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.