WILTON
Behind that beaming smile, it’s hard to imagine pain in Tasha Dunham’s life.

Her happy-go-lucky attitude doesn’t give much away, either.

And even though her eyebrows seem thin, her eyelashes are absent and she always wears a colorful bandanna or hat, most people would never guess that the 25-year-old has a tumor pushing against the back of her left lung.

The tumor had grown to a diameter of 10.5 centimeters, about 4 inches, in March.

She found out about the rare cancer, Ewing’s sarcoma, in January. It was six months after she and her husband, Desmond, had moved from Florida to Wilton to live with his parents.

After graduating from Mount Blue High School, then the University of Central Florida with a psychology degree, after marrying Desmond – whom she met at a party the last month of high school – Dunham was ready to settle down.

She had gotten into graduate school, and wanted to save money to get a house and start a family.

The pain started late in 2002, an unusual numbness in her chest.

Dunham went to the doctor in January. She thought she had a cracked rib and had some X-rays done. When the doctor called back on Saturday and asked her and Desmond to come into his office on Sunday, she knew something was wrong.

Dunham was told she had a tumor wedged between her left lung and ribs.

Days later, she was told the tumor was cancerous.

She works out. Eats right. Doesn’t smoke. It didn’t make sense.

“I was in shock,” she admits. “I never imagined I’d have cancer.”

‘Pincushion’

“It’s a fluke thing,” she said. “There is nothing I could have done to prevent this. I’ve said ‘Why me?’ a lot, but there is no way to get an answer.”

What’s even more unexpected is the form of cancer she has. Typically, Ewing’s is found in children or teens going through puberty. Usually found in the bones and eventually spreading to the lungs, it’s more common in boys and is treated with a potent combination of chemotherapy, radiation or surgery.

It’s such a rare form of cancer that she has to go to Boston to meet with her doctor.

Dunham knows all about chemo. “I am a pincushion,” she kids, trying to make light of her aggressive treatment cycle: three days in the hospital with the harsh, cancer-killing drugs tricking into her body through an IV port in her chest. That’s followed by two weeks off. Then it’s back to the hospital, spending five hours each day for five days in the outpatient wing getting more chemo. Then, it starts all over again.

A few days after the chemo Dunham feels tired and miserable. After the first few treatments, her hair began falling out. All of it. She hides her head from all except those closest to her.

Dunham works to find the good in all this, something like at least she doesn’t have to shave her legs.

Frozen embryos

Keeping a positive attitude is really all she can do. “I don’t have a choice. I have my bitter days, but that doesn’t do anything for me or for those around me. If you have a good attitude, it’s going to make things better. Happy is just the way I am and a smile always makes you feel better.”

This month, she will undergo an operation to remove the tumor. The chemo routine will be kept up through March, and then, it should all be over. Kind of.

She wonders if she will ever have kids.

Chemo is known to render a woman infertile, so the couple had their embryos frozen before the treatment started. It cost nearly $10,000 and insurance doesn’t cover a preemptive procedure like that. Still, Dunham says, it was better to be safe than sorry.

She plans to write to her elected representatives to encourage them to get legislation on the books so insurance companies will pay in the future.

She curses the cancer sometimes, and bemoans the pain. The hardest part, besides dealing with the pain, is not having the energy to do the things a normal 25-year-old woman would do.

Back in Maine after being away since high school, she wants to enjoy it.

“It’s hard,” she admits. “My friends are going out and doing all these activities, and I am at home watching television, because that’s all I have the energy for.”

She especially misses her work, teaching 5-and-6-year-olds with autism at the Margaret Murphy Center for Children in Auburn. Her weakened immune system would be susceptible to their many coughs and sneezes.

Still, Dunham considers herself pretty lucky. “I have a great support system, good friends and a treatable form of cancer,” she says. “I’m still immortal most of the time. I am going to live until I am at least 80. I have to. I want to see what’s going to happen next.”

She is glad she’s going through this now, when she is young and “more resilient.”

“All in all, I am really healthy,” she says and then, with a giggle, adds, “except for the cancer.”

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