I was setting up a nursery six months ago and trying to decide whether to use cloth diapers or throwaway diapers. My life was about to turn upside down twice, and I had no idea it would.

It began with a dull pain in my thigh. I thought it might have something to do with being pregnant, like a twisted nerve or sciatica. Things got worse. I got through it because I wanted to enjoy every moment with my daughter Liora after she was born. I was crazy about that new baby smell and those little fingers. But the pain got worse over time. I was so weak in the morning that I couldn’t even rock her.

I finally got scanned. That’s how the doctor looked when he or she walked in. The one that says “this isn’t going to be simple.” It was a rare type of soft tissue cancer that spread quickly and was very deadly. I remember holding on to the edge of the hospital bed and thinking, “I just gave birth.” Canc3r takes up too much of my time.

Chemo started right away. My milk ran out. Most nights, I had to give Liora to my mom because I couldn’t stop throwing up. The growth then spread to my thigh bone. They told me that cutting off my limb would improve my chances. I didn’t cry when I signed the papers because I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.

I woke up from surgery with only one leg and a lot of guilt. I wasn’t able to carry my baby. When she learned to crawl, I couldn’t chase her. I bought a dress for her naming event but I couldn’t wear it.

I’m still here, though.

That was three weeks ago. I’ve begun exercise. Liora has new teeth. Also, I saw something I wasn’t meant to see in my medical file this morning. They didn’t tell me about a scan. Now I’m not sure if they’re telling the truth or if I’m about to get into another fight.

I walked back and forth in my small living room on my crutches, holding that scary scan document in my hand. It felt like my heart was beating fast in my throat. I thought about calling my doctor right away, but I didn’t because I was afraid of making a mistake. A lot of medical terms were used in the report, but one word stood out: “suspicious lesion in the right lung.” I don’t remember anyone talking about my lungs. My whole attention was on my leg.

Finally, I called the office of my doctor. They weren’t open today. I had another meeting the following week, but I just couldn’t wait that long. Something terrible was going through my mind: had the canc3r spread?

The next few days were a blur of trying to get back to normal and not being able to sleep. The only thing that kept me grounded were Liora’s bright eyes and drooly grin. When I fed her, I held her close and rubbed my nose against her soft cheek to calm my rushing thoughts. When I passed out from physical and mental exhaustion, my mom took over feeding me late at night. I knew that she was also scared. I pretended to be okay when she asked me over and over if I was okay. Our lives were already very stressful, and I didn’t want to add to it.

What a strange feeling it was to walk into my meeting on the day of the event. There was a lot of talk in the hospital hallways about chemo, surgery, and the fear I had been feeling for months. The cleanser that had been around me for so long was so strong I could smell it. This time, though, I pushed my wheelchair to my oncologist’s office because my stump was too sore from physical therapy to use crutches for such a long haul.

My oncologist, Dr. Armitage, met me with the same serious but kind look. I didn’t even wait for a chat. “I found a note about a lump in my right lung that seems odd.” Is it canc3r? “Why did no one tell me?”

He let out a sigh and looked truly sorry. “I wanted to make sure of the results before alarming you.” There’s a small spot on your lung, but we’re not sure if it’s canc3rous yet.

The word “malignant” hit me like a ton of bricks, but I tried to keep my cool. Now I knew the truth, at least. The next week was set aside for another scan, and if needed, a sample would follow.

The next few days were strange. As I tried to follow Liora’s routine, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was fit enough to see her grow up every time she laughed or reached out her arms. My thoughts went to very bad places. Physical therapy was the only way for me to deal with things. I was eager to learn how to use my new prosthetic leg.

It was there that I met a woman named Saoirse. She lost her leg in a car crash many years ago. She was cool and controlled, which was the exact opposite of how I felt inside. She taught me little tricks that helped me balance better, turn without falling over, and get rid of the pains that would come back at night. She also told her own story. She wasn’t just a trauma victim; she was also a single mom who raised her son after her husband died of a stroke. Hearing her story made me feel stronger in some way. She had been through more grief than most people could imagine, but she was still telling me to fight for my future.

“Keep your heart open,” she told me as we walked in a room with mirrors one afternoon. “Kindness will surprise you.” You will too, once you understand how strong you are.

I paid attention to what you said.

After a week, the day of my new scan came. We both kept quiet on the way to the hospital in my mom’s car. We had already thought about every possible outcome a dozen times. This was the last piece of the puzzle that would tell me if I needed more care or if I could just focus on getting better.

She was with my aunt, who had come to help out for a few days. I thought there were walls around me in the waiting room. It hurt my nose to smell the antiseptic, and the machines around me seemed louder than normal. “I’m not ready for another round of chemo,” I told my mom. “I’m not sure if my body can handle it.”

“No matter what happens, we’ll get through it together,” she whispered as she squeezed my hand.

I was finally called in. There was no time to waste on the scan because we had to wait so long for the results. Dr. Armitage came in with a folder in his hand. His face couldn’t be read. I tried to get ready for the worst.

He said, “Good news,” and I think I gasped for air. “The sore looks stable, and as far as we can tell, it’s not harmful.” We’ll keep an eye on it, but it doesn’t look like the canc3r has spread yet.

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry. I chose a mix of the two, with tears running down my face and a shaky grin that split my lips. It felt like my mom was never going to let go of my hug. Even though my whole body was shaking, I felt calm and at ease, like a warm blanket on a cold night.

I put all of my energy into getting stronger for myself and Liora over the next few weeks. It was hard to walk with my new prosthetic leg, but each step felt like taking back a part of my life. For light stretching, I got up early, which helped with the pain that wasn’t there. I felt better at night when I massaged the stump before bed. As I got better at moving around, I finally felt comfortable enough to stand and hold Liora in my arms, which was something I hadn’t done since before the surgery.

I realized I wasn’t just getting better physically as I trained more. I felt better inside. That dark cloud of constant worry began to lift. Yes, it was still possible that I would need more tests and scans. Living with the understanding that canc3r could always be there in the background was now part of my new life. I chose to move forward anyway.

As I slowly walked around the living room with Liora in my arms one morning, she laughed the sweetest laugh. It hit me when she patted my cheek with her tiny hand that she didn’t care about my scars, my fake limb, or the fact that I tired faster than usual. Her only wish was for me.

To mark this new beginning, we had a small get-together, or “victory party.” It was a vanilla cake with bright pink filling that my mom made. A few close friends from my childhood came by with balloons and flowers, and so did my physical therapist and Saoirse. A quiet toast was made from our mostly lemonade-filled glasses: to life, to strength, and to the simple things we often take for granted.

I put Liora to sleep that night and looked at her peaceful face. I thought about how far we’d come in just six months. The nursery walls used to have pictures of elephants and rainbows in pastel colors, but now they seemed to show the whole trip. Life had flipped me upside down more than once, but I was still here with my daughter in my arms, both physically and figuratively.

We don’t always get to pick the fights we face. Things get out of hand quickly, and we can’t press stop. We can choose how to react, though. Some days I just wanted to curl up in bed and cry until I couldn’t breathe. But every time I saw Liora’s face, it made me want to keep going.

This story should teach everyone that life can change quickly. No one can promise an easy way. One thing you can lose is your peace of mind, a leg, or your health. But you can still find a way to move forward. When family, a stranger who becomes a friend, or even the love in your child’s eyes can help you, it can make all the difference.

Don’t forget how powerful drive can be, and don’t let your problems define you. No one is as strong as they think they are. Know that you have the strength to keep going, even if you’re having a bad health scare, a loss, or any other big problem. You might be shocked at how much you can handle.

Thanks for reading my story. It touched my heart. Please send it to someone who needs some hope. If it made you feel a little stronger, please like it and share it with other people. Sometimes things don’t go as planned in life, but we can always find hope in each other and remember that love is stronger than any problem.