Six months ago, I was decorating a nursery and trying to decide between cloth or disposable diapers. I had no idea my life was about to change—twice.
It started with a dull ache in my thigh. At first, I thought it was pregnancy-related—maybe a pinched nerve or sciatica—but it kept getting worse. After my daughter, Liora, was born, I pushed through it, determined to savor every moment with her. Her newborn smell, those tiny fingers—I couldn’t get enough. But the pain grew sharper. One morning, I couldn’t even stand to rock her.
I finally went in for scans, and the doctor came in with that expression—the one that says, “This isn’t going to be easy.” It turned out to be a rare and aggressive form of soft tissue cancer, spreading quickly. I remember gripping the edge of the bed, thinking, I just had a baby. I don’t have time for cancer.
Chemo began right away. My milk dried up, and I had to hand Liora over to my mom most nights because I couldn’t stop vomiting. The tumor spread into my femur, and they recommended amputation for a better chance of survival. I signed the papers without shedding a tear—I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.
When I woke up after the surgery, I had one leg and a mountain of guilt. I couldn’t carry my daughter, couldn’t chase her when she started crawling, and couldn’t even wear the dress I’d bought for her naming ceremony.
But I’m still here.
That was three weeks ago. I’ve started physical therapy. Liora is teething, and this morning, I found something in my medical file I wasn’t supposed to see. It was a note about a suspicious lesion in my right lung—something no one had mentioned. Was the cancer spreading?
I spent the next few days in a blur, trying to stay normal for Liora, even as fear gnawed at me. My mom helped with late-night feedings when I was too exhausted, both physically and emotionally. She kept asking if I was okay, and I kept saying yes—because I didn’t want to add more stress.
Finally, the day of my appointment arrived. I rolled into the hospital in a wheelchair, since my stump was too sore from physical therapy to use crutches. I couldn’t wait to get answers.
Dr. Armitage, my oncologist, greeted me with a kind but serious expression. Without waiting for small talk, I asked, “I found a note about a suspicious lesion in my right lung. Is it cancer? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
He sighed and apologized. “I wanted to confirm the findings before alarming you. There is a small spot on your lung, but we’re still determining if it’s malignant.”
Hearing the word “malignant” hit me hard, but I kept calm. At least I knew the truth now. Another scan was scheduled, and a biopsy might follow.
The days that followed were a whirlwind of worry and distraction. I tried to focus on Liora, but every time she smiled, I wondered if I’d be healthy enough to watch her grow up. I threw myself into physical therapy, determined to master my new prosthetic leg.
At the rehab center, I met Saoirse, a woman who’d lost her leg in a car accident years ago. Calm and collected, she showed me how to balance better, pivot without falling, and cope with phantom pain. She had survived more than most people could imagine, including raising her son after losing her husband to a stroke. Her strength gave me hope.
A week later, the day of my scan arrived. My mom drove me to the hospital in silence, both of us anxious. Liora was with my aunt. As I sat in the waiting room, I felt like the walls were closing in. The antiseptic smell stung my nose, and the machines around me seemed louder than usual.
“I’m not ready for another round of chemo,” I whispered to my mom. “I don’t know if I can handle it.”
She squeezed my hand and whispered back, “Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.”
When I was called in, the scan was quick, but the waiting for results felt like forever. Dr. Armitage finally came in, holding a folder. His expression was unreadable.
“Good news,” he said. “The lesion appears stable, and it looks benign. We’ll keep monitoring it, but for now, it doesn’t seem like cancer has spread.”
I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. I did both, my body shaking with relief as my mom hugged me tightly.
In the weeks that followed, I focused on getting stronger for myself and for Liora. My prosthetic leg was tough to get used to, but every step felt like a victory. I practiced more and started to feel confident enough to stand and hold Liora in my arms again.
The more I practiced, the lighter my spirit felt. The constant anxiety began to lift. Yes, there was still a chance I’d need more scans and checkups, but I was learning to live with the uncertainty and keep moving forward.
One morning, as I walked around with Liora in my arms, she giggled and patted my cheek. I realized she didn’t care about my scars or prosthetic—she just wanted me.
We celebrated with a small gathering—my mom baked a cake, and we raised our glasses to survival, resilience, and the simple blessings in life. That evening, as I tucked Liora into bed, I looked at her peaceful face and thought about how far we’d come in just six months. The nursery, once filled with pastel decorations, now felt like a symbol of everything I’d been through.
Sometimes life throws battles our way that we can’t choose. We can’t hit pause when things spiral out of control. But we can choose how we respond. There were days I wanted to hide under the covers, but every time I looked at Liora’s face, I found a reason to keep going.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life can change in an instant. No one’s road is guaranteed to be easy. But even when you lose a part of yourself—whether it’s your health, your peace of mind, or a limb—you can still find a way forward. Whether through the support of family, a friend, or the love in your child’s eyes, never underestimate your own strength.
Thank you for reading my story. If it gave you hope or made you believe in your own resilience, please share it with someone who might need it. Life is unpredictable, but together, we can remind each other that there’s always a reason to hope—and that love is stronger than any obstacle we face.