This Wasn't the Plan: The Truth

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 She had become more withdrawn, more distant.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.”

The words hit her like a storm. 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.

Chemo and Courage

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.

That little gesture...

It gave me hope.

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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