Beyond the battlefield: a story of courage, survival, and dreams

In 2009, I returned from a military deployment in Iraq not as a victorious conqueror over enemies on the battlefield, but as someone who had encountered a much stealthier and insidious adversary within myself. This unseen foe was so cunning, so relentless, that even the sharpest sniper couldn’t have anticipated its arrival.

Little did I know that my journey would soon lead me to trade my M16 for a gunmetal gray chemotherapy pole and clear vomit bags, while I lay in a hospital bed, curled in the fetal position, as cancer and its treatments waged war in my veins, leaving clumps of my hair scattered on my pillowcase.

My diagnosis hit me like a thunderbolt: Ewing sarcoma, a rare and aggressive cancer. Oncologists grimly predicted it would spread to my brain stem, lungs, and spinal cord, painting my prognosis as bleak as a death sentence. They gave me a year to live, convinced I wouldn’t see an additional day.

Fifteen years later, I haven’t just survived; I’ve flourished. I know that survival alone was never the destination. I’ve taken my second chance at life and transformed it into a mission of meaning.

I work tirelessly to spread hope, raise awareness, and advocate for those still in the fight. As a proud contributor to the Sarcoma Alliance, I support patients and families navigating the complexities of rare cancers such as Ewing sarcoma.

I’ve taken on a leadership role in shaping how information and support are delivered through our community, most notably by spearheading an educational webinar series. The webinars are powerful collaborations among patients, healthcare professionals, and sponsors, focused on delivering critical, up-to-date information on sarcoma-related topics. Each session provides not only clinical insight but also the patient’s perspective — ensuring that the human experience is never left out of the conversation.

By helping to curate and lead these initiatives, I continue to be a voice for those who need one and a bridge between the clinical and emotional realities of life after diagnosis.

During my U.S. Army deployment in Iraq around December 2008, I discovered a firm lump in my left thigh. At the time, I dismissed it as a muscle strain from the physical demands of deployment, compounded by war-zone fatigue, holiday isolation, and homesickness. I had no idea that what I was feeling was more than just a bump — it was the first sign of a malignant tumor that would soon change the course of my life. That lump turned out to be Ewing sarcoma, and it would ultimately cost me a significant portion of my left adductor muscle and surrounding tissue.

When I returned to the United States, I was admitted to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, a place that would become both a battlefield and a sanctuary. The diagnosis was devastating, and the prognosis was uncertain. My case was rare, aggressive, and difficult to map. The oncologists at Walter Reed did what they could with the limited data available, but initially, hope was scarce. The medical team grappled with how to navigate a disease they had seen only in textbooks. There were moments when even they couldn’t hide their concern. The road ahead was murky, and no one could tell us where it led.

And yet, even amid the uncertainty, they never made me feel like a lost cause. I wasn’t just a chart or a case — I was treated as a whole person. The orthopaedic oncology team valued my voice and met my questions with thoughtful, measured answers. They didn’t rush or interrupt. They listened — really listened — not only to me but also to my family.

My orthopaedic surgeon in particular made it a point to include my mother and me in the planning of every step, whether it was weighing the risks of limb-sparing surgery or preparing for recovery. That inclusion gave me a sense of control at a time when so much had been taken away.

The surgery itself was grueling: 13 hours of complex, high-stakes precision. It was a limb-sparing resection that required removing a significant portion of my left adductor muscle and surrounding tissue. When I finally emerged from the OR, I bore the marks of survival in more than just spirit. A 28-inch scar stretched down the inside of my thigh like a jagged road map of everything I had endured. My leg was left permanently disfigured, with irreversible nerve damage that altered how I moved, sat, and lived. The swelling, the rawness, the deep ache that pulsed beneath the skin — all of it reminded me daily of the violence my body had been forced to withstand. And yet, through the pain, trauma, and permanent changes, what remained untouched was my dignity. No scalpel, diagnosis, nor scar could take that from me.

Over time, something began to shift. Slowly — almost imperceptibly — things started to get better. With the support of the interdisciplinary team — oncology nurses, physical therapists, social workers — I began to reclaim pieces of myself. Walter Reed didn’t just deliver expert care. They gave me a space where I felt seen, heard, and safe in the storm.

The power of unwavering support
Confronted with an immense challenge, my mother made a profound sacrifice. Leaving her stable six-figure job and obligations behind, she uprooted her life to stand by my side. With my sister still deployed and my nephew under her care, my mother bore an immense burden as I, her eldest daughter, fought terminal cancer.

I vividly remember the day she walked into my hospital room. Emotions swirled inside me — a mixture of relief and emptiness. Nights passed in her comforting embrace, tears streaming down my face as she held my nephew close. The doctors struggled to outline a path for my rare case, often offering uncertain guidance that painted a bleak future, casting a shadow over the hospital room.

The priest’s visits to administer last rites added to the fear tightening around me. I had accepted my impending mortality, grappling with the idea of never seeing my nephew grow up and fearing my existence fading away.

Yet, my mother, a force of nature, took charge. A sign on my door read, “Do not enter unless feeding, checking vitals, or giving medication,” shielding me from intrusive inquiries and negative energies that had intruded upon my space.

With unwavering faith in positivity and miracles, my mother delivered a transformative pep talk. “Brandi,” she said, “the doctors may doubt, but I believe in you. We must focus on the positives now. Don’t lose hope.” Her unwavering belief reshaped our story. We turned away from thoughts of death to embrace the possibilities of life after cancer.

On the days I felt strong enough, we dared to dream. We imagined a future where I’d share my story globally as a published author. We envisioned becoming a global advocate, reshaping perceptions of cancer, and even dreaming of writing children’s books to inspire young souls battling Ewing sarcoma.

Living with purpose
Today, I proudly affirm that I didn’t give up. But I didn’t walk this path alone. My mother’s steadfast support, her whispered encouragements, and her belief in living fully with cancer laid the foundation for rebuilding my life. Many of our dreams have become reality.

I’ve written books that uplift and inspire those navigating cancer’s challenges. Within the cancer community, I stand as a beacon of hope, a testament to resilience and the power of support during life’s darkest hours.

My journey stands as proof of the human spirit’s strength and love’s transformative power in overcoming adversity. It’s a reminder that the belief and encouragement of loved ones can guide us through storms into light.

Sarcoma Awareness Month is a powerful reminder of the strength found in shared resilience. As a survivor, I’ve come to understand that healing is only part of the journey — helping others is just as essential.

That’s why I support efforts such as the Musculoskeletal Tumor Registry (MsTR), a nationwide initiative transforming how we understand and treat sarcoma. By contributing to this registry, clinicians aren’t just recording data — they’re advancing research, improving clinical practices, and building a future where rare cancers no longer feel so rare. Every entry brings us closer to more informed, timely, and personalized care.

Through collaboration and compassion, we’re creating a community where patients feel seen, understood, and supported. Together, we’re turning information into impact and ensuring that no one faces sarcoma alone. In the face of uncertainty, efforts like the MsTR are helping to light the way forward — with knowledge, with hope, and with purpose.

If you have questions about the MsTR, please visit aaos.org/registries/mstr or email RegistryInfo@aaos.org.

Brandi Benson is a U.S. Army veteran, cancer survivor, and author of “The Enemy Inside Me.” Diagnosed with a rare cancer after serving in Iraq, she now inspires others through advocacy, speaking, and writing, sharing her journey of resilience, healing, and hope.