In Six Months, I Gave Birth, Lost My Leg, and Battled Cancer.

Six months ago, I was busy setting up the nursery—torn between choosing cloth or disposable diapers—when life turned upside down on me, not once, but twice.

It all started with a dull ache in my thigh.

At first, I dismissed it as a strange pregnancy side effect—a pinched nerve, maybe—but soon the pain worsened.

I kept pushing through for my daughter, Liora, dreaming of savoring every moment with her: the baby scent, her tiny fingers curling around mine.

Still, the pain became so intense I could barely rock her in the early morning hours.

Eventually, I underwent a scan.

I’ll never forget the doctor’s expression—a mix of solemn regret and reluctant truth.

The diagnosis was a rare and aggressive soft tissue cancer that spread quickly.

I gripped the edge of the hospital bed and thought, “I just gave birth. Now cancer is stealing so much of my time.”

Chemotherapy started immediately.

My milk dried up, and most nights I had to hand Liora over to my mother because I was too sick with constant vomiting.

When the cancer invaded the bone in my thigh, the doctors insisted that amputating my leg was my best chance to fight.

I signed the consent forms without tears, determined not to invite pity.

I woke from surgery with one leg and a deep feeling of guilt.

I couldn’t hold my baby or chase after her when she started crawling.

I even bought a special dress for her naming ceremony—a dress I would never wear.

Yet, despite everything, I’m still here.

That was just three weeks ago.

I had started exercising again, and Liora’s new teeth brought unexpected joy.

But this morning, I found something in my medical record that made my heart race: a report mentioning a “suspicious lesion in the right lung.”

I’d never heard any concerns about my lungs—my focus had been entirely on my leg.

Holding the report with trembling hands, I paced my small room on crutches.

My mind raced with worry.

Should I call my doctor immediately?

I hesitated, paralyzed by fear and medical jargon.

I finally called the doctor’s office—only to find it closed for the day.

The thought of waiting until next week was unbearable—what if the cancer had spread?

The following days blurred with sleepless nights and anxious thoughts.

Amid the turmoil, Liora’s bright eyes and drooly smile anchored me.

Every time I fed her, held her close, pressed my nose against her soft cheek, I tried to calm my racing mind.

When exhaustion took over, my mother stepped in—though I knew she was scared too.

I kept reassuring her I was okay, reluctant to add to our already heavy burden.

Then came a crucial hospital appointment—a day filled with hushed talks of chemotherapy, surgery, and months of hidden fear.

The antiseptic smell was overpowering as I rolled down the halls in my wheelchair; my sore stump made crutches useless over long distances.

In Dr. Armitage’s quiet office, I breathed out: “I found a note about a nodule in my right lung. Is it cancer? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

His serious but gentle face broke my heart as he explained, “I waited for confirmation before alarming you. There’s a small spot on your lung, but we don’t yet know if it’s malignant.”

The weight of the word “malignant” hit hard, but I forced myself to stay calm.

Another scan was scheduled, and if needed, a biopsy.

In the days that followed, I tried to hold onto normalcy while caring for Liora.

But every laugh, every outstretched arm, awakened the fear I might not be there to watch her grow.

Physical therapy became my refuge; I was eager to master my new prosthetic leg.

During one session, I met Saoirse—a woman who lost her leg in a car accident years ago.

Calm, composed, and resilient, she taught me small techniques to balance, turn, and ease nighttime pains.

More importantly, she shared her story: a single mother who faced unimaginable loss but fought for a better future for her child.

“Keep your heart open,” she advised one afternoon as we walked through a room full of mirrors.

“Kindness will surprise you. And you’ll be surprised by your own strength.”

I listened, soaking in every word.

The day of my new scan arrived.

My mother and aunt accompanied me on a quiet car ride filled with unspoken fears.

In the waiting room, the sharp antiseptic scent and humming machines amplified my anxiety.

“I’m not ready for another round of chemo,” I whispered to my mother, afraid my body couldn’t take it.

“No matter what happens, we’ll get through this together,” she reassured, squeezing my hand.

When Dr. Armitage finally emerged with a folder in hand, I braced for the worst.

Then he said, “Good news—the spot on your lung is stable and, as far as we can tell, not harmful. We’ll keep monitoring, but it doesn’t look like the cancer has spread.”

In that moment, I felt a strange mix of relief and disbelief—a trembling smile and tears rolling down my cheeks as my mother hugged me tightly.

Though my body still trembled, I felt wrapped in the comfort of hope.

In the days that followed, I poured all my energy into rebuilding myself and my life with Liora.

Learning to walk with my prosthetic leg was hard, but every step was a reclaiming of my life.

Morning stretches eased lingering pain, and gentle massages on my stump brought comfort at night.

Gradually, I stood up and held Liora again—a victory that filled my heart with indescribable joy.

On a sunny morning, as I rocked Liora, her contagious laughter and soft touch on my cheek reminded me she loved me unconditionally—scars, prosthesis, and all.

To celebrate this new beginning, we had a small “victory party.”

My mother baked a vanilla cake with bright pink filling, and close friends, along with my physical therapist and Saoirse, gathered with balloons and flowers.

We raised our glasses of lemonade in a silent toast: to life, strength, and cherishing the simple moments we often take for granted.

That night, as I put Liora to bed and gazed at her peaceful face, I reflected on how far we’d come in just six months.

The nursery, once decorated with elephants and pastel rainbows, now stood as a testament to our incredible journey—one of pain, resilience, and love.

Life has turned me upside down more than once.

But here I am—holding my daughter, physically and emotionally, ready for whatever comes next.

Every time I look into Liora’s eyes, I remember: love and hope are stronger than any obstacle.

If this story touched your heart, please share it.
Let it be a reminder: even when life takes parts of you away, you still have the strength to rebuild—with hope, with love, with courage.