How Chess Helped Me Through Cancer and Recovery
This piece talks about how a frightening diagnosis unfolds into an unexpected but tender journey. Ariana Hinckley-Boltax is diagnosed with cancer and undergoes surgeries and chemotherapy. During such an uncertain period, chess became an escape for her. It was a comfort zone for her. Her dream of attending the World Rapid and Blitz Championships 2025 leads her to Doha, where the experience proves far more beautiful than she imagined. Her mission was to get her chessboard signed by the players she admired. Read the article to see how things unfolded and whether she was finally able to fulfil her wish. Photos: Ariana Hinckley-Boltax
Endgame in Doha
The Worst Position...
Like a classic pawn fork with no useful checks or attacks to help my pieces escape, I was suddenly in a losing position. The last line of my scan read, “Combination of findings most suspicious of a malignant pelvic mass. Surgical consultation with oncology highly recommended.” The subsequent months were honestly awful. I ended up needing two major surgeries and oral chemotherapy. Often, cancer patients are heroically referred to as “fighters.” I am not going to lie and say that I felt strong at all. I am grateful to say, however, that I had tons of people willing to do the fighting for me – my husband, my doctors, my colleagues, and my friends. And I had no interest in refusing help. I wasn’t actively pessimistic; I just felt like I was at the whim of biology’s stochastic processes; I knew what I could control and what I couldn’t.
As I recovered from my first surgery, I watched a live stream of the World Rapid and Blitz Championship 2024 on YouTube and cheered on my favorite commentator, content creator, and chess educator, the late and great GM Daniel Naroditsky. Even prior to my diagnosis, chess had been a way to escape. I had only just recently gotten into it in March 2023, but I was hooked. I came to understand what flow felt like while playing games on Chess.com. My husband could say full sentences right next to me, and I would not hear him at all. I loved how much it consumed my mind, especially when there were other thoughts I benefited from avoiding.
Staying in the Game
High-level wins don’t come from attack; they come from refusing to resign. GMs are unlikely to suddenly hang their queen. Instead, it’s a game of endurance: continuing to make good choices and forcing your opponent to fight to maintain their advantage on every move. I mentioned that I didn’t feel like a fighter, and I still contend that to be true, but I did have people to fight for. So, I continued on, making as many good decisions as I could, no heroics, just patience.
While at Dana Farber Cancer Institute for an appointment one day, I noticed a flyer for the Dear Jack Foundation, a wish-granting organization for young adults with cancer. It didn’t take long to decide on my wish – I wanted to attend my first chess tournament and get a board signed by all the greats. So, I submitted my name. And…nope, I wasn’t selected.
No problem, I should probably get better at chess anyway, since there is a certain level required to understand these professional games. So, I waited. I continued my chemo, I regained my strength, I watched Danya’s speedruns, and entered the Dear Jack lottery again. To my surprise, this time I was selected! Dear Jack was going to help grant my wish to attend the 2025 FIDE World Rapid and Blitz Championships in Doha, Qatar!
The Conversion
In chess, it’s important not to celebrate too early and let your guard down. Just as easily as your opponent offered you an opportunity, you could do the same and return the odds in their favor. Importantly, this is not a story with a cheesy metaphor like “Cancer made me stronger” or “Everything happens for a reason.” As you will see, it certainly is the case that cancer set me on a path towards opportunity, but it was still my job to convert that opportunity into a win.
As I approached the player’s hall, I wasn't sure how I was going to get my board signed. I didn't know any of the etiquette, the policy on photos, where I would sit or how close I could get to the GMs. Somehow, I trusted, or knew, or sensed that it was going to happen. I walked in right as the games began. The best way I can describe entering the playing hall is akin to the chocolate factory reveal in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (1971). Something about the earnest silence and buzz of players shuffling to their boards thrust me into my own ‘world of pure imagination,’ as I was struck with an unparalleled sense of wonder and childish joy. All these GMs that I'd seen on YouTube, Twitch, and Instagram were right there, just feet away from me. I watched in awe as they made their moves, not knowing what to focus on – do I watch just one board? Do I look around and risk missing moves? I was surrounded by folks who probably know much more about what was going on.
Between games, I ended up asking a guy where I might be able to get GMs to sign my board and he told me that on the opposite side of the building, the players exit. Off I went, and as the vastness of the area behind the building revealed itself, I saw GM Denis Lazavik coming toward me. Now was my chance, I was ready! I asked him to sign my board. Speechless, all I could think to say was “thank you so much.” Besides, he was probably in his zone, and I wouldn’t want to disturb him. My first GM signature.
As I continued to encounter GM after GM for the next two days, my board filled up faster than I could process, but one name stayed stubbornly absent: Magnus Carlsen.
Back in the players’ hall I watched a viral Magnus moment live, as he fumbled his queen against Arjun Erigaisi, lost on time, and slammed his hand on the table. With that, I knew Magnus probably wasn't going to sign anything that day. What if I don't get Magnus tomorrow, on the last day? Of course, I was incredibly grateful and overjoyed at all the signatures I had gotten and the experience I'd had thus far, but getting him would really make my chessboard immortal.
On the final day, my intention was to spend as long as it took waiting, patiently, eagerly. There were surprisingly few fans out back at this point. They probably all wanted to watch the semifinals and finals. There were only three kids waiting for Magnus, and then two women about my age. I struck up a conversation. They lived in Qatar and were super nice. After the semifinals ended, Magnus suddenly emerged. We followed him with our boards as he shuffled quickly to the players’ entrance. He signed for one person – one of the kind Qatari women. Genuinely, I was so happy for her, and simultaneously, I hope that I will get another chance.
After that, a security guard mentioned that the best chance of getting Magnus was actually in the player's hall as he leaves his board. I didn't have a hospitality pass, so that suggestion was out of the question for me. But then the other Qatari woman offered me her pass! She says it was a gift anyway and that these kinds of competitions happen frequently in Qatar – she would see one again. In Qatar, generosity is part of the culture, so I gratefully accepted. But what about her? Didn't she want to go? She decided to wait outside, alone, while her friend went in to warm up.
I headed down to the hospitality entrance. We all waited in a big group for the first game of the finals to start. I asked someone near me about the etiquette, explaining that someone had gifted me the pass. A woman asked, “Hey, did you just get that? That was my sister! She really hopes you get your signature.” With that, they dropped the rope, and we rushed into the players’ hall. People began to crowd around the board as Magnus and Nodirbek prepared for game 1. I snapped a few photos, then simply stood in awe that I was within spitting distance of Magnus Carlsen at the finals of the World Rapid and Blitz Championship in Doha, Qatar! (For legal reasons, I did not spit on Magnus Carlsen).
They started their match, and soon after, the fans were ushered out. I headed back upstairs and ran into my generous Qatari friend who had given me the pass. Incredibly, she showed me her folding chess board with a HUGE Magnus Carlsen signature across it. “I am so sorry,” she said, “it should have been you.” I was truly happy for her; for her generosity, she certainly deserved the signature. But also, my heart sank. For a moment, I thought, I had missed my window again, but I couldn’t resign now. I went back outside and waited.
At that point, I was the only one out there, patiently waiting, hand on the cap of my Sharpie, watching that door. After a few minutes, the guards spoke to each other in Arabic and then turned to me. “Come on in, it's cold outside.” They ushered me into the VIP entry vestibule! I had to get a signature now. I watched the last two games on stream with the security guards. Magnus won! Surely he would sign now! He had to attend the award ceremony, but I was willing to wait. A few seconds after the final game ended, the guard who told us to go to the players' floor motioned toward me, “Grab your things, quickly, come with me.” What? He was taking me to the player's floor through the VIP entry! My heart was pounding as I followed him down the hallway. A man shouted behind me, "She has been waiting three hours! Help her!" I later learned that voice was that of the President of the Qatar Chess Association. We entered from across the hall from where Magnus had just won. As we walked over, I thanked the guard. He said he was heading there anyway, and I had been waiting so patiently. If there is one thing I have learned from the Qatari people, it’s to always choose kindness.
By the way, this guard had no idea I had cancer. He was just a kind person helping an eager fan. As we got closer to the crowd, he said, “You are going to have to be a bit pushy.” I can be pushy. I grew up in New York. Magnus started to exit the board and I shouted, “Magnus! Magnus!” I joined others calling his name. He signed a few boards but then moved on. Have I missed him AGAIN? He cuts across a central area that I didn’t have access to. Then, I see some kids running across the hall. I followed the direction they were going and arrived at a door on the other end. He must exit there. I run, outpacing them and arriving at the door. “Magnus! Magnus!” He started signing for folks, I nudged my board in, and HE SIGNED!!!!!
I turn away, mouth agape, so happy. My whole body felt lighter. There were two people filming as Magnus left, and they chuckled at my face. They asked if they can interview me. "I'm nobody, but sure," I said. Not totally sure what left my mouth, but at least I remembered to thank the woman who gave me her bracelet, the guard who let me in, and Dear Jack.
I collected myself and walked away. Wow. I got Magnus, I got him, I did it, I was done. Delighted, I figured, hey, I'm on the player's floor, why not stay for the awards ceremony? I saw Sagar Shah and Amruta Mokal approaching me! Earlier in the day, I had asked for their signatures and we chatted about traveling all the way from the US for my cancer wish. I eagerly show them Magnus’ signature and they were so genuinely happy for me. I said, stupidly, "I can die happy" – a phrase that wouldn't mean much coming from anyone else, but of course they knew my background. Oops, perhaps not the best choice of words. Amruta smartly replied, "You can live happy."
Checkmate.
They say that most endgames are defensive victories first. There was a lot stacked against me, yet every small thing went right. Not dramatically, incrementally. In modern high-level endgames, there usually isn’t some grand miracle, just a series of decisions that are better than those of your opponent. It’s only after survival that opportunity arises, but you have to choose to take advantage of it.
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