The Table Setter, Feb. 20, 2024: On Liam Hendriks and My Personal Battle With Cancer

Since middle school, my dream job has been baseball writer. I fantasized about having the privilege of sitting in the press box, traveling, and staying at nice hotels while getting paid to write about the team I loved, the Twins. [Ed. note: Nice hotels? Fantasized was a solid word choice.] Ten or so years later, that is not my life. This May, I will graduate with a degree in English Education, to become a middle or high school English teacher. I am not living my dream, but I have been allowed to write about the team I love for Twins Daily, and I will forever be grateful for the opportunity handed to me by the site's owners and everyone else who keeps the site alive and thriving.

I have written for Twins Daily since last May, and while I have published many pieces analyzing, critiquing, or praising the Twins, I have yet to talk about myself in detail. Then again, why would I? This site provides a sense of escapism and allows people to think about and discuss their favorite baseball team. However, if there was ever a day to be vulnerable, now is the time. Yesterday, the Boston Red Sox signed reliever Liam Hendriks to a two-year, $10-million contract, with a mutual option for 2026. As most of you know, Hendriks is a former Twin and a cancer survivor. 

In December of 2022, Hendriks was diagnosed with Stage-4 non-Hodgkin lymphoma, a blood cancer. Hendriks found this out after going to the hospital to get tested, upon realizing a lymph node on the back of his neck had "swollen to the size of a walnut," and the ones under his jaw "jutted out and fattened his face." Now, you may ask yourself, "What does Hendriks having cancer have to do with Cody?" Well, despite not being Australian or able to throw a fastball at nearly 100 MPH, I, too, am a cancer survivor. Roughly 16 years before Hendriks's diagnosis, I was diagnosed with Ewing sarcoma, at the age of six. 

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A picture of me (age 7) undergoing chemotherapy.

Like Hendriks, my cancer diagnosis was foreshadowed by something feeling off. Typically, six-year-olds are full of energy and spend their free time outside participating in leisurely activities like going to the park, riding their bikes, swimming, and playing sports. I used to be like that--until the Spring of 2006. Instead of coming home from school and wanting to go outside and have fun, I would walk over to the couch and fall asleep until it was time to have dinner. After dinner, I would go back to the couch and watch TV until I went to bed. I lived my life like this for months while complaining about a constant dull pain present in my upper left leg.

The pain slowly got worse and worse, and I stayed inactive until my proactive mother took me to get evaluated at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, seeking answers on what was wrong with me. After noting my constant leg pain, the doctors ordered I get an X-ray of my left leg to see if there was an undiagnosed injury of some sort. There wasn't an injury, but something much more dread-inducing: a small lump attached to my femur. Mind you, I was six years old, so I had no idea what was happening. Yet, the reality that something was wrong quickly set in with my parents.

Days later, my parents received a phone call confirming that the mysterious lump was, in fact, a tumor. The following year and a half of my life consisted of me undergoing 14 rounds of chemotherapy and a barrage of surgeries, which included the insertion of my chemo port and the removal of the tumor. After enduring immense damage (both physically and mentally) for two years, doctors gave my parents and me the best news we had heard in years: I was officially cancer-free. Although the initial wave of cathartic relief and celebration was incredible, the mood quickly sobered upon learning I needed my chemo port removed. 

For those who don't know, a chemo tube is a thin, implantable silicon tube guided into a large vein above the right side of the heart, called the superior vena cava. I will spare you the rest of the details, but it was harrowing to have it put in, and I repress the memory of how it felt as best I can. Unfortunately, though, removing the port wasn't pleasant either, as the surgeon was tasked with dissecting the port catheter and reservoir from my heart valve and closing the insertion site, tunnel, and wound. If you have gotten this far, you probably wonder, "Why is he telling this specific story?"

Well, here's the payoff. As the anesthesia wore off and I slowly regained consciousness from the indescribably powerful post-surgery fog, I remember fragments of a Twins game being broadcast on the TV in my hospital room. I don't remember the game's outcome, but one hyperspecific image from that day has remained in my mind: Joe Crede fielding a groundball at third base. Yes, of all players, Crede and the number 24 stitched to his white pinstriped home jersey were permanently deposited into my memory bank. I don't understand why, and I never will, but since that day, Crede and the number 24 have acted as a good omen for me, symbolizing new beginnings and the eradication of a life-threatening illness. 

Since that day, I am fortunate enough to have remained cancer-free. The pediatric hematology/oncology team at Mayo Clinic saved my leg and, more importantly, my life, allowing me to play baseball throughout high school and write about the Twins today. Baseball has been a saving grace, as it is the outlet I lean on most to help me combat the PTSD, anxiety, and overall existential dread I undergo as a result of the treatment I received and the fear of cancer returning one day. Seeing Hendriks return to pitch for the Chicago White Sox late last May and experiencing the absolute joy he and his family felt as he threw his first pitch was a wonderful experience. To see him get the opportunity to continue to do what he loves with Boston for the next two seasons was a victory for survivors everywhere.