I think we can all agree that 2020 was a year like no other. On top of a global pandemic, I received news I had hoped I would never hear: “Your cancer is back.” My journey with cervical cancer began in 2017, after a routine Pap smear revealed something was wrong. I underwent a radical hysterectomy and, thankfully, was given the all-clear—no further treatment required. It all happened so quickly that I barely had time to process it. At that time, my daughter was 6 and my son was 4, so I didn’t tell them the full truth. I simply said something was wrong in my belly and I needed surgery.
The months that followed were filled with regular check-ups—every three months, then every six. Each time, the results were clear. I was moving on, striving to live a healthy life. My doctors had told me that the chance of recurrence for stage 1a2 cervical cancer was low—around 10%—so I began to feel confident that it was behind me.
Then came 2020. I started having severe diverticulitis attacks, and the pain was unbearable. I ended up in the hospital twice, and the doctors recommended surgery to remove the affected part of my colon. We had to wait until I healed enough to reduce the risk of a colostomy. All I could think was, “I just want this surgery over with so I can get back to living my life.” Little did I know, this surgery would change the course of my life forever.
In August 2020, I went into surgery. Everything seemed to go well, though the surgeon had to remove my left ovary because it was stuck to my colon with scar tissue. Two days later, the surgeon came into my room. “The pathologist found cancer on your ovary,” he said. My mind raced. How could this be possible? Cervical cancer rarely spreads to the ovary. Was this a second cancer? But the ovary was out now—maybe I was fine.
I immediately contacted my oncologist, who reviewed the pathology report. It suggested a type of ovarian cancer, but he wasn’t convinced. He sent the slides for a second opinion. A week of uncertainty followed. Then, on the evening of August 27, 2020, he called: “There is a malignancy, and it appears to be a recurrence of cervical cancer. Your cancer is back.”
The next few weeks were a blur of appointments and scans to determine the extent of the cancer. Results showed lymph node involvement, cancer on my omentum, and a small lung nodule—too tiny to biopsy. At that point, I was at least stage 3, possibly stage 4 if the lung was involved. By September, I began high-dose chemotherapy every three weeks. I knew my hair would fall out, that I would be sick—and this time, I had to tell my kids the truth.
They were 9 and 7. I explained that I had cancer and needed medicine to fight it, and I reassured them that I was strong and would be okay. Their grace and maturity amazed me. They watched as my hair fell out, as I shaved my head, and as I endured the misery of chemo. My son, with his signature humor, said, “Well, now we can put the windows down in the car and your hair won’t get messed up!” They witnessed me on the worst days, unable to eat or get out of bed, yet they stayed strong.
Meanwhile, they were navigating a new school year under unprecedented circumstances—masks, social distancing, and disrupted routines—while everything at home was in turmoil. I did my best to talk openly with them and to keep life as normal as possible. We celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas, birthdays, and achievements. My daughter kept up with dance, and my son with taekwondo, eventually earning his black belt. They were little superheroes in how they handled it all.
I completed my treatment, but the cancer wasn’t gone. My tumors had shrunk, but the fight continued. I started maintenance treatment in March 2021 to slow the growth and spread of the disease. Then, in late April, new pain brought me to my GP, who suspected gallbladder issues. I was diagnosed with acute cholecystitis—an infection with no stones. My oncologist referred me to a surgeon, but surgery wasn’t straightforward. My maintenance medication could cause healing complications and bleeding, so it had to be postponed. Antibiotics and a drain offered no relief, and the surgery happened earlier than planned, followed by complications.
May and early June were brutal. I spent most days in pain and had three hospitalizations, two hours from home where my family couldn’t visit. During treatment, I had always been home, able to hug my kids, help with homework, and kiss them goodnight. Now, I was only available through FaceTime. My son, though, had found a safe space to talk. His teacher called to tell me he shared how much he missed me—but reassured me it wasn’t affecting his behavior or schoolwork. I was grateful he had a place to express himself.
After my third hospitalization, I returned home mid-day and surprised them at the bus stop. The joy on their faces was unforgettable. But the next day, my son handed me a pink folder and flowers. “This is from all the kids on my bus, Mom!” Mrs. Hammonds, his amazing bus driver, had organized an entire collection of drawings, cards, and sunflowers from first and second graders. Each page was filled with heartfelt words, vibrant pictures, and hope. I sobbed as I went through every single one. This beautiful gesture made me—and my son—feel incredibly special.
Bus drivers often go unrecognized, but Mrs. Hammonds went above and beyond to make our family feel seen, loved, and supported. I will forever be grateful for her thoughtfulness and kindness.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know I still have a lot of fight left in me. And I know that facing it is so much easier when surrounded by people who care—for my children, for me, and for the journey ahead.
