Back in 2016, mid-shave, I stumbled upon an unexpected guest on the left side of my neck near the collarbone—a lump the size of a nickel. A lump on the neck is bound to raise an eyebrow or two. Mine was soft and felt like a bubble in bubble wrap.
Enter my annual wellness check-in with my primary care physician in March 2017. I pointed out the lump, and my doctor, being the detective he is, thought it might be a harmless fatty tumor. He handed me two options: either snip it off for a definite diagnosis or play the waiting game, keeping an eye out for growth or new symptoms. I went for the waiting game.
Fast forward to the 2019 wellness exam, and the lump had morphed into a silver dollar and decided to firm up a bit. Same options, but this time, surgery seemed like the wise move. So, on April 8, 2019, I found myself on the operating table.
Before the surgery, my surgeon took a peek at the lump and, you guessed it, also figured it was a fatty tumor. This fatty tumor theory wasn’t a stranger to an urgent care doc in 2018 either, during my not-so-fun bout with a possible strep throat (turned out, no strep).
Post-surgery, in the recovery room, my wife walks in with a serious expression. Turns out, the lump wasn’t just a fatty intruder; it was the dreaded “C” word. The surgeon, with a look of disbelief, apologized and dropped the bomb: lymphoma.
No blame to the docs who thought it was a fatty friend. I was the picture of health—no symptoms, and I was even averaging 600 miles of running each year.