A life is made up of moments.
Some bursting with joy. Others humdrum. And a tiny percentage—if you’re lucky—that leave you whispering to yourself through your sobs that the sun will rise again.
The moment captured here is the latter.
Trigger warnings? Yes. A true story? Also yes.
Here’s a little background before we begin:
Three miscarriages.
Then a perfect, healthy, chubby baby girl—Olive.
Then, at thirteen months old, Olive got cancer.
Next, an inconveniently-timed fifth pregnancy.
I was nearly twelve weeks along. We would announce to the world in a few days.
I woke up early that Thursday morning to bring Olive to the hospital for her fourth chemo cycle. She’d already made it through three, plus a terrifying all-day surgery—our hardest day yet. We only had five cycles left in this hell.
Our bags were packed for a three-day admission. Snacks, toys, clothes. We knew the drill.
Before we left the house, I went to the bathroom and saw blood. I already knew what it meant—I had lived it three times before.
Of course, I thought. Why wouldn’t this happen?
Cancer had thrown us into a spiral of bad news. It was hard not to expect more of it. Plus, my other pregnancies had all failed—all except for my perfect Olive.
She was our survivor. The only one strong enough to survive my own body. Now we knew she was strong enough to fight cancer too—strong enough to withstand an intense chemo regimen.
I left a message at my OB’s office, which wasn’t even open yet, and we drove to the hospital. Me, bleeding in the front seat. Olive, dozing in the back.
I wondered if she knew we were going back to the scary place—the one full of pain and fear, but also free toys and nurses who adored her. The place where the medicine only made her feel sicker. How confusing that must’ve been for a one-year-old.
Through the huge parking garage and the maze of hospital hallways and elevators, I steered her stroller, an overpacked diaper bag on my back—still bleeding.
Waiting for our oncology nurse, I felt my phone vibrate. A message: “You need to come in right away for an ultrasound.”
How could I? Not when I was here.
Olive had been given a nine percent chance of surviving cancer, and somehow things were going well. Now was not the time to skip an infusion.
Every moment counted. If we left now, she’d miss the start of cycle four. What if that delay gave the cancer cells just enough space to grow? What if it changed her course?
The oncology nurse entered our room. Saw my face. Asked why.
“Go,” she said. “Take care of yourself. Chemo can wait.”
But I sat frozen in that chair, bleeding, with Olive on my lap, waiting to be admitted. The oncologist entered our room—big brown eyes full of concern, pity. He told me it would be fine to delay chemo for a few days.
And still I couldn’t move. I was convinced that if her treatment slipped even an inch, if cancer had a single day’s head start, it would kill her—and it would be my fault. My body had already failed me, failed every child I had lost. What if this was the failure that killed the one who was still alive?
Finally, we went. And the OB confirmed what I already knew—the baby inside me had died.
But you know what? Olive lived. She started that cycle a few days late. She rang the bell three months later—too young to understand the cheers erupting all around her.
She survived cancer. She destroyed it.
And it destroyed me, even though she lived.
PTSD is a bitch—the way your body never quite feels safe again. You’re always waiting for the next piece of bad news—the next life-destroying moment.
For the other people cheering at her bellringing, the story was over. We’d won. That book was closed. They’ve moved on to new stories.
But I keep trying to open new books, and they all replay the same scenes. The “Olive has cancer” scene in the Emergency Room. The “it’s worse than we’d thought “ and “we can’t find her a surgeon” scenes. The “there’s no heartbeat” scene at the OB that day.
I was pregnant again by the time Olive rang the bell, and I did have another baby. She’s perfect. Healthy. No cancer.
Life is good. With my husband, stepson, and labradoodle, we’re a family of six. We sing and dance and laugh together. I love our life.
But my PTSD is a different monster altogether—one that never leaves and no one else can see. One that I’m responsible for banishing, and I continue to fail again and again.
I’ve known this feeling before—the weight no one can lift. I had treatment-resistant major depression for fifteen years. A long blur of doctors, pills, side effects. People sat with me, listened, offered hope. But there wasn’t much they could do. None of us could fix it. And I remember the shame of that—being surrounded by love and still not being able to get better. Trauma feels the same. People try so hard, but it sticks anyway.
We’re fortunate that Olive was too young to remember—that I carry the PTSD for her. That the nightmares are mine, not hers.
Sometimes I worry her body remembers even if her mind doesn’t. The needle pricks, the poison burning in her veins, the masks and gloves and bandages.
The worst part of all was holding her down—forcing her to endure pain in the name of healing. I was the one pinning her arms, whispering it was okay, while nurses hurt her. I wonder if on some level she remembers that betrayal, and if she’ll always connect it with me.
With every word, I feel more selfish for making this my story. It was Olive’s fight. She was the one who had organs removed, the one who bears the scars, the one who almost died. And here I am, making it about me. About my miscarriages, my grief, my shame. It feels wrong every time I write it down, like I’ve stolen her battle and claimed it for myself.
But the truth is, she rang the bell four years ago, and I still can’t stop bracing for the next disaster. My brain is rewired now. I imagine my husband dying in a car crash, my kids getting sick again, our family losing everything and ending up on the street. Nothing is impossible anymore.
Just like I asked that morning when I saw blood, Why wouldn’t it happen? So much of the impossible has already happened.
I write about it, trying to reframe our story—to hold a light up to all the good parts. But it backfires. It just keeps the wound open.
We cancer moms share the same lingering PTSD. The memories we can’t shake—that’s our bodies trying to protect us from harm, to protect our kids. But the shame lingers too.
They survived, but we’re still haunted.
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