I was 25
when I first heard the word cancer
spoken about my own body.
Until that moment,
I believed my life would follow a quiet, ordinary path—
marriage,
children,
and a future that would unfold naturally.
But inside a quiet hospital room,
everything changed
in a single conversation.
The future I thought I had
simply disappeared.
｜When My Life Still Felt Ordinary
My cancer diagnosis was something I had never imagined.
At twenty-five, I thought my life would eventually follow a familiar path.
Marriage.
Children.
A family of my own someday.
It wasn’t a dream I thought about deeply.
It was simply something I assumed would happen naturally.
I had always struggled with irregular periods.
Sometimes it seemed as if I might not even ovulate each month.
As I approached thirty, I finally decided to seek medical help.
For several months, I visited a gynecologist.
I tried herbal medicine and hormone treatments, but nothing changed.
Eventually, my doctor recommended ovulation induction injections.
At the time, it felt like just another step in a routine treatment.
I had no idea it would lead to something far more serious.
｜The Night Everything Changed
A few weeks later, I went out for drinks with friends.
It was an ordinary evening—
laughter, conversation, the comfortable warmth of familiar company.
Then suddenly, I felt a sharp in my abdomen.
It was different from anything I had felt before.
I told my friends I needed to step away for a moment and walked to the restroom.
That was when everything changed.
Inside the stall, I saw something I could hardly believe.
There was an overwhelming amount of blood.
For a moment, it looked like a scene from a film—
the kind where a character experiences a miscarriage.
In reality, I was experiencing massive bleeding.
I was close to losing consciousness.
The floor was already covered in blood.
And yet, strangely, I felt calm.
Almost too calm.
I remember thinking,
If someone walks in and sees this… what will they think?
As my body grew weaker, I began wiping the blood from the floor.
Even now, I still don’t fully understand why.
Perhaps it was instinct.
Perhaps it was shock.
｜Calling for Help
When I didn’t return, one of my friends came to check on me.
She pushed open the restroom door.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
I briefly explained the situation.
Then I said one thing.
“Please call an ambulance.”
She understood immediately that this was serious.
“Okay. Just stay there,” she said before running out.
｜The Ambulance Ride
A few minutes later, I could faintly hear the sound of a siren.
The moment when my friend and the paramedics rushed into the restroom
is something I still remember clearly.
I was taken to the university hospital where I had been receiving gynecological treatment.
After some basic tests, the doctors gave me large postpartum pads and medication to stop the bleeding.
I was sent home that night.
｜Emergency Surgery
But the bleeding did not stop.
A few days later, another friend drove me back to the hospital.
This time, I was told I needed emergency surgery.
The procedure itself was relatively simple.
Doctors removed abnormal tissue that had grown excessively inside my uterus.
At the time, it seemed like a minor operation.
I assumed everything would soon return to normal.
｜The Appointment That Changed Everything
About ten days later, I returned to the hospital for a follow-up appointment.
By then, the bleeding had mostly stopped.
I expected the visit to be quick—
a brief checkup and then home.
But that day was different.
My name wasn’t called for a long time.
Hours passed.
By the time it was past noon, I was exhausted and nearly fainting.
Finally, my name was called.
｜The Word I Never Expected to Hear
Inside the consultation room, my doctor carefully explained my condition.
He used diagrams of the uterus and ovaries.
At first, I thought he was simply explaining the cause of the bleeding.
But then I noticed something.
He kept using a particular word.
Cancer.
At first, it didn’t feel real.
Then suddenly, the meaning became clear.
I asked him,
“Do you mean… I have cancer?”
He replied quietly.
“Yes.”
I asked again.
“Are you saying I have cancer?”
Once again, he answered,
“Yes.”
There was a long silence.
Then I asked a third time.
Only then did I finally understand what was happening.
And I collapsed into tears.
I felt an overwhelming sense of despair.
Anger surged inside me.
Why me?
And beneath that anger was something even deeper.
Fear.
The fear of death.
In that moment, it felt as if I had lost everything in my life.
That was the moment I received my cancer diagnosis.
My doctor soon had to leave for another surgery.
Before he left, he told me something.
“After the surgery today, please ask your parents to come.
We should discuss your treatment plan together.”
Then he quietly left the room.
｜Telling My Parents
Receiving a cancer diagnosis meant something else as well.
It meant that I had to tell my family.
At the time, I was living alone in Shibuya.
I hadn’t spoken to my parents for several months.
Now the first thing I would tell them was this:
Their daughter had cancer.
There was another painful possibility.
If surgery required removing my reproductive organs,
I might never be able to have children.
Which meant my parents might never hold a grandchild.
And in the worst case,
I might die before them.
In my personal philosophy, the greatest act of unfilial behavior was simple:
to die before your parents.
That thought made it almost impossible to make the phone call.
When my mother answered, she said immediately,
“What happened?”
My mother had always had a strong intuition.
All I could say was,
“I’m sorry.”
I kept repeating it through tears.
Finally, she said,
“If you keep apologizing, I won’t understand what happened.”
After several moments of silence, I managed to say the words.
“They said… it’s cancer.”
There was a long pause.
Then my mother said,
“I’m coming to the hospital.”
｜That Night
But I could see the tears flowing endlessly beneath them.
When she arrived, she was wearing sunglasses.
That night, she stayed with me.
Neither of us could eat.
We lay down, but I doubt either of us truly slept.
｜What Despair Taught Me About Life
But I have learned something about despair.
No matter how many nights you cannot sleep,
eventually sleep returns.
No matter how long you lose your appetite,
one day hunger quietly comes back.
Life, even in its darkest moments,
continues to move forward.
When everything feels unbearable,
sometimes the only thing we can do
is allow ourselves to be carried by time.
That quiet surrender—
that willingness to keep breathing through the darkness—
may be our family’s unspoken understanding of
Quality of Life.
And my search for that meaning
had only just begun.
Comments