Six months ago, I was decorating the nursery and deciding which diapers to choose – cloth or disposable. I had no idea that my life was about to be turned upside down – twice.
It all started with a dull pain in my hip. I thought it was related to pregnancy – maybe a pinched nerve or sciatica. But the pain kept getting worse. After my daughter Liora was born, I kept enduring it because I wanted to enjoy every moment with her. That newborn scent, those tiny fingers – I was in love. But the pain kept intensifying. One morning, I couldn’t even get up to rock her.
I eventually went for an examination. The doctor came in with an expression on his face that said, “This is not going to be easy.” It turned out to be a rare type of soft tissue tumor – 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.”
Chemotherapy started immediately. My milk disappeared. I had to give Liora to my mom almost every night because I couldn’t stop vomiting. Then the tumor spread to my hip. They said amputation would give me a better chance. I signed the papers without tears – I didn’t want anyone to pity me.
After the surgery, I woke up without one leg and with a mountain of guilt. I couldn’t carry my daughter. I couldn’t chase after her when she learned to crawl. I couldn’t wear the dress I bought for her naming ceremony.
But I am still here.
Three weeks have passed. I began rehabilitation. Liora is cutting teeth. And this morning, I found something in my medical record that they shouldn’t have shown me. Something about a scan I was never told about. And now I don’t know if they’re hiding the truth from me… or if I’m preparing for a new battle.
I walked through my little living room, balancing on my prosthesis, holding the ominous scan report tightly in my hands. My heart was in my throat. I wanted to call my doctor right away, but hesitated – what if it was a mistake? The report had dates filled with medical jargon, but one phrase stood out: “suspicious formation in the right lung.” I didn’t remember anyone talking about my lungs. All the focus had been on my leg.
Finally, I called my oncologist’s office. It was closed for the day. My next appointment was scheduled for next week, but I couldn’t wait that long. My stomach was in knots: has the cancer spread?
The next few days felt like a fog – sleepless nights and attempts to return to normal life. I only felt at peace when Liora laughed or reached out to me. I kept her close while nursing, pressing my nose to her soft cheek to calm my racing thoughts. Mom took over the night feedings when I couldn’t get out of bed from exhaustion, both physical and emotional. I knew she was worried too. She kept asking if I was okay, but I kept pretending everything was fine. I didn’t want to add another layer of stress to our already tense life.
When the day of my appointment arrived, I felt like I was going to court. Every echo in the hospital corridors reminded me of chemotherapy, amputation, and the oppressive fear I had experienced over the past months. I could almost smell the antiseptic that had surrounded me for so long. But this time, I arrived at the oncologist’s office in a wheelchair because my stump hurt after the last physical therapy session, and I couldn’t walk with crutches.
Dr. Armitage greeted me with the same serious but kind expression. I didn’t waste time with small talk. “I found a record of a suspicious formation in my right lung. Is it cancer? Why wasn’t I told about this?”
He sighed, looking genuinely apologetic. “I wanted to confirm the data before alarming you. There is a small spot on your lung, but we’re not sure if it’s malignant yet.”
The word “malignant” hit me like an avalanche, but I allowed myself to stay calm. At least now I knew the truth. The next scan was scheduled for a week later, and then a biopsy if necessary.
The next few days felt unreal. I tried to maintain a normal routine with Liora, but every time she laughed or reached for me, I wondered if I would be healthy enough to see her grow up. My thoughts took me to dark places. To cope, I threw myself into physical therapy and decided to learn to use my new prosthesis.
At the rehabilitation center, I met a woman named Saoirse. 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 a few tricks on how to balance better, how to turn without falling, and how to deal with phantom pain that tortured me at night. She also shared her story – she was not just a survivor of trauma but also a single mother who raised a son after losing her husband to a stroke. Somehow, listening to her, I felt strength. She had endured more sorrow than many could imagine, but here she was, supporting me in my fight for the future.
“Keep your heart open,” she told me one day as we practiced walking in the mirrored room. “People will surprise you with their kindness. And you’ll surprise yourself when you realize how strong you are.”
I took that advice to heart.
A week later, the day of my new scan arrived. Mom drove me to the hospital, and we were both silent on the way there. We had already gone over all the possible scenarios a dozen times. This was the decisive moment – the last piece of the puzzle that would determine if I needed more treatment or could focus on healing my body.
Liora was with my aunt, who had come to help for a few days. In the waiting room, I felt the walls closing in. The smell of antiseptic stung my nose, and the machines around me seemed louder than usual. I turned back to my mom and said, “I’m not ready for more chemotherapy. I don’t know if my body can take another round.”
She squeezed my hand and whispered, “Whatever happens, we will get through it together.”
Finally, I was called in. The screening was quick, but waiting for the results felt like an eternity. Dr. Armitage entered with a folder. His face was unreadable. I tried to prepare myself for the worst.
“Good news,” he said, and I thought I might have stopped breathing. “The formation is stable, and it seems to be benign. We’ll continue monitoring, but it doesn’t appear that cancer has spread.”
I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. I chose a mixed feeling – tears streamed down my face while my lips stretched into a nervous smile. Mom hugged me so tightly, I felt like she’d never let go. My whole body shook, but relief wrapped around me like a warm blanket on a cold night.
In the following weeks, I focused on rebuilding my strength, both for myself and for Liora. My new prosthesis was complex, but each step felt like reclaiming a part of my life. I got up early for gentle stretches, which helped ease the phantom pain. I found that massaging my stump before bed reduced nighttime discomfort, and as I became more confident, I finally felt strong enough to hold Liora in my arms while standing – something I hadn’t done since the day of the surgery.
The more I practiced, the more I realized that I wasn’t just recovering physically. My spirit was lightening. That dark cloud of constant anxiety started to dissipate. Yes, I would likely have more scans and exams ahead. But this was my new reality – living with the understanding that cancer could return at any time, but continuing to move forward.
One morning, as I carefully walked through the living room with Liora in my arms, she laughed and touched my cheek with her tiny hand. And I realized that she didn’t care about my scars or my prosthesis, or that I stand up faster than I used to. She needed me.
We threw a little celebration to mark this new chapter – a mini victory party. Mom baked a vanilla cake with bright pink frosting. A few close childhood friends came with flowers and balloons, as well as my physiotherapist and Saoirse. We raised our glasses (mostly filled with lemonade) to survival, resilience, and the simple blessings we often take for granted.
That evening, while putting Liora to bed, I looked at her peaceful face and thought about how far we’d come in just six months. The nursery walls, once decorated with pastel elephants and rainbows, now represented our entire journey. Life had turned me upside down more than once, but I am still here – standing, both literally and figuratively, with my daughter in my arms.
Sometimes we can’t choose the battles we have to face. We can’t hit pause when things go wrong. But we can choose how we respond to it. There were days when I wanted to hide under a blanket and cry until I couldn’t breathe. But every time I looked at Liora’s face, I found a reason to keep going.
If there is one lesson I want everyone to take from this story, it’s that life can change in an instant. No one is immune to challenges. But even when you lose part of yourself – whether it’s a leg, your health, or peace of mind – you can still find a way forward. Sometimes it’s through the support of family, or a stranger who becomes a friend, or even through the unwavering love in your child’s eyes.
Never underestimate the power of determination, and never let circumstances define who you are. We are all stronger than we think. If you’re facing health threats, losses, or any major struggles, know that you have the strength to carry on. You might surprise yourself with what you can overcome.
Thank you for reading my story. If it touched your heart, please share it with someone who might need a bit of hope. If it made you believe in your own strength, like it and spread this story. Life may be unpredictable, but together we can remind each other that there’s always a reason to hope and that love is stronger than any obstacle.
