Hello everyone. You know how they say “one in eight women”? Well, I am one of them.
My year of meeting cancer was 2016. For years, my life revolved around one word: my child. I am a mother of two, but my eldest son was born as a special child. He was born without one of his legs. I endured all of life’s hardships for him. I became a mother at 18—I was still a child myself, and I was raising a child with special needs. My entire life revolved around my son. What would happen to him? What kind of future awaited him? I lived with that constant worry. I waited in school corridors for years, hoping he would be accepted into regular classrooms like his peers.
In 2016, my son started high school. To be close to him, I began working at the school canteen. That was the same year cancer knocked on my door. I felt a small hardness in my breast. I showed it to my coworkers; they said, “Maybe you bumped into something, but don’t neglect it.” It was Ramadan, so I said, “I’ll go after the holiday,” and I postponed it.
The holiday passed, time passed… But the lump grew. My breast looked as if there were two breasts, and hard lumps appeared under my arm, accompanied by pain. I finally had to go. I made an appointment, went all the way to the hospital door, but a friend said, “There’s something we need to do together,” and I turned back again. I neglected it once more.
When the pain became unbearable, I had no choice. The doctor examined me and asked my age. When I said 38, he replied, “I want a biopsy immediately. We don’t usually order mammography at this age, but for you, we must.” It was a very difficult week—scans, blood tests. Deep down, I knew the result, but I still hoped, “Maybe it’s not.”
The results came. The doctor couldn’t bring himself to say the word “cancer.” He asked who I was with. I said, “What does that matter? Tell me.” “Whatever God wills, He wills beautifully.” I was referred to another doctor. More tests, scans, blood work, and then a PET scan. A week later, the result came: lung metastasis, stage 4 breast cancer.
I searched the internet; everything I read was terrifying. My biggest fear was losing my breast. At that moment, my doctor was waiting at the door and said urgently, “Forget the breast—we need to go to oncology immediately.” I had never even visited a family doctor before, and suddenly I was standing in front of the oncology clinic. Everyone was masked, everyone looked exhausted. I said, “Bismillah,” and stepped inside.
We started treatment. Because it was stage 4, chemotherapy had to come first. “It’s a difficult process, but I trust you,” my doctor said. And so I met chemotherapy. But I kept saying, “I will beat this without surgery, and I will not give up my breast.” I constantly talked to the tumor: “You’re just a guest. Don’t settle in—you’ll leave the way you came.”
My hair began to fall out with the first chemotherapy. I said, “Let’s shave it all.” I wasn’t upset about losing my hair; maybe I was a little sad that my husband cut it. Then I looked in the mirror and said, “God, how beautifully You created my skull,” and started complimenting myself.
Every time my doctor said my blood results were good, I would run out of the hospital, go to the nearest market, buy sweets and chocolates, and distribute them to every child I saw—whether I knew them or not. It was incredibly hard. I was constantly vomiting, I could barely stand, I felt like a zombie. Then the first three months ended. My hand was always checking for the lump.
One day, I couldn’t find it. I was confused. I went to my doctor and lied, saying, “I’m in a lot of pain.” He examined me, pulled his hand away, and told the secretary, “The lump is gone.” He was shocked. Turning to me, he said, “The lump has disappeared. I think your scans will look very good.” He was hopeful.
The PET scan showed significant shrinkage—complete response in the lungs. After another three months of chemotherapy, another PET scan showed complete response again. Thank God.
Illness is a guest; it comes and, by God’s permission, it goes. Let hope never leave our lives. This disease took many things from me, but it also gave me many things. It was a hard journey—one I hope never to relive—but it taught me to value every day, every hour, every moment, and to live accordingly.
Today is the day. Now is the moment. It is today.