The worst part was the isolation. Cancer at 22 meant watching everyone her age live the life she was supposed to be living while she lived in hospitals and counted white blood cells. It meant missing everything and having people tell her, “At least you’re alive.” Like that made up for the fact that she wasn’t really living.
But she kept fighting through eight rounds of intensive chemo, through infections that landed her in ICU. Through the day, her doctor sat down and said, “We need to talk about backup plans because the cancer wasn’t responding as well as hoped.” Through the terror and exhaustion and moments where she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep going, she kept fighting because the alternative was worse and because somewhere in the back of her mind, she still wanted to see Taylor Swift live.
Stupid, maybe trivial compared to surviving cancer, but that dream kept her going on days when nothing else did. Her last scheduled scan was October 15th. 2024, 2 years to the day after her diagnosis. If this scan was clear, she’d be declared in remission, not cured. You can’t say cured with cancer, not for years, but remission.
NID: No evidence of disease. Free to slowly re-enter the world. Sophie didn’t sleep the night before. She’d had so many scans over 2 years. Some good, some terrifying. This one felt like everything. The appointment was at 900 a.m. The scan took 30 minutes. Then the waiting. The worst part, sitting in a hospital room while doctors analyzed images of your insides to determine if you got to keep living or if you had to keep fighting.
Her oncologist came in at 11:30. Dr. Martinez, who’d been with her through everything. Sophie couldn’t read her face. “Sophie, doctor,” Martinez said. And then she smiled. “You’re clear. Full remission. No evidence of disease.” Sophie stared at her. “What? You beat it,” Dr. Martinez said. “The cancer is gone. You’re in remission.
” Sophie started crying. “Not pretty crying. Two years of fear and pain and isolation crying. Martinez hugged her and Sophie just sobbed into her doctor’s shoulder while her mom held her hand and cried too. “What now?” Sophie finally asked. “Now you get your life back?” Dr. Martinez said. Slowly your immune system is still rebuilding, but you can start going places, doing things.
Being 24, Sophie left the hospital at 100 p.m. with discharge papers, a prescription for follow-up medication, and instructions to take it easy, but start living again. She walked to her car with her mom. Bald, she’d been bald for so long, it felt normal now. Skinny chemo had taken 40 lb. Exhausted. She was always exhausted, but alive.
actually finally miraculously alive with no cancer in her body. “What do you want to do?” her mom asked. “Celebrate, get lunch, go home, and rest?” Sophie pulled out her phone and opened Ticket Master. She’d been checking obsessively for months just to torture herself. The Aerys tour was in its final month. One last show at Sophie Stadium in LA.
Tonight, resale tickets were still available. Mom, Sophie said, I want to go to the Aerys tour. Her mom stared at her. Honey, you just got out of the hospital. You should rest. I’ve been resting for 2 years, Sophie said. The doctor said my cancer is gone as of today. I’m not waiting anymore. I want to go.
Sophie bought two nosebleleed seats for $800 each. Everything she had in savings, but she didn’t care. She and her mom drove home and Sophie put on the first real outfit she’d worn in two years. Jeans that hung off her thin frame and a shirt that said, “I survived all.” She didn’t have hair to style. Didn’t have energy to make friendship bracelets or do elaborate makeup.
She was just a bald, exhausted 24year-old in clothes that didn’t fit. going to her first concert after 2 years of hospitals. They drove to LA. Sophie slept most of the way. She slept everywhere now. But when they pulled up to Sophie stadium and she saw the crowds of people in sparkly outfits and cowboy boots and friendship bracelets up their arms. Something in her chest broke open.
She was here. She’d made it. Walking through the stadium entrance felt surreal. She was the only bald person in a sea of 70,000. People glanced at her quickly, trying not to stare. She knew what they were thinking. Chemo, cancer. She didn’t care. She wasn’t hiding. Their seats were in the 500 section. Nose bleeds. But Sophie didn’t care.
She could see the stage. She was here. Taylor was going to walk out on that stage. And Sophie was going to see it. When the lights went down and Taylor appeared, Sophie started crying immediately. Two years. Two years of watching from hospital beds. 2 years of wondering if she’d ever make it here. And now she was standing in this stadium crying and singing along to Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince with her mom’s arm around her because she was too weak to stand without support.
During the acoustic set, Taylor did something she’d been doing all tour, reading signs, bringing people on stage, taking requests. She walked to the edge of the stage near Sophie’s section, squinting at signs. Sophie wasn’t holding a sign. She didn’t have the energy to make one, but the girl next to her was holding one that said, “My friend beat cancer today.
” Sophie looked at the girl confused. They didn’t know each other. You did? Right. The girl asked. Beat cancer. I saw your shirt this morning. Sophie said. Full remission. Then this is for you. The girl said and held the sign higher. Taylor saw it. Stopped. Read it again. Wait. Taylor said into her microphone. Can you say that again? Your friend beat cancer today. The girl screamed.
Yes, this morning. Taylor’s hand went to her heart. Where is she? The girl pointed at Sophie. Taylor looked directly at her. This bald crying girl in the nose bleeds. Can you come down here? Taylor asked. Sophie genuinely thought she was hallucinating. Chemobrain, they called it. Cancer treatment made you foggy, confused.
This couldn’t be real. But security was there helping her down the steps. Her mom was crying. The girl who made the sign was crying and Sophie was walking barely. She was so weak down to the stage floor while 70,000 people watched. Taylor met her at the stage stairs, reached out a hand to help her up.
Sophie was shaking so hard she could barely climb the steps. Then she was on stage at the Eerys tour, bald and exhausted and definitely about to pass out from overwhelming emotion. Taylor hugged her, just held her for a long moment while Sophie cried into her shoulder. What’s your name? Taylor asked into the microphone. Sophie, she managed.
Sophie, is it true you found out this morning? Sophie nodded. Full remission. 2 years of treatment. This is my first time outside the hospital. The crowd roared, not applause. A roar. 70,000 people losing their minds. This is Sophie, Taylor said to the stadium. She just beat cancer this morning and tonight she came here.
