Anushree Thakur

In part 4, the author reflects on her mother’s silent strength and unwavering love during her cancer journey, as she cared for her daughter while silently battling her own illness.

A mother is someone who carries the whole world in her heart, and my mother is no different. She loves me more than words can hold. During my hospital days, every time I had to get an injection, I would look into her eyes and see the pain she tried so hard to hide. She would smile gently and say, “Oh come on, it’s just a small injection,” but that small prick hurt her more than it ever hurt me.

While I was fighting for my life, she was quietly waging a war of her own. My mother wasn’t well either. She suffered from CKD — chronic kidney disease — but you would never hear her complain. She buried her pain deep within, always putting me and Papa first. Her body would ache, her legs swollen from the illness, and sometimes, she would faint in the kitchen. Yet the next moment, she would be up again, making food for us, ensuring our comfort, like nothing had happened.

She visited hospitals, managed my medicines, and took care of every little detail. She was our rock. I often asked her if I could help in any way, but she would smile and say, “No, no, everything is fine.” And every time she said that, a part of me would ache because I wanted to ease her burden, but I couldn’t. She never once spoke about her suffering, never let us see her weakness.

Her strength was not loud. It didn’t come with grand gestures or dramatic words. It came in silent sacrifices, quiet prayers, and love so fierce that even illness couldn’t shake it.

There are moments in life when you look around and realize how lucky you truly are.

Because I was born to parents who, even in pain, never let go of my hand.

Mumma and Papa were both fighting their own battles, quietly, silently.

And yet, their every breath was filled with love and care—for me.

I am strong because my parents are strong.

They stayed up in hospitals, skipped meals, and smiled through tears...

How do you say “thank you” to someone who

Thank you for being the most powerful woman I know.

There are times in life when the journey becomes too heavy, too painful. Times when walking even a single step feels impossible. And in those moments, you realize —

some people don’t just walk with you…

they stand for you, like a city stands tall through every storm.

Not a single day passed when I was truly alone.

Through every chemo session, every long hospital hour, every dark night that felt endless…

when sleep disappeared and only silent tears remained —

she stood behind me during every session,

watching me hide my pain while hiding hers too.

Even when her heart was breaking, she never let it show.

She smiled for me, so I could believe in better days.

he didn’t need words to give me courage.

Just being there was enough. His presence was like a shield,

protecting me while he silently carried his own pain.

They both were fighting their own battles…

but never once let me feel the weight of mine alone.

There were moments when I felt like the world was slipping away from me — moments where pain was louder than hope. And yet, in those moments, my brother would try to make me smile. He didn’t always know what to say next. He wasn’t sure how to cheer me up or whether his words would even help. But he tried. He made an effort. And that was more than enough.

Around me were doctors who didn’t just treat me like another patient — they treated me like someone who mattered. A nurse became my friend, someone who knew when to quietly sit beside me or when to gently distract me from my pain. Even strangers, people I had never met before, whispered prayers for me. Their kindness — unexpected, silent, powerful — became a shield I didn’t know I needed.

In those days, there were people who stayed up with me. They would message me at midnight, call me just to talk, just to make sure I wasn’t alone. Some sent flowers to my home, with sweet messages like “Get well soon.” Others sent silly videos to make me laugh, or simply wrote, “You’re still the same Anu for us.”

The same Anu — with the bright smile, the soft heart, the one who never hesitated to speak her mind. To them, I was still that little girl. And even when I forgot who I was becoming, they reminded me of who I’d always been.

There were days when my legs refused to move. Days when I couldn’t walk — not physically, not emotionally. But even then, my loved ones held me, walked with me, carried me forward with their faith and belief in me. They didn’t let go. They didn’t let me fall.

In your hardest moments, when everything feels like it’s crashing, just take a look around. You may not notice it at first, but someone is always watching over you, silently caring for you, praying for your healing. They might not always say the words — but their presence, their love, their constant efforts speak louder than anything else.

You are important. You matter. To more people than you even realize."

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Articles

The narrative highlights the profound strength and selflessness of a mother battling chronic kidney disease while supporting her child through a serious illness. Despite her own health struggles, she prioritizes her child's well-being, embodying silent resilience and unwavering love. The story also emphasizes the collective support from family, friends, and healthcare professionals, illustrating the power of community and compassion in overcoming adversity. It underscores the importance of recognizing and appreciating the quiet, steadfast presence of loved ones during challenging times.

In part 4, the author reflects on her mother’s silent strength and unwavering love during her cancer journey, as she cared for her daughter while silently battling her own illness. 

This Wasn’t the Plan: My Mother and Her Silence

In part 3 of “This Wasn’t the Plan,” a young woman reflects on her father’s strength during his illness and how, after her own diagnosis, their bond became her greatest source of courage.

That day, my hair began falling out in bunches.

I looked into the mirror and said to Mumma, “Mumma, I think I’m going bald.”

She smiled gently and said, “It’s okay, we’ll shave it off.”

But I wasn’t ready. “No,” I replied, “not yet. I’ll go bald when I decide to.”

Mumma and Papa didn’t say anything. They just looked at me with quiet understanding.

The next day, I noticed strands of hair scattered across the bed. I showed Mumma again. “See, it’s falling even more now.”

“Yes,” she said softly, “this will keep happening. We’ll shave it soon.”

Later, I walked into the washroom, wet my hair, and began applying shampoo. As I rinsed, clumps of hair slid off my scalp and stuck to my hands.

I stepped out and looked at myself in the mirror.
The left side of my head was almost bald.
A lump formed in my throat.

“Mumma,” I called out, trying to hold back tears, “look...”

My legs gave way, and I sat down heavily.
Maybe hair really does carry some strength, I thought. Maybe it holds a part of us we don’t even notice until it's gone.

When you go bald at just 19 years old, something inside you cracks a little. And this time… I let myself cry.

Sometimes, when I sat under the Sunday sun, my exposed scalp would sting a little.
It felt like even the sunlight could now see my pain—see that my hair was gone.

One day, I passed by the mirror and stopped.
It was the first time I truly saw myself — bald, bare, real.
I stared, trying to recognize this version of me.
I wondered; If I can’t see myself the same way anymore, will others ever look at me the same again?

Then one day, one of the nurses passed by and gently smiled.
With so much love, she said,
“Hi, Sunshine! How are you?”

And in that moment… a tiny spark lit up inside me again.

That day, a little boy called me his “Superhero.”
He had no hair either.

That’s when I realized something:
Yes, I had lost my hair,
But I had gained the courage to look in the mirror again — this time, for real.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but this time, they weren’t from pain. I wasn’t scared anymore.

I wasn’t hiding behind silence or pretending everything was okay.

The bald head that once made me shrink from mirrors… now, somehow, it looked different. It wasn’t a sign of what I’d lost. It was proof of what I’d faced.

Proof that I had walked through the fire — and survived.

Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t about hair or looks or being “normal.”

Maybe this was about something stronger — courage.

Yes, I had lost my hair. But not my fire. And I will never.

I closed my journal and took a deep breath. The hospital room was quiet except for the soft beeping of machines and the muffled voices outside. For once, that silence didn’t scare me. It felt like peace.

From the window, I could see the sun finally rising.

It was about a year ago when our world quietly cracked apart. That was the day we found out both of Papa’s kidneys had failed. I remember how everything seemed to pause—our hearts, our smiles, our plans. My brother, my mother, and I, we held on to each other, and most importantly, we promised to take care of Papa, no matter what.

Back then, I was healthy. I used to go with Papa to the hospital, holding his hand, making small jokes to make him smile. We were each other’s quiet strength. But time has its own strange ways. A year later, life played a cruel joke on me. The doctors told me I had cancer. And this time, it was Papa who fell apart.

Now, things have changed. We no longer go to the hospital together. Instead, we say goodbye at the door, going our separate ways—both patients now, but in different ways.

Papa had grown weaker, more tired, but he never showed it. Even while hooked up to the dialysis machine, not once did he let the pain show on his face. But I knew. I always knew. Deep inside, he was hurting.

Yet, every single time he left for dialysis, he never forgot to gently kiss my forehead. That small gesture held more love than a thousand words ever could.

And sometimes, when I wanted to give up, I thought of him. Papa wasn’t just my father anymore—he had become my reason to fight. Because I could see the fear he tried to hide in his eyes. And I wanted to be his courage.

Papa never let me forget who I really was.

Not just a girl. Not just a sister. Not just someone fighting cancer.

To him, I was his daughter — the same little girl who had just come into his world. The one who had only recently learned to walk in front of him, holding his finger for balance. And now, that same daughter was fighting the biggest battle of her life.

He didn’t teach me how to fear — he taught me how to fight.

Yes, I was fighting cancer. But beside me stood my hero, my guide, my strength — my Papa.

That’s why he’s the best father in the world.

He wasn’t sad because I had cancer. He was heartbroken because his daughter was hurting in front of him — and he couldn’t take that pain away.

But even then, he never let a single tear fall in front of me. Not once. All he said to me was:

“You will fight. And you will win.” That’s the kind of man my father is. That’s why…

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A young woman grapples with the emotional and physical challenges of losing her hair due to cancer treatment, finding strength and courage in her journey. Her father's battle with kidney failure parallels her own, highlighting their mutual resilience and support. Despite their individual struggles, they draw strength from each other, with her father serving as a source of inspiration and courage. The narrative underscores themes of familial love, personal growth, and the transformative power of facing adversity with bravery and hope.

This Wasn’t the Plan: I Lost My Hair, Not My Fire 

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.”

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.

Anushree Thakur

This Wasn’t the Plan: My Mother and Her Silence

This Wasn’t the Plan: I Lost My Hair, Not My Fire

This Wasn't the Plan: The Truth

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

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