A Teacher’s Troll Helps Her Through Triple-Negative Breast Cancer 

By Jennifer Peters 

On April 23, 2024, my life jumped onto a conveyor belt I never saw coming — one that would race me through numerous exam rooms, tests, and heartfelt conversations. The diagnosis? Triple-negative breast cancer. I’d never even heard of it. I thought breast cancer was all the same. Boy, was I wrong. 

But even in that first shocking moment, I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to do this with a sad soundtrack playing in the background. I wasn’t going to let my story be painted in gray. I’m a science and STEM teacher to some of the most inquisitive 4th, 5th, and 6th graders you’ll ever meet, and if you’ve ever met a middle schooler, you know: they don’t do sad. They do loud, curious, and often hilarious. 

The day I went out on disability, my 6th grade team handed me a little troll tucked inside a card. Not a fancy one, just one of those tiny, colorfully-haired figures with an outsized personality. And that was it: the spark. I decided to make this troll the face of my fight. I would educate, laugh, cry, dress her up, and tell my story through her — for my students, for my oncologist Sarah Sammons, MD, nurse practitioner Sarah Fischer, NP, and the rest of my clinical care team in the Breast Oncology Center at Dana-Farber, and, mostly, for my own sanity. 

We gave my troll a name, one that made my students giggle and one my nurses, doctors, and other clinicians would never forget: TT, short for “Tough Titty.” 

“After all,” I told them, “that’s exactly what I was fighting for.” (Of course, if my students asked, I told them it stands for “Tough Teacher.”)  

TT the superstar 

From day one, TT was the main event. If I ever showed up to treatment without her, the staff went on high alert. Messages would start rolling in: 

“Where’s TT?” 

“Did you leave her in the car?” 

“Check your chemo bag!” 

It quickly became clear that TT wasn’t just my emotional support troll; she was everyone’s emotional support troll. 

Each week, TT had a new outfit: one for chemo days (complete with tiny IV bags), one for hospital admissions (with a custom EKG), a mastectomy bra post-surgery, and even cycling gear ​​for the Pan-Mass Challenge. TT walked (with help) in the Jimmy Fund Walk, and became a STEM project in her own right — an evolving, ever-adapting little engineer. And in many ways, she became a daily mental health check-in as well. When I felt like a patient, TT reminded me that I was also a teacher, a friend, and a woman who could still find laughter on the hardest days. 

 TT helped me so much that I felt like I wanted to pass on that good karma to others. So I began handing out “clone trolls” to every patient, clinician, and anybody else facing cancer that I came across. 

Laughter and resilience 

On my final chemotherapy infusion day, Sept. 26, 2024, I showed up in a full troll wig, bright, bold, and spiky. It turned heads and sparked laughter. My fellow warriors, my fellow baldies, looked around and said, “Hey… I’m doing that for my last treatment.” It was a moment of defiant joy. TT and I had made it, and we had done it with color, laughter, and unapologetic spirit.  

Over the past 19 months, I’ve learned a lot:  

• Triple-negative breast cancer is its own beast, and that more people need to know what it is and how it’s treated. Laughter is powerful medicine. 
• Emotional support doesn’t always come with a clipboard or a white coat. Sometimes, it comes with neon hair and a sparkly outfit. 
• Nurses, teachers, and doctors are cut from the same cloth. We’re caregivers, educators, and, above all, believers in resilience.  

Dr. Sammons and my Dana-Farber clinical team didn’t just treat me, they embraced TT as well. And in doing so, they embraced the idea that healing doesn’t have to be silent or solemn. If I have one regret, it’s not putting a tracker on all the chemo trolls I’ve given away. I can only hope they’re out there, making my fellow cancer warriors smile — whether in a hospital bed, a classroom, or a dark moment they didn’t ask for. 

Cancer may have taken my hair and a few parts of my body, but it didn’t take my life. And thanks to my incredible support network, including my husband, two sons, extended family and friends, and one little troll, it never stood a chance.