Six months ago, I was decorating the nursery and deciding whether to choose cloth or disposable nappies. Little did I know that my whole life was about to be turned upside down – twice.
It all started with a dull pain in my hip. I thought it was pregnancy related – maybe a pinched nerve or sciatica. But the pain kept getting worse. After my daughter Liora was born, I continued to endure because I wanted to enjoy every moment with her. That newborn smell, those little fingers – I was ecstatic. But the pain became more and more acute. One morning I couldn’t even get up to rock her.
I eventually went in for a checkup. The doctor came in with a look on his face that said, ‘This isn’t going to be easy.’ It turned out to be a rare type of soft tissue tumour – aggressive and fast growing. I remember gripping the edge of the hospital bed tightly and thinking, ‘I just gave birth. I don’t have time for cancer.’
The chemotherapy started immediately. My milk disappeared. I had to give Liora to my mum almost every night because I couldn’t stop vomiting. Then the chubby got into my hip. They said amputation would give me a better chance. I signed the papers without tears – I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.
After the operation, I woke up without one leg and with a mountain of guilt. I couldn’t carry my daughter. I couldn’t run after her when she learned to crawl. Couldn’t wear the dress I bought for the naming ceremony.
But I’m still here.
It’s been three weeks. I’ve started rehab. Liora’s cutting her teeth. And this morning I found something in my medical records that I shouldn’t have been shown. Something about a scan I was never told about. And now I don’t know if the truth is being kept from me…or if I’m preparing for a new struggle.
I paced around my small living room, balancing on my soapbox, with that ominous scan document clutched in my hands. My heart felt like it was in my throat. I wanted to call my doctor right away, but hesitated – what if it was a mistake? The report was full of terms full of medical jargon, but one phrase caught my eye: a suspicious mass in my right lung. I didn’t remember anyone discussing my lungs. All eyes were on my leg.
Finally, I called my oncologist’s office. He was closed for the day. My next appointment was scheduled for the following week, but I couldn’t wait that long. My stomach was cramping with anxiety: had the cancer spread?
The next few days were a blur – sleepless nights and trying to get back to normal. I was calm only when Liora laughed or reached for me. I held her close when I fed her, putting my nose against her soft cheek to calm my thoughts. Mum took over night feedings when I couldn’t get up from exhaustion, both physical and emotional. I knew she was worried too. She kept trying to see if I was okay and I kept pretending I was fine. I didn’t want to add another layer of stress to our already so stressful lives.
When the day of my appointment came, I felt like I was going to court. Every echo in the hospital corridors reminded me of chemotherapy, amputation and the depressing fear I had endured over the months. I could practically smell the antiseptic that had surrounded me for so long. But this time, I pulled up to the oncologist’s office in a wheelchair because my stump was sore from my last round of physical therapy and I couldn’t walk with crutches.
Dr Armitage greeted me with the same serious but kind expression on his face. I didn’t waste time with idle chatter. ‘I found a note about a suspicious mass in my right lung. Is it cancer? Why wasn’t I told about it?
He sighed, looking genuinely apologetic. ‘I wanted to confirm these findings before alarming you. There’s a small spot on your lung, but we’re not sure yet if it’s malignant.’
The word ‘malignant’ hit me like an avalanche, but I allowed myself to remain calm. Now, though, I knew the truth. The next determination was scheduled for a week and then a biopsy if necessary.
The next few days seemed unreal. I tried to maintain my normal routine with Liora, but whenever she laughed or reached out to me, I wondered if I could be healthy enough to see her grow. My thoughts were taking me into dark places. To cope, I fully immersed myself in physical therapy, determined to learn how to use my new prosthesis.
At the rehabilitation centre, I met a woman named Saorsha. She had lost her leg in a car accident many years ago. She was calm and collected, the complete opposite of my inner chaos. She showed me some tricks on how to balance better, how to pivot without falling, and how to deal with the phantom pains that plagued me at night. She also shared her story – she was not just a survivor of trauma, but a single mother who raised her son after losing her husband to a stroke. Somehow, as I listened to her story, I felt empowered. She has experienced more grief than many can imagine, but here she is, supporting me in my struggle for the future.
‘Keep your heart open,’ she told me one day when we were practising walking in a mirrored room. ‘People will surprise you with their kindness. And you’ll surprise yourself, too, when you realise how strong you are.’
I took this advice to heart.
A week later, the day of my new scan came. My mum drove me to the hospital and we were both silent on the way. We had already gone over every possible option a dozen times over. This was the crucial moment – the final piece of the puzzle that would determine whether I needed more treatment or whether I could focus on rebuilding my body.
Liora was with my aunt, who had come in for a few days to help. In the waiting room, I could feel the walls narrowing. The smell of antiseptic stung my nose and the cars around me seemed louder than usual. I went back to my mum and said: ‘I’m not ready for more chemotherapy. I don’t know if my body can take another one.’
She squeezed my hand and whispered softly: ‘No matter what happens, we will overcome everything together.’
Finally, I was called in. The screening went quickly, but waiting for the results seemed like an eternity. Dr Armitage walked in with a folder. His facial expression was uninterpretable. I tried to prepare myself for the worst.
‘Good news,’ he said, and I thought I caught my breath. ‘The mass is stable, and it appears to be benign. We’ll continue to monitor it, but so far it doesn’t look like the cancer has spread.’
I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. I chose mixed feelings – tears streamed down my face and my lips stretched into a nervous smile. Mum hugged me so tightly that I felt as if she would never let go. My whole body trembled, but relief enveloped me like a warm cawdra on a cold night.
In the weeks that followed, I focused on regaining strength for both myself and Liora. My new prosthesis was challenging, but every step was like getting a part of my life back. I got up early for light stretches, which helped with the phantom pain. I found that massaging the kuksa before bed reduced nighttime discomfort, and as I became more confident, I finally felt strong enough to hold Liora in my arms while standing up – I hadn’t done so since the day of surgery.
The more I practised, the more I realised that I wasn’t just recovering physically. My spirit was becoming lighter. That dark cloud of constant anxiety began to dissipate. Yes, I may still have a few scans and exams to go through. But this was my new reality – living with the knowledge that the cancer could always come back, but keep moving forward.
One morning, as I walked gingerly through the living room with Liora in my arms, she laughed and touched my cheek with her little hand. And I realised that she didn’t care about my scars or my prosthesis, didn’t care that I got up faster than I used to. She wanted me.
We had a little party to celebrate this new chapter – a mini victory celebration. Mum made a vanilla cake with bright pink icing. A few close friends from childhood came with flowers and airy layers, and my physiotherapist and Saorsha also showed up. We raised our glasses (mostly with lemonade) to survival, to resilience, and to the simple blessings we often take for granted.
That night, as I tucked Liora into her cot, I looked at her peaceful face and thought about how far we had come in just six months. The walls of the nursery, once decorated with drawings of pastel elephants and rainbows, now epitomised our entire journey. Life has turned me over more than once, but I’m still here – standing, literally and figuratively, with my daughter in my arms.
Sometimes we can’t choose which battles to fight. We can’t press pause when things go wrong. But we can choose how to react to it. There were days when I wanted to hide under a rug and cry until I couldn’t breathe anymore. But every time I looked at Liora’s face, I found a reason to keep going.
If there’s one lesson I want everyone to learn from this story, it’s that life can change in an instant. No one is immune to problems. But even when you lose a part of yourself – whether it’s a leg, your health, or your peace of mind – you can still find a way forward. Sometimes that path is through the support of family, or a stranger who becomes a friend, or even the unfailing love in your child’s eyes.
Never underestimate the power of determination and don’t let circumstances define who you are. We are all more resilient than we think. If you face a health threat, loss, or any major hardship, know that you have the strength to keep going. You may surprise yourself with what you can overcome.
Thank you for reading my story. If it touched your heart, please share it with someone who may need a little hope. And if it made you believe in your own strength, please put a like and spread this story. Life can be unpredictable, but together we can remind each other that there is always a reason for hope and that love is stronger than any obstacle.
