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.
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