Stage Five: The Illusion of Recovery

The doctor had warned us clearly—the recurrence rate of leiomyosarcoma is higher than most other sarcomas. But at that point, we didn’t truly grasp what that meant. How could we? Even the internet seemed silent about it. I searched everywhere—Google, PubMed, the hospital library, oncology journals—and still, there was barely anything to hold on to. Just fragments of research, a few scattered case reports, and the same cold line repeated in every article: “Extremely rare. Poorly understood. Aggressive behavior. High recurrence rate.”

The surgeon who had operated on my grandma insisted she undergo radiation therapy for a few months, just to make sure it hadn’t spread microscopically. But when we went to the radiation department, things took another turn. The doctors there said it wasn’t necessary. Since the thyroidectomy had completely removed the tumor and there was no sign of metastasis, they told us radiation wasn’t required.

I wasn’t there that day, but my aunt told me later that the radiation team had frightened my grandma more than they had comforted her. They spoke about the side effects—the fatigue, the nausea, the burns—and convinced her that the treatment would only bring more suffering. “Why put her through that,” they said, “when she’s already clear?”

And so, my grandma believed she was finally out of danger. The oncologist and radiation team never updated the ENT surgeon who had performed her thyroidectomy. No one followed up. No one rechecked. The chapter was quietly closed without anyone realizing the story wasn’t finished.

Months passed. She took her medications religiously—thyroid-stimulating hormone, calcium, painkillers. The women in my family made sure she did. By mid-November, she could speak again, her voice soft but there. The scar had begun to fade, blending gently with the wrinkles of her skin. She started to smile again. She began to go out, meet people, attend small family functions. For a little while, she seemed like herself again.

But then, she started noticing it—the familiar weight, that faint swelling under the skin of her neck. The same region. The same lump, returning quietly like a bad memory.