Terry Healey

At 20 years old, life was smooth sailing. As a junior in college, I was confident, athletic and a good student. I was living life on “easy street.”

But one glance at my latest UC Berkeley college identification card indicated something had changed. A second glance confirmed that my right nostril was suddenly flaring out. Eight weeks of doctor visits and a biopsy finally led to a diagnosis.

It turned out that I had cancer, a rare fibrosarcoma. The initial treatment proved minor, and I thought I was on the road to a full recovery.

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 that also had the potential to cause severe disfigurement.

Terry Healey after major cancer surgery in 1985. 

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. I had no idea what that might mean, but assumed I would look “acceptable.”

As I re-entered the real world, I noticed adults staring and children pointing—and sometimes giggling when in a group—at me. My hospital room had protected me, but outside of it, I was vulnerable and exposed.

Five years and 20 reconstructive surgeries later, I was 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. Once I got over the devastation that she was no longer interested in me, I began to realize how lucky I was that she had highlighted my greatest weakness. With a fresh perspective, I realized that surgery wasn’t something I could control. What I could control was focusing on rebuilding what was inside.

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 Cancer Support Community 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.

Thirty-eight years later, I remain cancer-free, and am now more confident than when I was living life on “easy street.” The whole experience was transformative in such a positive way.

I learned a lot at a very young age and am grateful for those gifts and lessons that I hope I can communicate to people faced with challenges and adversity in their own lives.

Terry Healey is an author and a motivational speaker. For more information about his speaking and books, please visit his website 

This post was written and submitted by a CURE reader. The article reflects the views the author and not of CURE®. This is also not supposed to be intended as medical advice.

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After multiple cancer surgeries, I'm now more confident than I was when I was living on "easy street." 

Taking My Cancer Experience at Face Value

Being diagnosed with cancer at 20 wasn’t easy to absorb. But having a recurrence and facing a life with facial disfigurement was an entirely new situation I never would have anticipated or prepared for.

I had been living life on “easy street,” but suddenly had to take a major detour. I developed a malignant maxillary tumor that was pushing against my right nostril. It was an extremely rare fibrosarcoma, which the doctor told me was typically found in the arms, legs and pelvis areas, but not in the head and neck region.

Fortunately, the tumor had been diagnosed early, so the consensus was that clearing out the margins wouldn’t lead to disfigurement. And that’s what the initial result was.

Six months later, a nosebleed led me to the discovery of a new mass I saw inside the same nostril. Then my cheek began tingling. My cancer had recurred. Prescribing more surgery, my doctor warned that I might lose my eye, but his main concern was saving my life.

When I awoke from my 11-hour procedure, I found that my world would change forever. I learned that my doctor was forced to remove not only half my nose but also half of my upper lip, the muscle and bone from my right cheek, the shelf of my right eye, six teeth and part of my hard palate. I had a full thickness skin graft attached from my shoulder to fill the cavity that had been created on my face. I looked like the elephant man.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be cured and be able to return to pursue great opportunities ahead of me.

After the initial shock of it all, I was only surrounded by my immediate family. They were supportive, but I knew they were frightened, just like I was.

The margins were still not clear. More surgeries were required. I cried and wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep hope. But my doctor was confident he’d be able to remove any last remaining tumor cells and promised to make me “streetable” before I left the hospital. I thought maybe I’d just look like Tom Berenger in the movie “Platoon,” where he had a big scar on his cheek, left from a knife wound he’d received in battle. I could live with that.

But what I didn’t realize then was that this was my doctor’s way of preparing me for a life of disfigurement. After twenty-five more reconstructive procedures over a six-year span and the continued belief I’d get back to the “old Terry,” I was fortunate to meet someone who opened my eyes to the real problems I had.

It was during what would turn out to be my last procedure in a Chicago hospital that I met a beautiful woman receiving treatment for cervical cancer. We hit it off. I couldn’t understand what she found in me that was attractive. I still looked like the elephant man, or so I thought. We spent one long weekend together, but after hearing me ask — for the umpteenth time — how she felt about my looks, she laid 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 internal scars were far more disfiguring than my physical ones on the outside ever were.

I began to realize how lucky I was that she had highlighted my greatest weakness. With a fresh perspective, I realized that surgery wasn’t something I could control. What I could control was focusing on rebuilding what was inside.

I began to focus on creating my own survival kit in a methodical way that I felt was doable for me. I began working out every day with weights, running five to six miles a day and got into the best shape of my life. Prayer and faith in the future became even more important. I focused on surrounding myself with positive-minded people I knew I could trust. I started going to group therapy sessions at the 

 and practiced visualization and positive imaging. I wrote a memoir about my experience that led to a professional speaking career which built my confidence and self-esteem to new levels.

Each day I looked in the mirror, I saw my battle scars. But each day I saw those scars, I began to feel more and more proud of them, and over time, I realized that I was becoming a stronger person than I ever had been before. My confidence had blossomed again. The world was once again my oyster.

I remain cancer-free 36 years after treatment. I rarely notice people pointing or staring at me anymore. And they generally don’t notice me much because I carry myself with a newfound confidence I never had.

. For more information about his speaking and his books, please visit his website 

A survivor of fibrosarcoma shares his journey through treatment and how he learned to build strength and confidence after the ordeal physically changed his face.

From Tested to Transformed

At age 20, my life was smooth sailing. I was a junior at the University of California, Berkeley, a confident, athletic, successful student. Some even considered me handsome. I was living life on “easy street.”

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. Today, I am thankful for who I am—a much stronger and wiser person than the old Terry. I am grateful for my experience because I appreciate every day of my life, and I am more forgiving and tolerant than ever before. What I learned I hope to teach others:

Each of us has the ability to take control of our lives.

 We have to learn to focus on what we can control, and stop worrying about what we cannot control.  

We owe it to ourselves to be surrounded by people we trust.

 Without trusting my family, friends, and medical team, I wouldn’t have had the positive attitude necessary to carry on. 

 but we need to focus on the most pressing issues, so we don’t get overwhelmed with all that we want to improve about ourselves.

And finally, we need to be aware, alert, attentive, and more accepting

 of one another, because we never know in life who or what will impact our lives and inspire us to achieve things we never thought possible.

I remain cancer-free 23 years after treatment. I published a book about my triumph in 2006 called 

At Face Value: My Triumph Over a Disfiguring Cancer

. I am also a motivational speaker, and, though my primary business is consulting, speaking has proven to be the most therapeutic part of my recovery. I learned a lot at a very young age and am grateful for those gifts and lessons that I hope I can communicate to people faced with challenges and adversity in their own lives. 

Terry Healey is a technology marketing strategy consultant. Learn more at 

But that year, several people asked if something was wrong with my nose. My right nostril appeared to be flared out, and I eventually noticed a bump pushing against the inside of my right nostril. When it didn’t go away, I made an appointment with a doctor. After initially telling me it was probably a pimple, he finally suggested a biopsy when it was still there three weeks later.

It turned out that I had a malignant maxillary tumor, a rare fibrosarcoma. I would later discover how lucky I was that I got the right diagnosis given how few of these tumors pathologists see. The bulk of the tumor 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 some

But six months later, I discovered a new lump in the same nostril. Then my cheek began tingling. Numerous specialists confirmed that my tumor had spread. 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 he had removed not only half my nose but also 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. What I didn’t realize then was that this was his way of preparing me for a life of disfigurement.

I relished the admiring looks the old Terry had received. Now I was petrified of potential reactions to the new Terry.

Trauma helps us appreciate life and prepares us for its inevitable adversities. Today I am thankful for who I am- a much stronger and wiser person than the old Terry. 

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&mdash;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. Once I got over the devastation that she was no longer interested in me, I began to realize how lucky I was that she had highlighted my greatest weakness. With a fresh perspective, I realized that surgery wasn’t something I could control. What I could control was focusing on rebuilding what was inside.

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 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.

As I re-entered the world, I noticed adults staring and children pointing—and sometimes laughing&mdash;at me. My hospital room had protected me; outside, 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. 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 I look OK? Is it awkward for you to hang out with me? 

The insecurity and insight that come from cancer's battle scars. 

Terry Healey

Taking My Cancer Experience at Face Value

From Tested to Transformed

Beyond Face Value

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