Two years ago, a routine checkup changed everything for my closest friend. The book she was planning, the degree, the long hours at work — all of it paused while she waited to hear how bad the news would be.
She hoped it was benign. It wasn’t. She hoped it was non-invasive. It wasn’t. Surgeries. Chemotherapy. Targeted therapy. I don’t know which was hardest for her — the pain, or losing control. Or pretending to be normal in front of everyone. Not knowing if she had a future never left her.
Then she found she was not alone — and neither was I.
At every hospital visit, there were others like her. Sometimes worse. They shared everything — the diagnosis, the treatment, how the world changed around them. When one of them left, the rest held on tighter.
She began taking back control the only way she could. She read the nutrition facts, ignored the taste, and paid attention to what her body needed. Slowly, the numbers started to look better.
She could steer something again, one meal at a time.
Her life is mostly back now, apart from the regular medication. We still talk to the people from the support group. When one of them does well, it means everything to the ones still fighting.
The success of each one of us means everything to those still fighting.