Six months ago, I was decorating a nursery and trying to decide between cloth or disposable diapers. I didn’t know my whole life was about to flip upside down—twice.
It started with a dull ache in my thigh. I thought it was pregnancy-related, maybe a pinched nerve or sciatica. But it got worse. After my daughter, Liora, was born, I pushed through it because I wanted to enjoy every little moment with her. That newborn smell, those tiny fingers—I was obsessed. But the pain kept getting sharper. One morning, I couldn’t even stand to rock her.
I finally went in for scans. The doctor came in with that face. The one that says, “this isn’t going to be easy.” It was a rare form of soft tissue cancer—aggressive and spreading fast. I remember gripping the edge of the hospital bed and thinking, I just had a baby. I don’t have time for cancer.
Chemo started immediately. My milk dried up. I had to hand Liora to my mum most nights because I couldn’t stop vomiting. Then the tumor grew into my femur. They said amputation would give me a better shot. I signed the papers without crying—I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.
I woke up after surgery with one leg and a mountain of guilt. I couldn’t carry my daughter. Couldn’t chase her when she learned to crawl. Couldn’t wear the dress I bought for her naming ceremony.
But I’m still here.
That was three weeks ago. I’ve started physio. Liora is teething. And this morning, I found something in my medical file I wasn’t supposed to see. Something about a scan they never told me about. And now I don’t know if they’re hiding the truth… or if I’m about to face another fight.
I paced my small living room, balancing on my crutches, that ominous scan document clenched in my hand. My heart felt like it was pulsating in my throat. I wanted to call my doctor right away, but I hesitated—what if it was a mistake? The lines on the report were full of medical jargon, but one phrase stood out: suspicious lesion in the right lung. I didn’t remember anyone discussing my lungs. All my focus had been on my leg.
Finally, I dialed my oncologist’s office. They were closed for the day. My next appointment was scheduled for the following week, but I just couldn’t wait that long. My gut churned with the possibility: had the cancer spread?
The next few days were a blur of sleepless nights and attempts at normalcy. Liora’s bright eyes and drooly grin were the only things keeping me grounded. I clutched her close when I fed her, brushed my nose against her soft cheek to steady my racing thoughts. Mum stepped in for late-night feedings when I collapsed from exhaustion, both physical and emotional. I knew she was worried, too. She kept asking if I was okay, and I kept pretending I was. I didn’t want to add one more layer of stress to our already chaotic lives.
When my appointment day finally came, I felt like I was walking into a courtroom. Every hallway in the hospital echoed with memories of chemo, amputation, and that sinking dread I’d lived with for months. I could practically smell the antiseptic that had surrounded me for so long. This time, though, I rolled my wheelchair toward my oncologist’s office, because my stump was too sore from a recent round of physical therapy to manage crutches over such a distance.
Dr. Armitage, my oncologist, greeted me with the same serious but kind expression. I didn’t even wait for small talk. “I found a note about a suspicious lesion in my right lung. Is it cancer? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
He sighed, looking genuinely apologetic. “I wanted to confirm the findings before alarming you. There’s a small spot on your lung, but we’re still determining whether it’s malignant.”
The word “malignant” hit me like an avalanche, but I forced myself to stay calm. At least I had the truth now. Another scan was scheduled for the following week, followed by a biopsy if necessary.
The next few days felt surreal. I tried to keep up with Liora’s routine, but every time she giggled or reached out her arms, I’d catch myself wondering if I’d be healthy enough to watch her grow up. My mind spiraled into dark places. To cope, I threw myself into physical therapy, determined to get the hang of my new prosthetic leg.
At the rehab center, I met a woman named Saoirse. She had lost her leg in a car accident years ago. She was calm and collected, the polar opposite of my inner chaos. She showed me little tricks on how to balance better, how to pivot without tipping over, and how to get past the phantom pains that haunted me at night. She also shared her story—she wasn’t just a trauma survivor; she was a single mother who’d raised her son after losing her husband to a stroke. Somehow, listening to her story gave me strength. She’d navigated more heartbreak than most people could imagine, yet here she was, encouraging me to fight for my future.
“Keep your heart open,” she told me one afternoon, while we practiced walking in a mirrored room. “People will surprise you with their kindness. And so will you, once you realize how strong you really are.”
I took that advice to heart.