My Story: Face Value

At 20 years old, life was smooth sailing. I was a junior at the
University of California at Berkeley, a confident, athletic, successful
student. Some even considered me handsome.

But that year, people began to suggest that something was wrong
with my nose. I eventually took notice of a bump pushing against my right
nostril, and when it didn't go away, I made an appointment with a doctor.
He suggested a biopsy.

It turned out that I had a tumor, a rare fibrosarcoma. The bulk of
it was removed during the biopsy, but I underwent surgery to excise any
remaining tumor cells. Fortunately the procedure was minor, and with only
a few sutures, I returned to classes looking like I had been in a fight
with someone, not something.

But six months later, I discovered a new lump in the same nostril.
Then my cheek began tingling. Numerous specialists confirmed that my
previous, supposedly unthreatening tumor had procreated a horrific,
life-threatening malignancy. Prescribing more surgery, my doctor warned
that I might lose part of my nose, but his main concern was saving my
life. I suppose I was too young to contemplate dying, but the notion of
disfigurement was devastating.

I awoke from surgery to find that half of my nose had indeed been
removed, along with half of my upper lip, muscle and bone from my right
cheek, the shelf of my eye, six teeth and part of my hard palate. My
doctor promised to make me 'streetable' before I left the hospital. It
was his way of preparing me for a life of disfigurement.

As I re-entered the real world, I noticed adults staring and
children pointing—and sometimes laughing—at me. My hospital
room had protected me; outside of it, I was vulnerable and exposed. Of
course I cared what other people thought of me; I relished the admiring
looks the old Terry had received. Now I was petrified of potential
reactions to the new Terry.

During the following months, I encountered many friends whose
occasional and inadvertently negative reactions left an indelible mark on
me. Even worse, radiation treatments were shrinking my facial tissue,
magnifying my deformity. My self-esteem sank increasingly lower, and I
constantly sought reassurance from others: "Do my looks bother
you?" "How could you like me?"

Five years and 20 reconstructive surgeries later, I was still
plagued with insecurity. During my last procedure, I met a woman
receiving treatment at my hospital. We began dating, but after hearing me
ask—for the umpteenth time—how she felt about my looks, she
ripped into me. The bulk of my problem, she informed me, was not my
physical appearance, but my emotional insecurity. Her honesty helped me
realize that my mental and emotional scars were far more disfiguring than
my physical ones.

I began examining myself from the inside out and used prayer and
support from loved ones to boost my spirit and self-esteem. I volunteered
at The Wellness Community, a cancer support organization, and discovered
that helping others is great therapy: I felt progressively better as I
offered inspiration and hope to those coping with cancer. With time, my
emotional pain subsided.

Altruism seemed to be the greatest form of therapy. I began to feel
better about myself as I realized that I could bring tremendous
inspiration and hope to those coping with cancer. Over time, the pain I
felt from being an outcast subsided.

We all wrestle with insecurity. For me, it took something
devastating to recognize that battle scars make people interesting and
wise; trauma helps us appreciate life and prepares us for its inevitable
adversities. I am thankful for who I am—a much stronger and
wiser person than the old Terry. I remain cancer-free, and I published a book about my experiences. I also
speak publicly on the issue to cancer-patient groups, medical and sales
professionals, students and the community at large. To them, and you, I
offer this message: Refrain from making judgments at face value.