I think we can all agree that 2020 was a year unlike any other—full of uncertainty, fear, and challenges none of us could have anticipated. For me, it became intensely personal when I heard words I never thought I’d hear again: “Your cancer is back.”
I was first diagnosed with cervical cancer in 2017, after a routine Pap smear revealed something was wrong. I underwent a radical hysterectomy and was given the all-clear—no further treatment was needed. Everything happened so quickly that I barely had time to process it. At the time, my daughter was 6 and my son was 4, so I kept it simple with them. I told them something was wrong in my belly, and I had to have surgery, but I spared them the frightening details.
For months after, I faithfully attended my check-ups—every three months, then every six. Everything came back normal each time. I was slowly moving on, focusing on living a healthy life. My doctors told me the chance of recurrence for my stage 1a2 cervical cancer was low, around 10%. I started to feel confident that it was truly behind me.
But 2020 had other plans. I began experiencing severe pain from several diverticulitis attacks, and the pain became so intense that I ended up in the hospital twice. Doctors recommended surgery to remove the affected portion of my colon. We had to wait until the infection settled so we could avoid a colostomy. All I could think was, “I just want to get this over with so I can get back to my life.” Little did I know, this surgery would change everything.
The surgery happened in August 2020, and initially, it went well. However, the surgeon had to remove my left ovary as well because it was stuck to my colon due to scar tissue. Two days later, the surgeon came into my room with news that would shatter my sense of security: “The pathologist found cancer on your ovary.” My mind raced. How could this be? Cervical cancer rarely spreads to the ovary. Could this be a new cancer? Maybe, with the ovary removed, I was safe.
I immediately contacted my oncologist. The initial pathology suggested ovarian cancer, but he felt something didn’t add up and sent the slides for a second opinion. The waiting was agonizing. Then, on the evening of August 27, 2020, I got the call: “There is a malignancy, and it appears to be a recurrence of cervical cancer. Your cancer is back.”
The following weeks were a whirlwind of appointments, scans, and uncertainty. Scans revealed lymph node involvement and cancer on the omentum. There was also a small nodule on my lung, too tiny to biopsy, leaving the possibility that my cancer had reached stage 4. In September, I began high-dose chemotherapy every three weeks. This time, my children needed to know the full truth.
By then, my daughter was 9 and my son 7. I explained to them that I had cancer, that I would need medicine to fight it, and that I was strong enough to get through it. They met the news with a bravery that left me speechless. They watched as my hair fell out, and I shaved my head. My son, in his usual humor, said, “Well, now we can put the windows down in the car, and your hair won’t get messed up!” They witnessed every difficult moment: the nausea, the exhaustion, the pain.
This was also the start of a school year unlike any other. Masks, social distancing, and a new learning plan challenged them, yet they persevered. I made sure to communicate with their teachers so that if they struggled, someone could support them. Despite everything, we celebrated milestones whenever we could—Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, dance recitals, and my son achieving his black belt in taekwondo. Their resilience was extraordinary.
Even after completing chemotherapy, the cancer was not gone. Tumors were smaller, but treatment shifted to a maintenance approach starting March 2021, aiming to prevent further growth or spread. Then, in late April, I experienced severe pain once more. A suspected gallbladder attack turned into a diagnosis of acute cholecystitis, complicated by my ongoing maintenance treatment, which could affect healing. Surgery had to be delayed, and in the meantime, antibiotics and a drain offered little relief. When surgery finally happened, complications followed, and I spent much of May and early June in pain, hospitalized three times.
Being away from home took an emotional toll. For the first time during treatment, I couldn’t be there for my kids in person. I was limited to FaceTime check-ins, unable to tuck them in or hear about their day firsthand. My son’s teacher called me, explaining that he was sharing how much he missed me, but that it wasn’t affecting his schoolwork. Knowing he had a safe place to express his feelings brought me immense comfort.
After my third hospitalization, I returned home unexpectedly and surprised them at the bus stop—a reunion I will never forget. The next day brought a gesture that left me in tears. My son handed me a pink folder and a bouquet of flowers. “This is from all the kids on my bus, Mom!” His incredible bus driver, Mrs. Hammonds, had organized the entire gift. Inside the folder were individual drawings and messages from first and second graders, accompanied by a handwritten card and sunflowers. The thoughtfulness and love behind this simple act touched me deeply. My son’s excitement made the gift even more special—it wasn’t just for me; it was for him too.
Bus drivers are often overlooked, but Mrs. Hammonds went above and beyond. She made my son and me feel valued, supported, and deeply cared for. For that, I am forever grateful.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know that my fight isn’t over. And I also know that facing it is so much easier with people like Mrs. Hammonds in our corner—people who lift our spirits, protect our children, and remind us that love and kindness still exist, even in the hardest of times.
