How much of yourself can you lose and still be called alive?
Chemotherapy didn’t just attack my cancer—it erased the outline of who I was.
And yet, in that devastation, I found a reason to live.
After surgery, cancer cells were found beyond my uterus, including in my abdomen.
My final diagnosis: Stage 3B.
That was the moment my life shifted into a new battlefield—chemotherapy.
This was not just treatment.
This was war.
And the people I met there were not just patients.
They were my comrades—fighting for their lives, just like me.
｜Learning to Walk Again
My first mission after surgery was simple:
Walk to the bathroom.
It was less than 30 seconds away.
But to a body freshly cut open, it felt like an endless journey.
Drenched in cold sweat, fighting unbearable pain,
it took me an eternity just to sit up.
With the help of a nurse, it took nearly 30 minutes to get there.
Still, I walked one full circle around the bathroom before returning.
Because I was told:
“If you can walk, you must walk.”
That was survival.
｜Chemotherapy — The Invisible Violence
I received only two bags of chemotherapy drugs.
Just two.
But those two nearly destroyed me.
Within 30 minutes, the nausea began.
By night, I was completely immobilized.
I couldn’t eat.
I couldn’t stand.
I couldn’t even go to the bathroom.
I simply lay there, staring at the ceiling.
I wasn’t living.
I was just… existing.
｜The Night I Became a “Cancer Patient”
One week after I was discharged, my hair began to fall.
That morning, I noticed more strands on my pillow than usual.
That night, everything changed.
In the shower, my hair came out in clumps—
until the floor was completely covered.
I gathered it into a bowl and handed it to my mother.
She was already a cancer survivor.
She looked at it and said calmly,
“Wow… that’s a lot.”
Then she gently ran her hand through my hair,
loosening what remained.
That was the moment I understood:
I had become a “cancer patient.”
｜The People I Fought Beside
The ward was filled with women of all ages,
all stages, all futures.
Some would survive.
Some would not.
I was the youngest.
In extreme situations, people compare themselves to others.
“I have children—I can’t die.”
“You’re still young.”
It may sound cruel.
But I learned something there:
It was human.
｜The Second Round — Beyond Imagination
The second round of chemotherapy was hell.
The vomiting worsened.
I lost 7 kilograms in a single week.
My body collapsed.
My mind drifted.
And yet—
A patient asked her family to bring me ice cream.
Another, already discharged, came back to deliver it herself.
They were far sicker than I was.
Skin and bones.
Dragging their bodies, step by step.
Looking back now,
that may have been the last time they walked on their own.
｜What the Portraits Revealed
At every wake, every funeral, I was shocked.
The women I saw in their portraits—
They had hair.
Makeup.
Full faces.
They were beautiful.
Nothing like the figures I knew in the hospital.
Each time, I felt rage.
Cancer had stolen their true selves.
I collapsed in grief again and again.
｜What Death Taught Me
And then, something shifted.
When I looked at their faces in death,
I saw no anger.
No despair.
Only peace.
And I understood:
They had lived—fully, completely, to the very end.
｜ I Became the One Who Tells Their Stories
I survived.
And that meant something.
I decided I would carry their voices.
What they felt.
How they lived.
What they loved.
As one of their comrades,
I became the last messenger.
｜ Saying Goodbye to 30 Comrades
In the end, I said goodbye to nearly 30 women.
Each loss stopped time.
Each one shattered me.
I never got used to it.
Not once.
But now, I feel something different.
More than grief—
Gratitude.
For having met them at all.
｜Cherry Blossom Season
“Do you think we’ll see the cherry blossoms next year?”
That question still echoes in my heart.
Every spring, I remember them.
Their courage.
Their beauty.
Their will to live.
Cherry blossom season has become my ritual.
I return to that time.
I remember.
I give thanks.
For life.
For them.
｜What Quality of Life Means to Me
Through this experience, I learned three truths:
1. Living is not about what you can do, but what you can feel.
Even in stillness, life exists.
2. We do not live alone.
Connection is what carries us through the unbearable.
3. Life is not measured in length, but in depth.
They lived deeply.
And they still live within me.
I survived.
But that was not the end.
The real question began there.
—How do I live again?
To be continued in Chapter 7.
