Six months ago, my biggest concern was choosing between cloth or disposable diapers for my baby. I was painting the nursery, folding onesies, and dreaming about midnight feedings — completely unaware that my world was about to collapse. Twice.
It started with a nagging ache in my thigh. I chalked it up to pregnancy — maybe a pinched nerve, or some late-stage sciatica. I tried to ignore it, focused on the excitement of meeting my daughter, Liora. I was enchanted by her tiny fingers, her scent, the way she curled into me. But as days passed, the pain grew unbearable. Some mornings, I could barely lift her.
A scan revealed the unthinkable — a rare, fast-moving soft tissue cancer. The doctor’s face told me everything before the words did. I remember gripping the hospital bed, the shock of hearing the diagnosis just weeks after giving birth. Cancer doesn’t care about timing.
Treatment began immediately. My breastmilk dried up. I spent nights vomiting and too weak to cradle my newborn. Liora often slept in my mother’s arms while I lay curled up, consumed by pain. Then came another blow — the tumor had spread to my thigh bone. Doctors said my best chance was to amputate.
When I signed the consent forms, I didn’t cry. I didn’t want pity. I wanted time.
After the surgery, I woke up with one leg and a tidal wave of guilt. I couldn’t hold my baby, much less run after her. I’d bought a dress for her naming ceremony — I never got to wear it.
Still, I’m here. That was just three weeks ago.
I’ve started physical therapy. Liora is teething. But this morning, everything tilted again. I accidentally saw a medical report I wasn’t meant to — a “suspicious lesion in the right lung.” My heart raced. No one had mentioned my lungs before. Was this cancer’s return?
I paced our tiny living room on crutches, the report trembling in my hand. I wanted to call my doctor immediately, but fear paralyzed me. The office was closed anyway. My next appointment was days away — too far for peace of mind.
Sleep escaped me. I clung to Liora’s giggles and gummy smile, her soft cheek pressed to mine. When I couldn’t stay awake, my mother fed me, worried in silence. I kept pretending everything was fine. Our household had enough anxiety.
The hospital halls smelled like bleach and old fear when I arrived for my appointment. My stump was too sore for crutches, so I wheeled myself in. My oncologist, Dr. Armitage, looked sympathetic but serious — always the same look. I skipped the small talk.
“There’s a note about a spot in my lung,” I said. “Is it cancer? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
He sighed. “I didn’t want to worry you until we were sure. Yes, there’s a lesion, but it may not be malignant.”
That word — malignant — sat heavy in the air. We scheduled another scan and possible biopsy.
Over the next week, I tried to keep my routine. I kissed Liora’s forehead, laughed when she tried to crawl, and went to physical therapy every day. That’s where I met Saoirse — a woman who’d lost her leg in a car accident. She was calm, funny, and full of wisdom. She taught me how to pivot on my prosthetic, to ease phantom pain, and most importantly, to believe I could find strength again.
“Keep your heart open,” she told me once. “Kindness will surprise you — and so will you.”
On the day of the scan, my mother drove me. Neither of us spoke much. The waiting room buzzed with machines and nerves. “I don’t think I can go through chemo again,” I whispered.
“You’re not alone,” she said, squeezing my hand.
Finally, Dr. Armitage returned. His face unreadable. He opened the folder and paused.
“Good news,” he said. “The lesion hasn’t changed. We don’t think it’s cancer.”
Relief washed over me in shaking sobs and quiet laughter. My mom held me like she did when I was little. I still had a fight ahead, but I had a chance.
In the following weeks, I focused everything on healing. My steps were shaky, but they were mine. Morning stretches helped with the pain. I massaged my stump before bed. And one day, I stood up on my new leg — and held Liora in my arms.
It wasn’t just a victory. It was a beginning.
