Ajay Shanker Mishra

In part 2 of “This Wasn't the Plan,” a young woman recalls her stage 4 blood cancer diagnosis and how chemotherapy revealed unexpected reserves of strength. 

When she returned from the hospital, she was no longer the same. She didn’t laugh like before. She rarely spoke. Most of her time was spent lying quietly on her bed, staring at the ceiling as if searching for something lost.

Her mother noticed everything. She would gently touch her forehead and sit beside her, placing a cold cloth to ease her fever. She didn’t say much either. No one did.

Even though the illness was supposedly mild, something had changed in her. She had become more withdrawn, more distant. Her mother would say, “Even today, we don’t know what really happened to her.”

But deep inside, the girl had questions. Sometimes she felt like she had seen something she wasn’t supposed to. Sometimes, she wondered if Mummy and Papa were hiding something from her. Maybe that’s why they never told her the full truth.

The silence in the house was loud. Everyone acted like nothing had changed, but she knew the truth was different. She could feel it.

One evening, while pretending to be asleep, she overheard her parents talking in whispers.

“She doesn’t remember… maybe it’s better that way,” her mother said softly.

Her heart skipped a beat. What didn’t she remember?

A few days later, she saw Mummy crying. She was sitting on the floor with her face hidden in her hands, and Papa sat beside her, trying to calm her down. Their voices were low, but one sentence made it through the crack in the door.

When she asked Mummy later, “Why were you crying?”

Mummy looked away, took a deep breath, and said,

“You were very sick… you had stage 4 blood cancer.”

She couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t even known. Was that why everything felt so heavy, so strange? Was that why Mummy never smiled the same way anymore?

A part of her childhood disappeared with those words.

And for the first time, the silence made sense.

At 19, life was full of dreams. College, friendship, and the excitement of becoming something in life — everything was just beginning. Everything seemed perfect.

But then that one day changed everything.

After that day, everything felt different.

Before this illness, dreams were about life. But after it, even the idea of a normal day seemed far away.

Even after everything happened, she still couldn’t fully understand it.

But one thing was clear — she had to be strong now.

Because maybe… this very pain would become a small light of hope in her life.

The first time I went in for chemotherapy, fear sat heavily in my heart. I didn’t know what to expect. Everything felt foreign — the machines, the nurses, even the calm expressions of the doctors. When they inserted the cannula into my hand, I could feel my body stiffen with anxiety. The hospital had its own strange smell, one that I would later come to associate with silent strength and survival.

Chemotherapy was not just a medical treatment — it was a test of my inner strength. At that moment, the only thing I truly had was faith. Faith in myself.

I didn’t know how many sessions I would need, or how long the journey would last. But one thing was certain — I wasn’t going to stop. I kept moving forward, even when the side effects came like uninvited guests: nausea, fatigue and the hardest part — losing my hair.

Not everyone finds the strength to face something like this. Many patients lose hope. But I chose to accept the challenge.

This illness cannot be defeated by medicines alone. A strong mind is just as necessary. And I am proud — proud that I not only took chemo, but that I faced it with courage.

Even now, when I look back at those days, I feel a deep sense of power rise within me. Those moments may have been hard, but they made me who I am.

People often say that giving up is easy. But I learned that giving up, in reality, is one of the hardest things to do — especially when the eyes of your loved ones are filled with hope, silently praying that you’ll fight back.

During my worst days, I saw that look in their eyes. The fear they tried to hide. The prayers they whispered. The unspoken love that surrounded me. It gave me strength, even when my body felt too weak to move.

I saw many patients around me break down. Some lost the will to fight. Some cried in silence. But I made a decision: I will not give up. No matter how painful, no matter how dark, I chose to stay strong.

Even when tears rolled down my cheeks, I kept whispering to myself:

“Don’t give up. You have to live. For them. For yourself.”

That’s when I started finding courage in places I never knew existed.

I began to prepare myself mentally. Every time the pain returned, I would sit silently and tell myself:

“Just one more needle. Just one more prick. Just one more wave of pain. After that, everything will be okay.”

And sometimes, that was enough. When the nurse held my hand tightly, when my brother silently stood by my side, that’s when I realized: I’m not alone.

There were days I couldn’t eat. Nothing tasted good. But then, my mother brought my favorite food. I couldn’t eat much, but the warmth in that moment stayed with me — more than any pain or medicine.

People think chemo only weakens the body. But no — if you look closely, chemo also teaches you strength. It makes you realize who truly stands beside you. And in their quiet strength, you learn how to live again.

Sometimes, courage doesn’t come from within.

Sometimes, it comes from the way someone holds your hand, or brings you food, or simply sits beside you without saying a word.

It was in these small moments that I found reasons to live.

Even in pain, life kept whispering: “You’re not done yet.”

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Articles

The narrative explores the profound impact of a cancer diagnosis on a young woman's life, highlighting her journey through chemotherapy and the emotional challenges she faces. Despite the initial shock and fear, she discovers inner strength and resilience, drawing courage from her loved ones' support. The experience transforms her perspective, teaching her the importance of mental fortitude and the power of small, supportive gestures. Ultimately, the story underscores the dual nature of chemotherapy as both a physical and emotional trial, emphasizing the significance of hope and perseverance.

In part 2 of “This Wasn't the Plan,” a young woman recalls her stage 4 blood cancer diagnosis and how chemotherapy revealed unexpected reserves of strength.

This Wasn't the Plan: The Truth 

At age 19, stage 4 blood cancer changed everything, leading to a journey of resilience and quiet hope: © stock.adobe.com.

My name is Anushree. I’m 19 years old, and I have stage 4 blood cancer.

Sometimes even I can’t believe I just wrote that, but I’m used to it now.

Yet, this book is not about a victory, or a survivor, or an inspiration. It’s about being human — about crying in hospital bathrooms, about losing my hair and part of myself, about watching my father go through dialysis, while my mother quietly fights her own kidney disease. It’s about pain that doesn’t always show up in lab reports.

But it’s also about love. About how even in the darkest room, a little hope can still glow like a diya in the wind. About how I’m still breathing, still feeling, still trying to leave something behind, just in case my body can’t carry me for much longer.

If you’re reading this, maybe you’re hurting too, or maybe you’re caring for someone who is. This book is my heart — laid bare page by page.

This isn’t the end. It’s just the part where we start telling the truth.

I still remember it vividly. I was just a 19-year-old girl, in my first year of medical school — full of dreams, ambition, and excitement. Everything seemed perfect. I could clearly envision my future. I was finally a medical student, something I had worked so hard for. The joy of securing admission into my dream course filled me with pride. I was determined to give it my all, studying day and night with relentless dedication.

But then, one day, everything began to change.

It started with a strange pain throughout my whole body. At first, I brushed it off — maybe it was just stress, I told myself. After all, being a medical student came with its own pressure, right?

Little did I know that this minor discomfort was the beginning of something much bigger — something that would shift the course of my life forever.

As days passed, the pain didn’t go away. In fact, it worsened. I started experiencing frequent headaches and body aches. My energy began to drain. No matter how much I rested, I never felt better. My digestion weakened. My body started showing signs that something wasn’t right.

I began missing classes. I couldn’t keep up with my routine. Slowly, I started losing grip over everything I had built so passionately. Fear crept in. I found myself waking up in the middle of the night, anxious, confused, not knowing what was happening to me.

One such night, around 2 AM, I woke up in a panic. My heart was racing, my body felt weak, and I couldn’t understand what was going on. I felt lost and helpless.

The next day, I visited a doctor. He assured me, “You’ll be fine.” A Complete Blood Count (CBC) test was done. I waited anxiously. 

When the results came, my world stood still — my blood count was only 7.9. That one number changed everything.

I sent my reports to my dad, and he told me to come back home.

Two days later, my flight from Bhubaneswar to Mumbai, meant to be a short 12-day break, turned out to be something else entirely.

As I stepped back into my home, I could feel it in my bones — my life was about to change in ways I had never imagined.

Even today, I vividly remember the day I was admitted to the hospital. I was already on an IV drip. My parents came to see me twice, and both times they looked tense. They tried to act normal, but I could sense that something was off.

After lunch, I was taken to receive a dose. There, I saw a senior doctor. I couldn’t understand what was happening. Soon, I was informed I would be taken for surgery. That’s when my mother broke down and couldn’t say a word. I was wheeled away on a stretcher.

Just before being taken to the operation theatre (OT), I remember being terrified. Anesthesia was administered, and everything faded.

When I regained consciousness, the first face I saw was my mother’s. Despite her worry, she smiled at me with a brave face so I wouldn’t be scared. That image has stayed with me.

From that point, every day felt like an endless series of tests — blood work, scans, and constant monitoring. Simple things like sipping chai or having a piece of toast felt like a luxury.

I used to think about when I would go back to my university life. One day, my father came to my bedside and told me that the doctor had advised six months of complete rest. That made me anxious. I suspected it had something to do with the bone marrow results, but no one had told me for sure.

The bone marrow biopsy itself was terrifying. I remember being in so much pain and feeling like I might not make it. As I was taken into the OT, I felt like I was slipping away. The anesthesia hit, and then everything went blank.

When I came to, I saw my mother again. She smiled through her tears, trying to give me strength.

My time in the hospital became routine. Tests, meals, and chats with the nurses and doctors from the window. That little bit of conversation brought joy to my otherwise grim days.

Finally, after 13 days, I was discharged. The doctors and nurses were emotional. I had become a familiar and beloved presence. Even they had grown attached to our small moments of laughter.

Sometimes, I still can’t believe it all happened.

Anushree, a 19-year-old medical student, shares her journey through stage 4 blood cancer, highlighting the emotional and physical challenges she faces. Her story is not about triumph but about the raw human experience of dealing with illness, family struggles, and the unexpected shifts in life. Despite the pain and uncertainty, she finds solace in love and hope. Her narrative captures the abrupt transition from a promising medical career to confronting a life-altering diagnosis, emphasizing the importance of truth and vulnerability in the face of adversity.

At age 19, I was a medical student with big dreams — until stage 4 blood cancer changed everything, leading to a journey of resilience and quiet hope.

Ajay Shanker Mishra

This Wasn't the Plan: The Truth

This Wasn't the Plan: When the World Shifted After Cancer

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