Six months ago, I was arranging a nursery and choosing cloth or disposable diapers. I had no idea my life would change twice.
It started with a mild thigh pain. I thought it was pregnancy-related, like sciatica or pinched nerve. It worsened. I endured it when my daughter Liora was born to cherish every minute with her. I was captivated with baby fragrance and small fingers. However, the discomfort intensified. Rocking her one morning was unbearable.
I finally got scans. The doctor entered with that face. Who says, “this isn’t going to be easy.” An aggressive, rare soft tissue cancer, it spread quickly. I held the hospital bed edge and thought, I just had a baby. I have no time for cancer.
Chemo began immediately. My milk ran out. I vomited most nights and gave Liora to my mom. The tumor invaded my femur. Some believed amputation would improve my chances. I signed the documents without crying to avoid sympathy.
I woke up with one leg and heaps of remorse following surgery. My daughter was uncarryable. Her crawling prevented me from chasing her. She couldn’t wear my naming ceremony dress.
I’m still here.
That was three weeks ago. I started physio. Baby Liora teethes. I discovered an unapproved item in my medical file this morning. Some scan they didn’t tell me about. I don’t know if they’re lying or if I’ll face another conflict.
I walked around my modest living room on crutches with that frightening scan sheet in my palm. I felt my heart pulsing in my throat. I wanted to call my doctor straight away, but what if it was wrong? The report was filled with medical jargon, but one term stuck out: suspected right lung lesion. I don’t recall lung talk. I focused on my leg only.
Finally, I called my oncologist. They closed for the day. The following week was my next appointment, but I couldn’t wait. I wondered if the cancer had spread.
The following days were filled with sleepless nights and normalcy attempts. Liora’s beautiful eyes and drooly smile were my only sanity. I held her close while feeding her and rubbed my nose on her smooth cheek to calm my rushing thoughts. Mum took over late-night feedings when I fell from physical and mental weariness. I knew she was worried too. She kept asking whether I was okay, and I pretended. I didn’t want to complicate our already crazy lives.
When my appointment day came, I felt like I was entering court. Every hallway in the hospital echoed chemo, amputation, and my months-long dread. Antiseptic had enveloped me for so long that I could smell it. I rolled my wheelchair to my oncologist’s office this time since my stump was too sore from physical therapy to use crutches.
Doctor Armitage, my oncologist, approached me with a solemn yet sympathetic face. I skipped small conversation. A notice about a worrisome lesion in my right lung was located. Is it cancer? Why was I not informed?
Sighing, he apologized. “I wanted to confirm the findings before alarming you. A little lesion on your lung is being assessed for malignancy.”
The word “malignant” hit me like an avalanche, but I kept cool. At least I knew the truth. Next week was another scan and biopsies if needed.
The next days were bizarre. Every time Liora grinned or reached out her arms, I wondered if I was well enough to watch her grow up. Mind sank into darkness. I started physical therapy to learn my prosthetic limb to cope.
I met Saoirse in treatment. A vehicle accident years before had taken her leg. She was serene, unlike me. She taught me how to balance, rotate without falling, and overcome nighttime phantom pains. She told her tale as a trauma survivor and single mother who raised her son after her spouse had a stroke. Hearing her tale gave me strength. She had endured more heartbreak than most, yet she encouraged me to fight for my future.
“Keep your heart open,” she advised me one afternoon while walking in a mirror for practice. People’s kindness will amaze you. You will too once you realize your strength.”
I followed that advise.
My new scan day came a week later. We drove silently to the hospital with my mom. We had tried every scenario a dozen times. This was the last component that would determine whether I needed more treatment or could heal my body.
She was with my aunt, who had come to help for a few days. I thought the waiting room walls were closing in. My nostrils tingled with antiseptic, and the machinery around me were noisier. “I’m not ready for another round of chemo,” I told my mother. I doubt my body can tolerate it.”
She muttered, “Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together,” and squeezed my hand.
Finally, I was called. The scan went quickly, but waiting for the results felt like forever. Dr. Armitage entered with a folder. His expression was unreadable. I braced for the worst.
“Good news,” he murmured, and I think I gasped. We believe the lesion is benign and stable. We’ll monitor it, but cancer hasn’t spread yet.”
I couldn’t decide whether cry or laugh. My face was a mix of tears and a hesitant grin. Mum hugged me so tightly I thought she would never let go. My body shook, yet relief blanketed me like a warm blanket on a cold night.
In the weeks that followed, I focused on strengthening myself and Liora. Even though my new prosthetic limb was difficult, each stride felt like reclaiming my life. Gentle stretching in the morning eased phantom pain. Massaging the stump before bed helped nightly discomfort, and as I got stronger at navigating, I felt confident enough to hold Liora while standing, something I hadn’t done since before the surgery.
As I practiced, I realized I wasn’t simply recuperating physically. My spirits rose. Darkness of anxiety lifted. Yes, I could need more scans and tests. But that was my new reality—knowing cancer was always possible but moving forth nevertheless.
While walking around the living room with Liora in my arms one morning, she laughed the sweetest. She touched my cheek with her small palm, and I understood she didn’t care about my scars, prostheses, or faster fatigue. She only wanted me.
We had a mini-“victory” celebration to celebrate this new phase. Mom made vanilla cake with pink frosting. My childhood friends sent flowers and balloons, and my physical therapist and Saoirse joined us. Mostly sipping lemonade, we toast to survival, tenacity, and the basic blessings we take for granted.
I looked at Liora’s calm face as I put her in her crib that night and thought about how far we’d come in six months. The nursery walls, formerly painted with pastel elephants and rainbows, now reflected the voyage. I stood with my kid in my arms despite life’s many turns.
We don’t always choose our battles. When things get out of hand, we can’t stop. But we choose our response. Some days I wanted to hide under the blankets and cry till I couldn’t breathe. Every time I saw Liora’s face, I was inspired to continue.
I hope everyone learns from this story that life can change in an instant. Nobody has an easy path. When you lose a limb, health, or peace of mind, you can still move forward. It could be relatives, a stranger who becomes a friend, or your child’s unwavering affection.
Never underestimate determination or let your circumstances define you. Everyone is more resilient than they think. You have the strength to overcome a health scare, loss, or other severe challenge. You may surprise yourself with your abilities.
Thanks for reading my tale. If it moved you, share it with someone who needs hope. If it inspired you to believe in your strength, like and share. Life is unpredictable, but we can remind each other that there is always hope and that love can overcome any challenge.
