Corrie Lowry - The Long Road

My cancer story is a bit of a saga, so bear with me. It all started back in 2006; I was 20 years old and a college cheerleader at Savannah College of Art and Design, getting a double major in Art History and Fiber Arts. During my sophomore year, I fell during a stunt—not bad, but enough to notice a knotted muscle. Back home, I was told to get an MRI, and it was diagnosed as an aggressive fibrosarcoma in my glute.

I continued with the recommended surgery—an amputation of said muscle group—along with four months of radiation. A year later, the tumors grew back in the radiated scar tissue. The doctors suggested four months of IV chemo that touted a 70% success rate, but for me, it didn't touch the tumors.

Here I was in 2008, three months into my hospital chemo, and my husband proposed. He married me bald as a billiard, not caring if I lived one day, one year, or if he'd be a forever caretaker; he just wanted more time with me. We started our new life together trying everything the internet said cured cancer—EVERYTHING. It didn't work. The tumors spread.

In 2011, I got pregnant and the doctor told me I would not be able to go full term and it would most likely kill me. I ignored them and persevered through the growing tumors as they pushed through the sciatic notch in my pelvis, crowding my growing baby. It did almost kill me, but I delivered a beautiful, healthy boy. Unable to walk, with debilitating neuropathy and paralyzed on my right side, we searched for help. Every major hospital said I had five years to live and the best option was to search out palliative care. Not what you want to hear as a new mom!

With tireless research, consults, and prayer, my husband came across palliative "debulking" style cryoablation: surgically freezing off chunks of tumor growth every six weeks for three years. All the while, I was applying to every clinical trial available. With no success, I finally came to Seattle in 2017; after yet another denial to be a candidate for a trial, they suggested Proton radiation. It was a Hail Mary, but seven weeks of treatment and three years of intensive rehab back home meant I could walk again.

The punishing fact many don't say—and I really don't like saying it myself—is that relentless cancer like this takes nearly everything from you. I lost my job. We lost the house. My husband was demoted and nearly fired for too much time off work. Family, friends, and community were exhausted and depleted of any further resources. Stress was everywhere.

And just when life seems normal again, an MRI shows more tumors... so here I am again, doing Proton radiation on a new site (2025). There are, in fact, more tumors beyond these, but I'll deal with those in a different way in a different year. My challenges have been substantial. I'm in great awareness they will continue, but I am grateful for any and all help.

As many cancer patients will tell you, there isn't much out there to help with the critical burdens of medical: housing, transportation, and financial bills. And most of the time, it's the little things that make the biggest impact. Having a safe, quiet, dependable place to sleep, somewhere to make my own healthy meals, and having transportation to treatment really made medical treatments possible for me.

To all of you, thank you.