Just half a year ago, I was painting a nursery and agonizing over whether to use cloth or disposable diapers. I had no idea that my world was about to be turned completely upside down—twice.
It all began with a dull pain in my thigh. I chalked it up to pregnancy—maybe sciatica, maybe a pinched nerve. But it didn’t go away. After my daughter, Liora, was born, I pushed through it, unwilling to miss a single moment with her. That sweet newborn smell, her impossibly tiny hands—I was in love. Still, the pain got worse. One morning, I couldn’t even stand up to rock her.
Eventually, I went in for scans. The doctor walked in wearing that expression—the one that silently says, this won’t be easy. The diagnosis: an aggressive, fast-spreading soft tissue cancer. I remember gripping the edge of the hospital bed, my heart sinking. I just had a baby. How am I supposed to have cancer too?
Chemo started immediately. My milk dried up. Most nights, I had to hand Liora to my mum because I couldn’t stop vomiting. Then the tumor spread to my femur. They said my best chance was amputation. I signed the forms without shedding a tear. I didn’t want pity.
When I woke up from surgery, I had one leg—and a crushing weight of guilt. I couldn’t pick up my baby. Couldn’t crawl after her. Couldn’t wear the dress I’d picked out for her naming ceremony.
But I’m alive.
That was just three weeks ago. I’ve started physical therapy. Liora is teething. And this morning, I stumbled across something in my medical file—something I wasn’t supposed to see. A scan result no one had mentioned. Now I don’t know if something is being hidden from me… or if another fight is already waiting.
I paced my tiny living room on crutches, that paper clenched in my hand like a threat. My heart pounded in my throat. I wanted to call my doctor immediately, but doubt froze me—maybe it was nothing. Maybe I misunderstood. The report was full of medical terms, but one phrase leapt off the page: suspicious lesion in the right lung. No one had ever talked about my lungs. My focus had been entirely on my leg.
I finally called my oncologist’s office—only to learn they were already closed for the day. My next appointment was a week away. But I couldn’t wait that long. My mind spiraled: had the cancer spread?
The next few days were a fog of sleepless nights and desperate attempts at normalcy. Liora’s gummy smile and wide, wondering eyes anchored me. Holding her, I buried my face in her soft cheek, trying to quiet the storm inside. Mum stepped in for late-night feedings when I was too exhausted to move. She kept asking if I was okay.
I wasn’t. But I didn’t know how to say that out loud.