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.
