Six months ago, my biggest concern was choosing between cloth and disposable diapers. I was decorating a nursery, folding baby clothes, and daydreaming about the moment I’d finally hold my daughter. I had no idea that within half a year, my world would be turned upside down in ways I couldn’t have imagined. In that short span, I became a mother, lost a leg, and began a battle for my health.
It started with what felt like a minor ache in my thigh—nothing alarming. I chalked it up to pregnancy discomfort and stayed focused on preparing for my daughter’s arrival. After Liora was born, I hoped the pain would go away. But instead, it worsened. I tried to ignore it, determined to be present for every moment: her tiny fingers, her soft coos, the warmth of her asleep on my chest. But the discomfort grew until I couldn’t even rock her to sleep without flinching.
When I finally went in for medical imaging, I wasn’t prepared for the words that followed. I was diagnosed with a rare, fast-growing cancer. I had just welcomed a new life into the world—and now I was fighting to save my own.
Chemotherapy began immediately. The toll it took was intense. I could no longer nurse Liora. I leaned heavily on my mom during those weeks, especially during the worst moments of treatment. Then came even more devastating news: the tumor had reached my femur. Doctors said amputation gave me the best shot at recovery. I signed the consent forms with a steady hand. Not because I wasn’t scared—but because I had to keep going.
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