I Gave Birth, Lost My Leg, and Fought Canc3r — All In Half A Year

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 c.ancer—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 c.ancer.

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. Something about a scan they never told me about. And now I don’t know if they’re hiding the truth… or if I’m about to face another fight.

I paced my small living room, balancing on my crutches, that ominous scan document clenched in my hand. My heart felt like it was pulsating in my throat. I wanted to call my doctor right away, but I hesitated—what if it was a mistake? The lines on the report were full of medical jargon, but one phrase stood out: suspicious lesion in the right lung. I didn’t remember anyone discussing my lungs. All my focus had been on my leg.

Finally, I dialed my oncologist’s office. They were closed for the day. My next appointment was scheduled for the following week, but I just couldn’t wait that long. My gut churned with the possibility: had the c.ancer spread?

The next few days were a blur of sleepless nights and attempts at normalcy.

Liora’s bright eyes and drooly grin were the only things keeping me grounded. I clutched her close when I fed her, brushed my nose against her soft cheek to steady my racing thoughts. Mum stepped in for late-night feedings when I collapsed from exhaustion, both physical and emotional. I knew she was worried, too. She kept asking if I was okay, and I kept pretending I was. I didn’t want to add one more layer of stress to our already chaotic lives.

When my appointment day finally came, I felt like I was walking into a courtroom. Every hallway in the hospital echoed with memories of chemo, amputation, and that sinking dread I’d lived with for months. I could practically smell the antiseptic that had surrounded me for so long. This time, though, I rolled my wheelchair toward my oncologist’s office, because my stump was too sore from a recent round of physical therapy to manage crutches over such a distance.

Dr. Armitage, my oncologist, greeted me with the same serious but kind expression. I didn’t even wait for small talk. “I found a note about a suspicious lesion in my right lung. Is it c.ancer? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

He sighed, looking genuinely apologetic. “I wanted to confirm the findings before alarming you. There’s a small spot on your lung, but we’re still determining whether it’s malignant.”

The word “malignant” hit me like an avalanche, but I forced myself to stay calm. At least I had the truth now. Another scan was scheduled for the following week, followed by a biopsy if necessary.

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