I have lung cancer—and I've never smoked.
In September 2022, my life was turned upside down.
I was an active woman, passionate about my work, ambitious, always on the go. I walked regularly, traveled two or three times a year, and was determined to build my career. Nothing could have prepared me for what was to come.
It all started with a simple numbness in the fingers of my left hand. Then, episode after episode, the numbness spread: up to my elbow, then to my shoulder. Then a lymph node appeared under my left armpit. This was not normal.
A mammogram, a biopsy, then the verdict: pulmonary adenocarcinoma, lung cancer. I couldn't believe it. I'm 49 years old. I've never smoked.
The tests also revealed affected lymph nodes in the hilum and mediastinum, and two metastases in the brain. Then they discovered that I carry a rare genetic mutation: the RET mutation. Fortunately, a targeted therapy, Retevmo (selpercatinib), had just been approved. It works—for now.
The announcement of such a diagnosis is a brutal shock. You ask yourself: Why me? What did I do to deserve this? The reality is that anyone with lungs can get lung cancer.
You have to fight, stay informed, don't hesitate to ask questions, seek out and learn about clinical trials, and push to be heard. Today, I want to send a clear message: lung cancer doesn't just affect smokers. It can strike anyone.
But we must not lose hope. Every day, I choose to be positive. This cancer will not defeat me.
If my story can awaken even one person to the importance of vigilance, of listening to their body, or of the need to overcome prejudice, then it will have had an impact.
Let's inform, share, and support. And above all: let's never give up.
If my story can awaken even one person to the importance of vigilance, of listening to their body, or of the need to overcome prejudice, then it will have had an impact. Let's inform, share, and support. And above all: let's never give up. “
Almost three years.
In September, it will be three years since I received that famous diagnosis. A date you never forget. A day that should have been ordinary... and that changed everything.
Writing here is my way of externalizing the bad stuff, of getting out what I don't always say out loud. And don't worry: I'm fine.
How do I feel? It's a mixture of hope, fear, and nostalgia too. I need to tell you that I don't want to be forgotten. Even though I closed myself off at first, it was the shock. I didn't want pity. I always wanted to keep my cancer in my backpack, to carry it without imposing it too much on others.
I am learning as much as I can about my mutation (RET). I want to understand what is happening and what might happen in the future. My current treatment is still working, but we know that one day, resistance may develop. We don't know when or how. And yes, that's scary. I sincerely hope that I can continue with this treatment for a long time to come.
When it is no longer effective, there are options: a clinical trial in the United States, or a combination of chemotherapy and immunotherapy. But immunotherapy does not seem to be effective for my mutation. Despite everything, I remain hopeful. I believe in research. I believe there are still some wonderful surprises ahead. Maybe even miracles.
I can assure you that I am not in pain. I do have mobility issues and side effects, but everything is tolerable. The hardest part is seeing other warriors leave. And telling myself that maybe one day it will be my turn. The unknown is scary. So I keep telling myself that no one lives forever, that everyone has their own path.
What also helps me is having a new oncologist and a medical team all in one place. It reassures me. I've regained a sense of momentum. But waiting for the results of scans, PET scans, MRIs... is still as interminable and anxiety-inducing as ever.
Almost three years later, a lot has changed. There is the invisible grief: grief for the body I used to have, for spontaneity, for the freedom to move as I once did. Saying to myself, “I'm going to take a bath”... and falling into the bathtub. The body gets tired. But the mind is still there. Strong. Alive.
And even today, I say to myself: “Come on... that can't be. What did I do to deserve this?” And there is no answer. Just life, as it is. This is my path.
I'm not giving up.
I'm moving forward.
