It started as just another regular check — a habit I’d formed, like brushing my teeth. I’d learned to listen to my body. But this time, my fingers paused. A lump. Small, hard, undeniable. Nestled in my right armpit like a silent warning. My heart dropped.
I told myself not to panic. But deep down, I already knew. I’d been here before. I’d lived through the fear, the scans, the waiting. I’d walked the tightrope of hope and dread. And now, here I was again. Tests confirmed it: the cancer was back – stage 3.
I remember staring at the ceiling that night, my mind spiralling. What does this mean? What have I done wrong? Have I not fought hard enough? The word “recurrence” feels cruel. It’s not just the return of a tumour — it’s the return of every memory, every fear, every ounce of exhaustion you’ve already spent once before.
The surgical team moved fast. I had options: surgery first, then wait and keep checking. But waiting felt unbearable. At that time, I challenged my Oncology team – I wanted scans, my head was telling me that this was a real problem. Waiting and checking were not options.
I lay in the hospital bed, just before surgery, gripped by a strange mix of peace and terror. I wasn’t ready for this to be my story again — but I was ready to fight. Again.
The surgery went ahead, and I spent a couple of weeks in hospital until I was able to be discharged along with my new friend – my drain. This new friend had become attached to me and, unfortunately, had to come everywhere with me until my body was used to the new “normal“.
Every scar tells a story — not just of survival, but of the pain, fear, and quiet courage that came before the healing. The scar under my arm is small, but the impact is deep. Living with scars after surgery means carrying visible reminders of battles fought beneath the skin, often in silence. Sometimes they ache, not physically, but emotionally — unexpected pangs when you catch your reflection or feel a hand brush over them. But over time, those marks can become symbols of resilience. They show where the body was broken and rebuilt. They are not flaws, but proof that you endured, you adapted, and you are still here.
I still have long-lasting effects on my right arm. To tell you the truth, the numb ache and slight weakness pale into insignificance when compared to the consequences.
My best friend, Norman, was so pleased to see me when I returned home from surgery. We could continue our walks – albeit a little slower!!
He is more than a friend — he’s my constant companion, my quiet strength when the world feels loud. He never judges, never leaves, just stays by my side with a calm presence that speaks louder than words. In the hardest moments, it’s his steady comfort that reminds me I’m not alone.
I never stop checking now. Not out of fear, but out of fierce love — for life, for those I hold dear, and for this body that has already endured so much and still refuses to give in.
