Twice in One Year

I still struggle to find the right words for what the past year has been. Surreal is the closest one I can think of because none of this feels real, even as I’m living it.

Yes, I have been diagnosed with cancer again. Yes, within one year. Two different cancers.

How unlucky can one person be?

Earlier this year, around March and April, my life was turned upside down with an ovarian cancer diagnosis. I went through a full hysterectomy, the removal of a cancerous cyst, and chemotherapy. It was brutal, physically and emotionally, but I did what I had to do. I showed up. I survived it.

After months of treatments and recovery, I finally gave myself permission to heal. Not just medically, but emotionally. I took time off and made the long journey from Nice, France to Singapore to be with my family. It was a long flight, but my heart needed it.

That month in Singapore felt like medicine. I ate what my heart desired. I laughed. I rested. I lived. For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt like myself again. Being surrounded by my loved ones, feeling their presence, their warmth — that was true healing for me.

When I returned home, I felt hopeful. More than that, I felt strong. My energy was back. The chemotherapy hadn’t destroyed me the way I feared it would. My hair grew back — beautifully, even. People told me I would “flourish” after this, and surprisingly, they were right. Even my hairline looked better. Small blessings after months of suffering.

As part of my follow-up care, my doctor prescribed a PET scan once I returned. Honestly, I walked into that scan feeling like a superwoman. I had faith. I felt ready for anything. In my mind, this scan was just another checkbox. Something that would come back clear so I could continue living my life at full force.

But the universe had other plans.

I was told that the scan showed a hypermetabolic nodule, a 14mm growth on my left lower lung. My first reaction wasn’t fear. It was denial. I wanted to believe it was nothing, that there was a reasonable explanation. When I saw my doctor, he began the conversation with the word “Unfortunately…”

In that moment, my body was present, but my mind wasn’t. I felt like I had left the room. The doctor spoke mostly to my husband, explaining the findings, but I floated somewhere else entirely. There were moments when I truly wasn’t there.

Anger flooded me.

Why again? What did I do wrong? Was I too happy? Did living life fully cause this? Did I eat the wrong things? I wasn’t even drinking.

I questioned everything — including joy itself.

The next step was a biopsy to analyze the nodule and confirm whether it was cancerous. I wanted it out of my body immediately. The thought of carrying another unknown inside me was unbearable.

What broke me the most wasn’t just the diagnosis — it was my husband. Watching him go through this again, for the second time, shattered my heart. I felt like he deserved better than this. A wife who wouldn’t bring him pain, fear, and hospital rooms.

But we made vows. Through sickness and health.

And once again, he stood beside me. Calm, loving, unwavering. He held my hand and reminded me: “We are in this together. All the way.” I am endlessly grateful to have him as my soulmate.

Like many patients do, I started researching. What if it’s lung cancer? What are the symptoms? What should I prepare myself for mentally? Physically, I felt powerless, as if prevention no longer mattered. All I could do was read, worry, and wait.

The biopsy came next.

I was awake for the entire procedure, which was honestly terrifying. The doctor was gentle, kind, and straightforward. Thanks to the numbing medication, I didn’t feel much during the procedure itself. But being conscious and having to breathe in and out on command so the doctor could access the nodule was deeply unsettling.

The entire procedure took less than twenty minutes, though it felt much longer. The pain that followed was manageable, but unexpected. Within half an hour, I needed pain relief. The sensation was unfamiliar — a deep, bruising ache, as if I had been struck repeatedly along my left ribs. Everything felt swollen and tender.

Then came the part I hate the most: waiting.

Waiting for the biopsy results is its own kind of torture. You hope for inflammation. For anything other than cancer. You research endlessly, even though you know it won’t change the outcome. All you can do is wait.

When the day arrived, I prepared myself as best I could. I told myself to be ready for the worst.

And then the doctor said the words: “Unfortunately, it is cancer cells.”

My heart stopped. Tears fell instantly. My husband wiped them away and whispered, “We’ve got this. We can do this.”

I asked myself silently, Can I? Can I endure another surgery, another recovery, another round of treatments? Why am I so unlucky?

I’ve since met with a thoracic surgeon, and surgery is planned for 9th January 2026 to remove the nodule. I know another post will be about managing expectations because right now, everything feels fragile. Ruined, even.

I can’t fully celebrate my upcoming birthday. I can’t welcome the new year without fear. This diagnosis looms over every plan, every thought.

But for now, I am here. Writing. Breathing. Feeling — even when it hurts.

And that, I suppose, is where this chapter begins.