My name is Kelly Spill, although now I go by Kelly Bonito since I got married. I still like to go by Kelly Spill. I’m a mom and a wife, and I work in network marketing because I want to be home with my kids as much as possible. I know I’ll never get that time back. I’m also a cancer survivor.
My symptoms began when I was eight months pregnant with my son, but I had no idea they were signs of cancer. I thought everything I was feeling was just because I was about to give birth in a month. As a new mom, I didn’t really know what my body was going through or what to expect, and the doctors said the same thing. They told me this was normal late-pregnancy stuff and nothing to worry about. Looking back now, that’s definitely when it started. I had constipation and blood in my stool, which was really the beginning of everything.
I told doctors about it, but they brushed it off because I was about to give birth. After I had my son, it didn’t get better, but it didn’t get dramatically worse right away either. When I told them again, they said the same thing—that I had just had a baby and my body was still adjusting. They told me to call back if it continued. About a month and a half after my postpartum checkup, I went back again for what I called my “second postpartum checkup.” The doctor examined me and said he was 99.9% sure I had internal hemorrhoids. That surprised me because I didn’t have any when I gave birth, but I didn’t know much as a new mom, so I accepted it.
The symptoms continued, and I still didn’t feel like myself. Another doctor did bloodwork and an exam and again said it was probably internal hemorrhoids. My bloodwork came back normal, which confused me. When you keep telling people you don’t feel right and they keep giving the same answer, you start questioning yourself. At the time my husband and I were living in San Diego, and I decided to set my health concerns aside while we prepared to move back east to be closer to family. We had a newborn and a cross-country move to handle, so I pushed it aside for a few months.
By the time my son was between five and eight months old, my symptoms got worse. The constipation worsened, the bleeding increased, and I noticed a very unusual smell that’s hard to describe—almost like a sewer smell. It was embarrassing to talk about, but I later learned other people with this cancer had experienced the same thing. I also lost my appetite. I’d feel hungry, buy food, then suddenly feel full and not want it. I lost about 7–8 pounds, which was a lot for me since I weighed around 115. Every morning I woke up feeling sick and kept telling my husband something wasn’t right. One day I went to the bathroom and saw a large amount of blood that definitely wasn’t menstrual. That’s when I knew something was wrong.
Throughout this time I had been taking photos of what was happening because I knew it wasn’t normal. I told my mom everything and sent her the pictures. At that point I didn’t have health insurance because we had just moved and weren’t married yet, so I couldn’t easily see a primary doctor. My mom told me we were going to the ER. At the hospital, they again said it was probably internal hemorrhoids and advised dietary changes. My bloodwork was normal. They referred me to a family clinic. I left feeling like every time I said I was a new mom, doctors stopped considering other possibilities.
At the family clinic, a nurse told me something I’ll never forget: if I didn’t find my answer there, keep searching because I know my body best. That stuck with me. I gave a stool sample, but nothing came from the visit. Still, her words stayed with me, and I kept telling friends and family I didn’t feel right. Someone finally recommended a primary doctor who accepted my insurance. I went to her, showed her the photos, and she immediately said I needed a colonoscopy. She arranged it for the next week, and I had it done the following day.
After the procedure, the doctor told me I had a mass tumor. He couldn’t confirm cancer yet because they needed a biopsy, but from the way he spoke, my mom and I knew it wasn’t good. He advised us to start contacting major centers and get a CT scan so we’d have imaging ready. About a week and a half later, the call came confirming cancer. We had already started planning next steps. We decided to consult multiple hospitals and see where we felt most comfortable. Our first and last stop was Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, and from the moment I walked in, I felt like family.
Before going there, my husband and I had to get married quickly so I could join his health insurance. We had a simple ceremony just days later and began paying about $1,700 a month for coverage. We had a newborn, had just moved, I couldn’t work, and we were paying rent plus high insurance costs. There was always something to worry about, so I didn’t really process the diagnosis emotionally.
At Sloan in New York City, my surgeon told me I had stage three colorectal cancer. The tumor was one centimeter from my anal opening. He said I would most likely never carry another baby and would likely need a colostomy bag for life. I kept absorbing each statement calmly until I asked if I could still go on our planned summer trip to Switzerland. When he said no, that’s when I broke down. Oddly, that was the moment everything felt real.
He explained I still had time to do fertility treatment and freeze embryos. That became our next step. We went through the process and retrieved four embryos—two girls and two boys—which brought some happiness during a dark time. After that, treatment planning began. My care team talked with me constantly about my physical and emotional state. The plan initially included chemotherapy, oral chemo, radiation, and surgery, starting with chemo. Meeting the radiation doctor was frightening because he described the physical effects and how treatment could change parts of my life. That appointment stayed with me, so I was glad we focused on one step at a time.
Just before starting chemo, a research nurse told us about a clinical trial drug I might qualify for. I was only 28 and overwhelmed by medical terminology, so my mom took notes. There wasn’t much research yet because it was experimental, but the side effects sounded milder than standard therapy. At that point I was so sick that I felt I had nothing to lose. I became the fourth person in the country to receive it. Only about 5–10% of colorectal cancer patients qualify for that drug based on specific markers.
The treatment plan was nine infusions, one every three weeks, each lasting about 30 minutes. I had almost no side effects—just some fatigue, which could have been from treatment, illness, or caring for a baby. I didn’t lose my hair or have major complications. Doctors monitored my thyroid because the drug could affect it, but otherwise I felt okay. After my second treatment, I actually felt better physically. By the fourth treatment, scans showed my tumor had shrunk by half. Seeing that on imaging and hearing the doctor say it was halfway gone was incredible.
A research nurse later told my mom that the three patients before me had their tumors disappear completely by the ninth treatment. We cried when we heard that but tried not to get our hopes up. I was patient number four, and there was no guarantee it would work for me. Still, as treatments continued, scans showed the tumor steadily shrinking. Radiation was still a possibility, so I tried to stay mentally prepared for anything.
I kept asking about having another baby. My oncologist advised waiting about two and a half years because that’s the period when recurrence risk is highest. If cancer returned during pregnancy, it would be much more complicated. That was hard to hear because in my mind I thought once the cancer was gone, life would immediately go back to normal. Looking back, waiting was the best decision. During those two and a half years, my emotions finally caught up with everything my body had been through. People assumed life was perfect because I didn’t have cancer anymore, but mentally I was still processing it all.
Now I’m about to have a baby tomorrow, and I think about how much my body has endured in such a short time. I’ve learned to take life hour by hour and give myself grace. Everyone goes through different seasons, whether it’s cancer or something else difficult. Being open and vulnerable helps—not just for yourself, but for others too. When you share your story, you create space for someone else to share theirs, and that can be healing for everyone involved.
