second mother to me; she was a strong influence in my life. I lived with her during her last few years when she was dealing with cancer. She lived that life–where, if you give, it will come back to you.

​Cancer started in me at a young age. I had successful treatment, but the cancer has never left me, and it’s still messing with me today. The older I get, more and more people call me to say: I have cancer; what should I do? The first thing I tell anybody is: be positive. You have to move forward. It would be easy to be depressed, but that’s not me. I’ll tell you a thousand jokes and make you laugh. That’s me.

How did you find out you had Hodgkin lymphoma?
It was a ragged road to my diagnosis. My wife, Marilyn, and I had just returned from Italy, and I started having sweats and chest issues, including coughing. I went to my doctor; his best guess was pneumonia. But my wife, who had worked as a lab tech, saw the results of my blood test, realized my hemoglobin was low and suggested I see a hematologist. At the John Theurer Cancer Center, which is affiliated with Hackensack University Medical Center, they performed more blood tests, including of my bone marrow. Still no diagnosis. When my symptoms got worse, they performed a PET scan, and I was finally diagnosed with stage 4 Hodgkin’s. After two months of seeing different doctors, it was official.

Did you head into treatment?
Yes, chemotherapy started immediately, 12 rounds from September to March. Although I was zonked and tired and nauseous, I’ve always lived my life with positivity–I’m a born entertainer who performed on Broadway, on the Catskills circuit and emceeing corporate events. I decided to connect with all the nurses and bring joy to every session.

When the chemo was over, a PET scan showed that I still had Hodgkin’s. At that point, I had a bone biopsy that was sent to the NIH. My case was reviewed by specialists at top hospitals, including Memorial Sloan-Kettering in New York. They decided to start me on immunotherapy, which had just been approved. I went into remission that summer.

That was the news you were waiting for.
Yes, but my oncologist said: We want you to take another step–that is, have a stem cell transplant. It would be autologous, meaning they would harvest my own stem cells. That was the easy part. Then the daunting process began, with intense chemotherapy every day for one week; this completely removed my immune system. When they added back my harvested cells, which they refer to as your “birthday,” hell broke loose. Your body begins rejecting and fighting the cells, and your bodily functions stop. I was in the hospital for three weeks, in isolation, and no one could visit. Slowly but surely, back I came, after wearing diapers. I was told I needed to begin exercise.

It was time to regain your strength.
Yes, which began with walking a certain amount every day. I decided to find the joy in all this, so I wore a Cat in the Hat, red and white, three-foot hat as I went into the hall for my exercise. Everyone who saw me would light up and laugh. When you’re going through something like that, you need to find inner strength and joy. I got stronger and stronger. I finally went home and could have visitors. My wife and I attended a class on what to do and not do, what food I could eat, etc.

I started teaching again–online. I’ve been teaching event management and production at New York University’s Tisch Center for Hospitality for 27 years. I teach both undergraduate and graduate students; I developed the first online event management course. Sadly, I had to leave BizBash Media, my company, because I couldn’t go out to work.

When you were diagnosed, did you know anything about Hodgkin lymphoma?
No, I didn’t know a thing, and my doctors didn’t tell me much. I was 72 at the time. I’m grateful that our cancer center in New Jersey has a partnership with Sloan-Kettering. I found out about Hodgkin’s International through a friend of mine who was diagnosed during her late adolescence.

Now I have regular PET scans and doctor appointments. I always worry, because the threat is there. I’ve seen how important it is to get to specialists and to be vigilant about check-ups. After five years, I had a colonoscopy, and they found five non-cancerous polyps, which were removed.

At one point, I had a problem breathing, so I saw an ear, nose and throat specialist who determined I had a fungus–about the size of a mushroom–growing in my sinus. He removed it surgically. He told me this was a result of my low immune system; something got in there, found a home and grew. Nothing could fight it.

How are you doing these days?
The rest of the story is that I’m happy, living in New Jersey and still teaching, and my wife and I love going to the Berkshires every summer. My daughter formed a club called “Ricky’s Riders,” one of many riding clubs that raise funds for research at Sloan-Kettering. Each year, we raise $15,000-20,000. Many friends from my working world support this effort.

I’ve had a great career. I dropped out of Suffolk Law School in order to attend Brandeis University, which had one of the top theater programs at the time. After graduating, I went directly to New York–and Broadway. I was in “Fiddler on the Roof,” starring Zero Mostel and then “Candide.” I soon pivoted to working in clubs with “Richard Aaron in That’s Entertainment.” My manager got me on the Catskills circuit and on cruise ships. Once my first child was born, I began doing events. I helped start the industry by defining event planning as a profession, launched BizBash Media and created an event society that became a 2,000-member global organization.
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I feel lucky. I’m trying to stay as healthy as I can so I can enjoy my grandkids’ bar mitzvahs and weddings. But I do know that the horizon always has a sunset.

When were you diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma?
I was diagnosed in October 2004 when I was 18 years old.

What was the biggest challenge during treatment?
Everything was the biggest challenge for me. I fought tooth and nail to get to college and was a freshman at Morehouse College in Atlanta, Georgia. It was five weeks into my freshman year—during midterms. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that I wouldn’t be returning to school, AND I was now tasked with fighting for my life. I returned home to Kansas City, Missouri, to undergo all the blood tests and biopsies, which ultimately led to being diagnosed with and treated for Stage IV Hodgkin’s. Heartbreaking, to say the least.

When did you first meet another Hodgkin’s survivor?
I met Quiana Parks in 2016. We’re the same age and went through treatment at the same time. It was an emotionally expressive moment for me. I love her.

What has been the most difficult thing about being a survivor? The most rewarding?
The most difficult part is that, not only am I surviving HL, but I am also surviving as a Black man, a gay man, an artist and a poor person. It’s lonely navigating the world with so many strikes against me. The oppression of the world really crushes each of these parts of me; collectively they are crushed. At age 18, I never had a starting chance to be self-sufficient and independent. I have been tethered to a medical system that has never cared about me. I haven’t had consistent care, and I struggle with even using the word “care” because it hasn’t and doesn’t feel very caring. So, the compounded factors make survival a very difficult thing. I’m often afraid I won’t make it to age 40. Two healer/teachers, Sobonfu Somé and Malidoma Patrice Somé, who have been important to me.

The most rewarding has been my ability to understand the shadow side of life–how “darkness” serves me. I was so young, with such a pivotal diagnosis, that I was ushered into the realm of sickness, dying and death. I have deeply connected with many people who are sick and dying; I continue to honor my dear loved ones who have died. The urgency to care and share what resources I have–whether inner or outer resource–is paramount to me. The struggle of being a survivor has been very real, and the truth is that even iron wears down. I can’t do it alone, no matter how inspired I am. I still need critical help and support. So, I guess the reward has yet to come.

What is the most interesting place you have visited or would like to visit after COVID?
I would say the most impactful place I’ve visited is Salvador, Brazil. I don’t believe there will be an “after COVID,” just like there isn’t an after cancer/Hodgkin’s. However, I do look forward to when I will be able to properly visit Africa.

I’ve spent some time in South Africa over the years. I see myself spending time in Burkina Faso and other African countries. Burkina Faso is the home of two important spiritual teachers who have been major healers and instrumental in fortifying my faith in my body and genetics as an African person. I have infinite reverence for their understanding and eons of practiced faith. I want to be in a place where this isn’t a concept or something you can buy, but it is essential to the day-to-day experiences.

Who is the person you admire most?
I admire people who endure suffering and really try to make sense of what they have or don’t have. The ones who can’t help but express what happened to them and how it still impacts them. The ones who keep repeating how they feel because they haven’t and don’t feel heard. Because I know that this chips away at their souls. But I admire the tenacity in those who go out with a fight. I never say people “lost their battle to cancer” or “cancer got the best of,” because cancer died, too, when said person departs the physical plane.

What would you say to your pre-Hodgkin’s self?
Words of wisdom, “if I had only known…” Trust yourself and your heart, mind, spirit and soul. Be firm, but lead with soft hands, a soft voice, soft heart, soft eyes and love. Always give thanks. ​

Where do you see yourself in five years?
Hopefully, still living if the world can give me that grace. I can’t be here if others don’t see me here or want me here. It’s not even that I refuse to put the onus on me. I just can’t do it alone; no one can.

When were you diagnosed?
I was 14. What started out as a cold and congestion turned out to be non-Hodgkins lymphoma; I had a tumor in my mediastinum–the chest cavity–that wasn’t allowing blood to get through. My arms, legs and face turned red, and I couldn’t swallow food. When my pediatrician took a chest x-ray, I was sent right away to the emergency room. That’s when I had a biopsy. It was 1977.

My mother was ahead of her time. She was a very strong advocate and probably the doctors’ nightmare, because she wanted to know every detail. I didn’t know what was happening; I just knew I was sick.
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You were in the eighth grade. Did you tell your friends about your condition?
Yes, I had one or two friends who were protective of me and visited me in the hospital. I had two years of treatment–cobalt radiation aimed at my whole chest and chemotherapy consisting of vincristine, methotrexate, asparaginase and adriamycin. Back then we didn’t have anti-nausea drugs and no ports, so my veins were completely depleted. I remember there would be 20 of us, adults and children together, in the waiting room with no TV, so you could hear people screaming. When my hair fell out, I wore a wig, but it was uncomfortable, and kids at school would pull it off. I think I deserve a Make-A-Wish, which back in 1977 didn’t exist.

By eleventh grade, treatment was over, I was told I was in remission, and I became anorexic. I needed to get some control over my body, so I stopped eating. The situation turned around when a psychiatrist said: If you don’t start eating, I’ll put you back in the hospital. I didn’t want that. I headed to Vanderbilt University to major in psychology. My initial thought was that I could help kids with cancer, but I found out it was too difficult. I became a social worker focused on kids who have other problems. I love it.

You headed into adulthood.
Yes, my life continued pretty normally, quite honestly. My thyroid shut down when I was 19, and I take medication, but I had no real understanding of late effects and why I had to keep going back to an oncologist for check-ups. My mother kept pushing me. I had a lot of bronchitis and colds, and I would get so sick compared to other people.

I got married and had no trouble conceiving. My two children were born in 1993 and 1995. But soon things really hit the fan.

You experienced late effects?
In 1999, I began to have cardiac symptoms. I always went to the gym everyday, but I started getting dizzy. I was diagnosed with heart failure and cardiomyopathy; my heart muscle was weakened. Then in 2001, I was diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer–ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS). My response was that, since I never wanted chemotherapy again, I’d have mastectomies. I had to have the surgeries done separately, which meant recovering each time. You weren’t able to have a conversation about going flat, as happens today, so I have expanders with saline implants.

I started developing what were thought to be panic attacks, but ended up being bradycardia–a slower-than-normal heart rate. I had a pacemaker put in, and because of my radiated skin, what should have taken an hour took four hours. Then my neck started hurting, and a CT scan revealed a tumor the size of a mango. I was diagnosed with sarcoma and had surgery to remove it, along with half my neck. I couldn’t have traditional radiation, so I had proton-beam therapy at Memorial Sloan-Kettering. I lived in a hotel in New Jersey.

What happened then?
I went home, went on disability and then found out the cancer had metastasized; I had lung metastases throughout my chest. The timing worked out, because by 2015 immunotherapy had proven effective. With the theory that my new cancer was radiation-induced, it might respond to the newest treatment for melanoma. I began a clinical trial of Yervoy and Opdivo, and my lung metastases disappeared–and I had minimal side effects.

After 15 years of always something, and no downtime, life has been somewhat uneventful. I’m really happy. I wake up in the morning, and my neck hurts, and I can’t work that much, but my life doesn’t revolve around doctors. Once I had the sarcoma, I said: you need to take it easy. I try. I want it on my tombstone: She really tried.

Can you offer advice to people who have recently been diagnosed?
I’m healthy now, and that’s what’s most important. I work out every day, and I eat well. I do whatever I can. Between college and when I developed the heart condition, I worked out a lot. I think it helped me. No junk food; I never did that.

I would tell people they have to advocate for themselves and get second opinions. And you have to be able to trust your doctor. Ask questions. Don’t just say yes to everything.

What was going on in your life when you were diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma?
It was 1979, and I was 36. I felt I was young, but I was always told I was quite old to have symptoms of Hodgkin’s. The doctors seemed a bit surprised. I found some lumps in my neck and went to my GP—general practitioner. He sent me to an ear, nose and throat specialist, and when she took a biopsy, she reported to me that it was Hodgkin’s. I had little idea what that was, so I went to a local library and looked it up. I was referred to the cancer unit at the Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, England, where I was put on a course of radiotherapy.  I drove there first thing in the morning, but I carried on working.

What happened when your treatment was over?
They didn’t use the word “cured,” but they said the diseased tissue was gone. There was never a guarantee that it wouldn’t come back. I’m not sure how effective I was at work, but it kept me occupied, and my colleagues were very supportive. Three years later, more lumps appeared, I received another course of radiotherapy, and I continued working. I was told it was radical treatment and was supposed to clear it up completely. But three years later, more lumps appeared.

How did you get through that?
Although it wasn’t easy, I did survive. I was married with four children. My wife was a pediatric physiotherapist, but I was the breadwinner. When lumps in the neck appeared again, I went back to the same treatment center, where a new oncologist insisted on another biopsy so he could understand the nature of my cancer. He wanted to try chemotherapy; I couldn’t have any more radiotherapy. He certainly gave me the right treatment, although it was a bit rough. I didn’t feel well—no energy.

I continued to work and had quite a good career. I’m a professional engineer and at the time was working on the early development of the CT scanner. I later worked on the MRI scanner, as well as other diagnostic medical equipment before moving on to communications equipment. But I retired early, because in that line of business—as an engineer—you need a lively mind. I was lucky to be there.

Have you had late effects as a result of your treatment?
I’m very weak in the shoulders and upper body, from my chest to my chin. I go to a gym near where we live in Stamford. The owner is an ex-boxer; we don’t box each other, but some of the exercises, where you punch a bag, are very useful in strengthening the shoulders and arms. Then, I was at a health check when the doctor felt I had a heart murmur. So I had an artificial valve inserted. Also, my voice is strange—a bit squeaky. I used to sing in a barbershop group, a style of singing that began in the U.S. There were 12 or 14 people in our group, and I sang bass. I can’t sing at all now, which is rather sad.

The worst thing is my balance; it’s getting worse. When I go walking, I use a stick—not so much for support, but to provide me with a bit of reference. I’m not sure how much of this is old age. I have a walking trolley with handles, which allows me to walk in a crowd without wavering. I also have an electric scooter, which I use if I’m going quite a long way.

Finally, my neck is quite small for a person my size. I’m about six feet tall. So when I buy a shirt that fits my body, it is too big at the neck for a tie.

You have a large extended family, including ten grandchildren.
Yes. We moved from London to Stamford because of my daughter; she’s a doctor who’s married to a doctor. Of course, they can’t treat friends or family. I have a loving, supportive wife; we’ve been married 50 years now. I consider myself very lucky.

Do you have advice for someone who might be facing Hodgkin’s or late effects?
Keep smiling. By the time I was on chemotherapy—my third treatment—I had begun to kind of live for the moment. Before I had these life-changing problems, I expected to live to old age. Both my parents did.

In other words, you live thinking your life is ahead of you. When I was on my third treatment, I realized that probably I didn’t have my life ahead of me. The fact is, I survived: the average age for death of a male in the UK is 79, and I’m 79.

Describe your life when you were diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma at age ten.
I was swimming competitively year-round and a pretty active kid. My symptoms arose when, as an altar boy, I became overheated on the altar and felt like I was going to faint. The pediatrician diagnosed anemia. However, soon I was hyperventilating when I swam across the pool.

A chest x-ray showed a spot on my lungs. This led to a biopsy; I had a swollen lymph node on my neck and was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s stage 4A.

You headed into treatment.
I went for weekly, eight-hour chemo sessions. We’d get up early for the long drive, I wouldn’t eat, and I’d usually get sick at the same point on the Schuylkill Expressway heading to Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. It wasn’t the chemo that gave me the dry-heaves; it was the thought of going to the hospital.

I’d spend all day sitting with the other kids who had leukemia and other cancers. That’s where I learned to empathize as I saw kids whose disease had progressed much further than mine. I wasn’t the most devoutly religious kid, but I grew up with a foundation of personal faith and strength that really helped me through treatment. I relied on it.

Then treatment switched over to mantle radiation for a few months before I went back for more chemo.

What happened when your treatment was over?
My family bought an old boat, and I started water-skiing a lot! My father was an airline pilot, so I grew up with a sense of adventure. When I was in high school my family hosted a young man from Peru, and I went to Peru that summer. That same sense of adventure took me to Denmark as a junior in high school and to the University of Hawaii for college.

I went to work for United Airlines, rode mountain bikes, surfed, bodysurfed and scuba-dived. I moved to California and began racing sailing yachts. I changed jobs in 1997, moved to Chicago and met my wife.

Did late effects catch up with you?
Complacency can be tricky. On one hand, you don’t want to think about the treatment you had; on the other hand, you need to. Had I known what I know now, I would have started seeing an oncologist during the early 2000s. I finally saw a cardiologist around 2006, and she noted a potential diagnosis of aortic stenosis. This was not conveyed to me, and I felt fine.

In 2009, my wife and I were laid off and decided to go into yachting full-time. We got additional credentials in Florida and were hired by the owner of a mega-yacht who also owned an NFL team. In the span of two weeks—just from the sheer activity—I passed out twice. I saw a cardiologist who said: you have aortic stenosis, and you need heart surgery. We’d arrived in Florida with no health insurance, we were fired, so we packed our bags and flew back to Chicago.

Fortunately, I discovered Illinois had insurance that covered pre-existing conditions, and I checked all the boxes. I had a cardiac MRI scheduled for March 9 and the surgery scheduled for March 11. I received a letter telling me my coverage would start on March 8. I’m convinced it wasn’t just serendipity that lined everything up perfectly. I had an aortic valve replacement to repair radiation damage, was up and walking the next morning and out of the hospital in less than six days.

What happened next?
About two years later, symptoms began; I became breathless when I walked our dog. I was diagnosed with heart failure. I began to study heart failure in cancer survivors and met Dr. Tochi Okwuosa, a cardio-oncologist at Rush University Medical Center. I got pretty sick waiting to schedule surgery with my original surgeon; we all agreed it was best to have him do it, as he already knew my anatomy. Dr. Tochi was instrumental in helping select mechanical valves for the surgery; they are less susceptible to inflammation and infection than tissue valves. A good reason to have a cardio-oncologist on your team. They replaced the aortic valve, mitral valve and repaired my tricuspid valve.

The surgery took him 11.5 hours; I went into the OR on Monday and woke up on Wednesday. It was way more complicated than my surgeon anticipated due to the amount of scar tissue. He had to re-stop my heart, take one of the valves out, clean off the scar tissue and put in grafts. I was in the hospital for 1.5 months before heading to a rehab. When I got home, I returned to sailing and my financial career. I’ve captained pirate ships and a couple of America’s Cup yachts on the Chicago lakefront.
I continue to see Dr. Tochi, who can look at my “big picture” from the perspective of a long-term cancer survivor. What I’ve learned is that cardio-oncology is about the specific care that cancer survivors should and need to think about for a better quality of life. For example, I didn’t realize that tissue valves could contract endocarditis.

Do you have advice for individuals who were diagnosed recently or years ago?
Pay attention to your body; it tells you things. I delayed doing that in the past. Don’t think you can over-react; your under-reaction could be the problem. If a cardio-oncologist isn’t part of your team, find one—even if it’s through telehealth. A traditional cardiologist isn’t going to look at you the same way.

What do you remember from your experience with Hodgkin lymphoma?
My capacity for denial was powerful and complex. As a young adult with a history of “Hodgkin’s disease,” as we used to call it, I vowed never to tell anyone, especially once my treatment was over. Never–under any circumstances. But that vow became harder to keep each passing year as the side effects and late effects nudged or barged their way into my life. I gradually accepted that it could never be over.

Did you find a way to adjust?
Most of us learned early on what it was like to be pitied or avoided. It was just too uncomfortable for some people to be around “that teenager with cancer.” We were told how lucky we were to be alive, miraculously saved by what seemed like over-treatment by the medical system. At the time, we walked around with radiation burns, bald spots and the hideous scars of surgery. Soon, our long swan necks were the only pretty “side effect.”

Little did we know there were other side effects. We walked alone, because none of us knew any of our Hodgkin’s cohorts back then. Venturing into college life the year after my treatment was completed, I certainly did not want to tell any of my new acquaintances about the experience. I didn’t even want to remember it myself. On the edge of adulthood, how could I know what the next 40 years would be like?

Did you meet others who had been diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma?
At Strong Memorial Hospital in Rochester, I met another teenage girl, but we never kept contact afterwards. At college, I met one other young woman; we are in touch, and she is thriving. Aside from that, I never met another survivor of Hodgkin’s until well into my adult life.

Once you are an adult, who wants to have to explain to their hair stylist why the back of her head is bald? Who wants to explain to colleagues or students why you are not donating blood at the blood bank? Who wants to alarm fellow skiers, cyclists and kayakers to possible troubles when you are all out to have a fun day? Who wants to say that they have a damaged heart, but even if it acts up, we don’t know for sure what it will look like? Is it better to keep quiet and hope for the best? Maybe.

Can you describe the late effects you’ve experienced?
Late effects can be many and varied. I’ve often had to do my own research and then tell my doctors what to look for. As I would discover, late effects of radiation do not go away; they might even become more intense over time. When I began to experience some of the late effects (secondary cancers, heart disease, lung issues and radiation fibrosis syndrome), there was much uncertainty, even in the doctor’s office.

So, as a Hodgkin’s survivor, what should I tell friends, family and co-workers about my (several) chronic conditions? I learned, little by little, how and when to tell close friends and potential partners–often by trial and error. Since we were pioneers in surviving the disease, as well as the treatment, there was little information available.

You’ve had to manage what you would tell people.
Yes, and both my broader social circles and my professional world would become a different story. More than 30 years after the initial treatment, I found it awkward and sensitive to explain in an “elevator speech” how I happened to need surgery for breast cancer, heart disease and thyroid disease, all within a four-year span. Even more difficult to explain were the gaps in my professional resume. I would rather make things up than admit that I was in the hospital or recovering from surgery! I usually summarize: “I’m in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in.”

Like everyone else, I wanted to be effective in my professional life and respected in the workplace. I didn’t want my superiors OR my subordinates to question whether or not I had the physical capacity to do my job. Add to that the fact that access to health insurance is often tied to employment, and you have yet another reason to keep things secret. (Consider that the Americans with Disabilities Act does not cover a person until she/he has been on the job for a year.)
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What are your final thoughts about life as a Hodgkin lymphoma survivor now?
For a long-term survivor of mantle radiation therapy and other treatments for Hodgkin’s, the complications and considerations are extensive. Information shared through a blog may help others who find themselves in the same boat, but what about the possible repercussions of posting this particular information in a public place? And what could be more public than the internet? “Going public” is a highly personal decision that cannot be reversed. Yet going public is the ONLY way we can connect with each other, share our successes, inform our doctors and advocate for access to the research and clinical care we need in order to keep thriving.