4A NEWS
THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAS
THURSDAY, MAY 8, 2008
CANCER (CONTINUED FROM 1A)
"It was the most difficult thing for me to do. But what else are you going to do?" she said. "It's either lose your eye, or you die. So I lost my eye."
The 13-hour surgery took place during spring break, when doctors replaced her eye with muscle and fatty tissue from her wrist. Determined to finish the semester, Jessica returned to classes the next week wearing an eye patch, which some mistook for a fashion statement.
"If I were in Budig walking through a whole bunch of people, I'd get an 'argh', or people would give me a thumbs up to tell me they really liked the eye patch," she said. "People didn't know whether to take it seriously or no
She continued to wear the eye patch through the summer, which she spent in Iowa receiving radiation treatments.
it seriously or not."
on her past few months.
"She relishes every moment, and with good cause.It's amazing to see the courage in your own child. It surprises you that there's that much there."
Five days a week for seven weeks, she received radiation for 30 minutes in the morning. She spent her free time in parks, walking along hiking trails and reflecting
"While I was going through treatment, my entire life was consumed by cancer," she said. "I don't want it to define me, but it's not as possible when it's your face. Other people have had other types of cancers and they can at least forget about it a little bit. But I get reminded by strangers. I know I don't look really awful or anything, but it does a once-over on your self esteem."
JOHN ROARK Jessica's father
Part of Jessica's support system while adjusting to life after surgery was her boyfriend of 10 months, Nick Perry, who lost an eye in a lawn mower accident when he was a boy.
When they met in a support group,
Nick was one of the few people Jessica could relate to about her experience.
Now seven months out from her last treatment, Nick said the experience made Jessica a lot less fragile than she had been before.
"She has grown some armor, I guess you could say" he said.
Part of that armor includes
coming to terms with her long-term prognosis, which Jessica sees as fairly bleak. Though her doctors are confident in their treatment methods, Jessica said adenoid cystic carcinoma recurrence rates were about 50/50. If the cancer does spread, there won't be much else the doctors can do.
Despite lingering fears, Jessica decided she wouldn't let the cancer stop her from doing anything. That attitude left her father, John Roark, with a sense of optimism.
"She relishes every moment, and with good cause," he said. "It's amazing to see the courage in your own child. It surprises you that there's that much there."
After a year and a half of chemotherapy, radiation and surgery. Jessica is on track to graduate in 2010 with two degrees—one in civil engineering and the other in environmental studies.
"Sometimes I think about what happens if I die, but you can't think like that," she said. "You have to live your life however you want to live it. You can't plan for a car accident tomorrow, but you're going to get in your car anyway."
TRACIE REVIS
Tracie Revis felt sick for much of the year before her first day at the KU School of Law in August of 2005.
The persistent cough, night sweats and swollen nodes in her neck got worse once school started. By October, symptoms had accelerated to the point where she hardly had the energy to stay awake.
Even now, the smell of the hospital is etched in her memory.
In November, X-rays showed a large mass, 5 by 6 inches, in her chest. Doctors made the decision to crack open Tracie's chest and remove the mass, a procedure that rendered her completely helpless, held together by four wires strung through her chest.
"One of the lessons I had to learn was I'm a control freak." Tracie said. "I tried to get well when I wanted to get well. But you lose control of everything."
"I lost all my freedom," she said. "I went from being completely healthy to not being able to push myself up. I couldn't tie my shoes. I couldn't do anything."
Three weeks before finishing her first semester at law school, Tracie had to drop out.
"I could smell everything," she said. "Smelling chemo, smelling drugs. It just makes you sick."
BUYBACK '08
She didn't have health insurance and Indian Health Services, a federally funded program for American Indians, was her lone source of money for medical bills. Approval for treatments was anything but fast, she said.
In May, doctors performed a stem cell transplant on Tracie. They harvested some of her stem cells then bombarded her with two rounds of ultra-high dose chemotherapy. The treatment, designed to kill any remaining cancer cells in her body, also obliterated her immune system. Only after doctors replaced her healthy stem cells could her immune system rebuild itself. For a month she was confined to the sterile halls of the hospital's chemotherapy ward. Her only freedom was pacing up and down the halls with her IV drip in tow.
She got the call on Christmas Day, 2005 that she had Hodgkin's Lymphoma, and had to wait until March to begin chemotherapy. Doctors told her that Hodgkin's was a relatively treatable cancer, but by the time she began treatment, the tumor in her chest had tripled in size.
Tracie underwent chemotherapy in Oklahoma. After her last treatment in July, doctors released her from the hospital. Her hair had just started to grow back when, in November 2006, X-rays revealed that the cancer had come back with a vengeance.
Three new tumors had developed on the left side of her chest. She started chemotherapy again in January of 2007, helpless against the blurred vision, numbness in her legs, feet and hands, and muscle spasms in her stomach and back that often resulted from the drugs.
Joe Revis, Tracie's younger brother, said the loss of freedom was one of the most difficult things for her to deal with.
and could see out into the world, and yet the longest distance she could travel was up and down the hallway." he said. "That is a really scary thing."
"She had a window in her room
Tracie relied on laughter to cope with her confinement.
When Joe visited her in the hospital, they played video games or entertained each other by fashioning mannequins from inflated latex gloves and extra clothing in the hospital.
"She always found ways to laugh
CONTRIBUTED PHOTO
Heather Shotton, one of her closest friends, said Tracie's sense of humor helped get her friends and family through the treatment as well.
Andrew Keenan
Andrew Keenan was a second year law student at the KU School of Law when he died from a brain tumor on Jan. 31, 2005.
Doctors found the baseball-sized tumor in his left temporal lobe in March of 2003. Though he knew his cancer was terminal, Andrew continued to attend class in the midst of five surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation. Erica Brown, who was Andrew's fiancé, said that
Despite being 11 credits short of graduating, the KU School of Law awarded Andrew his law degree on Jan.28,2005 -- three days before he died. The Andrew Keenan Memorial Scholarship established by law school faculty is awarded to incoming law students who exemplify Andrew's character.
even toward the end of his life he remained passionate about studying law. He had planned to go into politics and run for Senate.
"I'll never be a normal law student. I can't push as hard as everyone else. In my head I'm 10 feet tall and healthy, but it's just not so."
and have fun." Heather said. "I think she really understood the importance of laughter."
Doctors released Tracie from the hospital in June. For the rest of the summer, she spent every weekend at stomp dances with her Yuchi tribe in Oklahoma, reveling in the opportunity to be outdoors and breathe fresh air - replacing the negative smells from chemotherapy with the smoky smell of campfires and the chirps of locusts.
Tracie was readmitted to KU Law and headed back to Lawrence
TRACIE REVIS KU law student
in August to work toward her degree.
She was determined not to let cancer stop her again and spent the first six weeks of the semester finishing the last six of her radiation treatments before class each
morning.
Her friend, Heather, said the experience fueled Tracie's passion to be an advocate for others.
"More than anything, it changed her perspective and outlook," Heather said. "Good grief, you talk about tenacity. I'm always amazed at her."
But life after treatment is not the same as before. Last fall, as a result of her cancer treatment, Tracie began early menopause at the age of 30. She also gets sick and rundown more easily than others her age.
"I'll never be a normal law student," she said. "I can't push as hard as everyone else. In my head
Tracie will spend this summer in Washington, D.C., interning for U.S. Rep. Rail M. Grijalya, D-Ariz. Her experience battling cancer strengthened her resolve and determination to use her law degree to improve Indian health care and the lives of Native American children.
"When I was going through the cancer, I didn't know how to fight it and I didn't have a voice," she said. "Now I live my life like I remember what I'm fighting for."
At 15, she was diagnosed with Ewing's Sarcoma, a rare cancer that primarily afflicts teenagers, and spent her entire sophomore year of high school in outpatient chemotherapy to shrink the tumor that had developed in her left knee. The summer before her junior year, doctors removed the tumor and replaced the bottom 4 inches of her femur with donor bone, a procedure that caused nerve damage and left her with a permanent limp.
Erica had already endured chemotherapy, radiation and bone transplant surgery before entering the University as a freshman in 2001.
She got through treatment with support from her family and boyfriend, now husband, Alex Red Corn, and started at the University, anxious to escape the "cancer girl" label that followed her through high school. That fresh start was cut short two months into her first semester when doctors told Erica the cancer had spread to her lungs.
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I'm 10 feet tall and healthy, but it's just not so."
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