I Was A Confident 21-Year-Old. Then I Woke Up With A Tube Of Skin Connecting My Cheek To My Chest
I awoke from an 11-hour surgery at University of California San Francisco Medical Center to find that my otolaryngologist had removed not only half of my nose but also half of my upper lip, muscle and bone from my right cheek, the shelf of my right eye, six teeth, and part of my hard palate.
As I tried to shift my body in the bed, I noticed a tug pulling at me from my chest. I looked down to see that a long tube of tissue was suspended from my cheek and attached to my chest. I gasped!
“Help!” I cried out to whoever was still in the ominously dark recovery room. A nurse appeared and calmly explained what had transpired during surgery. I learned that I had a full-thickness skin graft that would be needed to fill in the tissue that had been removed from my cheek, nose and upper lip.
Seeing my face in a mirror at that moment would have been too much to handle. I took a deep breath as my mind raced with questions and waited until my doctor arrived to provide a full post-surgery report.
Just a few months before the surgery, life had been smooth sailing. I was a junior at the University of California at Berkeley. I was considered by many to be handsome, and a few years earlier, while in high school, I was even voted the homecoming prince. You could say I was living on “easy street”.
At some point, my right nostril had started to flare out, and my friends pointed it out to me. I guess I wasn’t that vain then. Eventually, I had to have a maxillary biopsy to figure out what the strange new growth on my face was.
Five weeks later, after my tumour was sent to multiple labs to determine its type, I was diagnosed with a malignant maxillary tumour – a rare fibrosarcoma. My prognosis was good. I had clear margins. I was only 21. I was invincible, right?
But six months later, tingling sensations indicated something nefarious was going on. My doctor warned me that I might lose part of my nose but they were going to try to save my life. I underwent surgery with a lot of unknowns.
After the disfiguring procedure, my doctor promised to make me “street able” before I left the hospital. Fourteen days after the surgery, the “live tube of tissue” attached to my face was snipped off. It took that long for the full-thickness skin graft to develop its own blood supply so that it could become part of the puzzle pieces that were now fitting my face back together.
My right eye was drooping. My upper lip was pulling toward my right cheek. My nose was normal on the right side and smashed in with no nostril on the other. The rest of the “tube” tissue was reattached to my chest, and skin grafts from my legs were used to cover the area where the tissue was used on my face.
I now had a web of staples parallel across my chest, and what I called a “waffle” of single thickness skin graft tissue from my leg covering my shoulder and part of my chest. But that graft was only one layer instead of the normal three, so the support wasn’t the same, and a backpack over my right shoulder would forever prove uncomfortable. However, that was the least of my concerns.
As I was stitched back together, the concept of “street able” was still mysterious to me. What I didn’t realise then was that this was my surgeon’s way of nicely preparing me for a life of disfigurement. When I left the hospital after my three-week stay, I felt I looked like a monster, and it seemed others saw the same thing.
As I reentered the world, I noticed many stares, double-takes, and even an occasional group of young kids giggling at me – from a safe distance, of course.
Once, I sat on a two-way bench in a Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) car on my way from the East Bay to San Francisco, across from two preteen girls. It was an especially painful experience, but I pretended on the outside that their giggles didn’t bother me, and instead moved a few seats away to try to soften the emotional pain that was eating my insides out. I guess I was trying to prove to myself how tough I was. Yeah, right!
Suddenly, easy street was littered with detours. Radiation therapy eventually wreaked havoc by shrinking much of the reconstructed tissue holding my face together. New reconstruction to my deformity didn’t solve my problem, as continued radiation magnified my issue as time passed. My self-esteem sank increasingly lower, and I became someone who constantly sought reassurance from others. Not many people want to hang around with someone with that level of insecurity.
Five years and 20 reconstructive surgeries later, I had retreated from much of my life, just working – and working out – in an effort to rebuild my confidence.
I found that weightlifting was something I could control, and at least I could feel better about my body. Hopefully people will look at my body instead of looking at my face, I tried to convince myself. But that’s not really how the world works. Our face is our identity.
Still, I had control over my body, so I stuck to it, and feeling good about my body helped me gain a little more confidence each day as I looked at myself in the gym mirror.
During my last procedure, I met a woman named Dina who was receiving treatment for cervical cancer in the same hospital where I was having yet another surgery to make my nose symmetrical (which failed, of course). We began dating, but after I asked for the umpteenth time how she really felt about the way I looked, she lost her patience and laid into me.
The bulk of my problem, she informed me, was not my physical appearance, but my emotional insecurity. Boom! I was suddenly more aware than ever that I had two problems now: my physical appearance and my insecurity.
I took time to reflect on Dina’s words. Over time, I found that her honesty helped me realise that my internal scars were far more disfiguring than the ones on the outside ever were.
I spent time reflecting, focusing first and foremost on what I was thankful for. I came to realise I was grateful for Dina’s honest words. I began to understand how lucky I was that she had highlighted my greatest weakness.
With a fresh perspective, I saw that my surgeries and their outcomes weren’t something I could control. What I could control was focusing on rebuilding what was inside.
I began examining my life and used prayer and support from loved ones to boost my spirit and self-esteem. I found the courage to share my vulnerabilities in group therapy and finally realised that it’s all about how you feel on the inside that matters. It’s really not our physical appearance that makes us feel good about ourselves.
I finally felt liberated because I knew how to tackle my challenges. I could focus on my most pressing challenge – my insecurity – one day at a time.
I developed a survival kit that not only helped me rebuild that confidence, but also allowed me to cope, keep hope, and ultimately thrive. I have been cancer-free since 1985, and I decided reconstructive surgery was no longer my priority in 1991. My survival kit consists of seven things that I still use to this day:
My religious faith gives me strength and courage to weather every day, but most importantly it gives me hope.
I surround myself with positive people that I trust.
I focus on my most pressing challenge and set goals I know I can achieve. That helps me build confidence.
I focus on mindful positivity. When you start with gratitude, everything in life is better. Remember, we choose our attitude, so try to choose a positive one.
I looked for balance and outlets to get my mind off the day-to-day stressors of surgery, treatment, and the fear of a recurrence and continue to do the same.
Group therapy was instrumental in my healing. I found the courage to share my vulnerabilities, and that was freeing.
Practicing positive imaging every day allows me to visualise a better future and calm me and put me at ease when I’m feeling anxious.
As I focused on rebuilding myself from the inside out, my self-esteem improved. I found an opportunity to work in marketing in the tech industry and my approach to success began to pay off. I worked hard. I over-prepared for every meeting. I was buttoned up when I presented plans and strategies to senior management. By the age of 30, I had become a vice president of marketing. I served as a VP of sales and marketing for two other companies, and I consulted for large tech companies like Cisco Systems and Intel.
I began speaking about my cancer and life journey. My confidence flourished. People stopped noticing my facial difference. I began to learn that how we carry ourselves is what people notice. When you have confidence, people are attracted to that and focus a lot less on your physical appearance.
I met a wonderful woman named Sue in my late 20s. We had two dates together before the topic of what happened to me even came up in a conversation, which told me a lot about her. She wasn’t really concerned about what happened to me, but she cared about who I was as a person. We have been married for 31 years.
Visible differences are a lot more common than many people realise. One recent study found 18% of people in the UK self-identify as having a visible difference, and six out of 10 people with a visible difference say they’ve experienced “hostile behaviour” from strangers.
Because of this, people with visible differences are forced to learn skills to overcome what they believe to be their shortcomings. They learn to adapt. They find strength, build character, gain resilience, and dig deep to find grit.
I would argue that often these skill sets make them better leaders and managers in the workplace because they can bring empathy to their teams, are comfortable with change, and bring greater life perspective. I am an example of this.
I wouldn’t wish my experience on anyone, but I must say that when I look in the mirror now, my battle scars remind me of healing. I am reminded each day of the gifts my journey has provided for me – gratitude for all I do have, empathy for others struggling, and a bigger and bolder outlook on life.
I hope my story can be a reminder that we just might be happier if we focus on what we’re capable of, who we are, what we’re fortunate to have, and what we can offer the world – instead of how we look. That’s the best way to fix our insecurities.
A survivor of a life-threatening cancer that left him with a permanent facial difference, Terry Healey is the author of The Resilience Mindset (ECW Press, 9/9/2025), and is a keynote speaker. A graduate of UC Berkeley with a 35-year career as a marketing executive, Terry challenges audiences to face adversity and change, and apply his ReBAR resilience framework and principles to gain confidence, build resilience, and find greater purpose and joy in their personal and professional lives. Terry lives in Santa Cruz, California, with his wife, Sue. For more information visit terryhealey.com.
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