Courtesy of Camille Goodale
This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Camille Goodale. It has been edited for length and clarity.
Walking to class one day at Colorado State University, I found myself seeing stars when I reached the top of a flight of stairs.
I had been feeling gradually more tired during my sophomore year. At first, I thought I was out of shape. Then, I considered maybe I had mono, but I'd already had the viral infection, which most people can't get twice.
The symptoms became impossible to ignore, so I made an appointment with my primary care provider, who ordered blood work. I was in my shared bedroom at my sorority house when the doctor called with the results a few hours later. When I heard "leukemia," I looked at my roommate, and her face told me she had heard the same terrifying word.
I was in shock. My family had a history of cancer, but I was only 19. When the doctor told me to come into the hospital that night, I packed four changes of underwear and my homework. I had no idea I would be in the hospital for more than a month.
After more bloodwork, doctors explained my initial treatment protocol would last eight months. Classes were off the table since chemotherapy would leave me immunocompromised. As I navigated the next few months of treatment, I enrolled in online courses, doing remote learning long before it became common.
The initial treatments went well, but I quickly relapsed. Doctors in Colorado couldn't get me back into remission. I was only 21, but I worried I was dying. I remember talking to a therapist saying, "Is this it?"
My worries were compounded by a doctor who was all doom and gloom. He told me about a clinical trial using chimeric antigen receptor T-cells that could help me. During the trial, doctors would harvest my T-cells, part of my immune system. The cells would be genetically modified and then put back in my body, where they would hopefully attack the cancer cells.
Yet, instead of emphasizing the potential, the doctor talked about everything that could go wrong. He even said that the van carrying my cells to the lab could crash and spill my cells everywhere — a scary but ridiculous idea.
When I learned that a similar trial was taking place at Seattle Children's Hospital, my mom and I traveled to Washington so I could do treatment there — hopefully with a team that had better bedside manners. I was scared but hopeful.
The T-cells were harvested through a thick line inserted into my neck that was very uncomfortable. A few weeks later, I returned to the hospital for an inpatient stay. Doctors weren't sure how my body would react to the engineered cells, and they wanted to keep a close eye on me. That turned out to be a good thing. I experienced cytokine release syndrome, a serious complication that can cause extreme fevers and low blood pressure.
Because of the CRS, I was delirious. Doctors asked me questions like "Who's the president?" and "What year is it?" When they asked, "Where are you?" I answered, "In the club!" I was mentally checked out and having a great time, but it must have been truly terrifying for my mom to watch.
When I came to the next day, doctors told me that 98% of my leukemia was gone. I was elated — the treatment felt like a walk in the park after hearing the result.
Unfortunately, my leukemia cells are really, really good at hiding. I needed three rounds of CAR-T cell therapy and two bone marrow transplants before I went into lasting remission. The second bone marrow transplant, in 2021, left me in a coma, after which I had to relearn how to sit and walk.
I'm nearly 27 now and have been fighting cancer for most of my adult life. I've realized that people go through a lot that we don't see, and I've become more empathetic. I look healthy, but I'm still regaining my physical and mental strength from treatments.
Although I've been in remission for almost three years, there's a real possibility that my days could be numbered. I do whatever makes me happy, like working in event planning and riding horses. I'm not going to waste them doing things that don't fulfill me. That's given me the courage to leave a relationship and job that wasn't working for me and relocate back to Colorado.
My life is very much a gift. For some reason — that I still don't know — I'm meant to be alive. I'm excited to live to the fullest and discover what that reason is.
