📍 Edited from my blog post written December 2020 | Cape Town, South Africa

Firstly, before I get into anything else, you are probably wondering if I ate that green jelly and (thicker than usual) custard.

Alas, I did not lol — unfortunately I passed it on to my neighbour…

And it’s not because of the lesson I had taught my oldest a few days earlier during homeschooling about the origins of gelatin in jelly.

DID YOU KNOW that the gelatin protein comes from animals’ skin and bones being boiled?

Lol, did you actually “know” know that?! I definitely didn’t until I learned it.
And its in SO many things… especially those super yummy jelly and gummy sweets.

Anyways… let’s get down to part 2 of the previous blog post:
12. When the Body Whispers, Pay Attention, When It Shouts, Listen!

The Stillness

There’s a strange stillness that settles into your bones after spending a few days in a hospital ward.

It’s not silence exactly—there are always the sounds: footsteps in the hallway, the clink of metal trays, the soft coughs of patients, and the ever-persistent hum of fluorescent lighting. But it’s a kind of inner stillness. The kind that comes when your body has no choice but to stop.

That’s where I am.
It’s 7am on Day 8.

I stir from under my blanket, having somehow slept through the nurses’ 4am coffee run and morning rounds.

There’s no pain today. No tightness in my chest. No aching in my arm.

Just this heavy peace.
A thick, calm knowing that I’m where I’m supposed to be—even if I don’t yet know why.
Acceptance.

The Waiting

Two days ago, on the 9th of December, they performed a CT-guided biopsy on the mass in my chest cavity.

They needed to see what this mass in my chest really was. I’d had the chest pain for weeks before coming in. Thought it was anxiety. Thought maybe I was just tired. But now we were looking for answers to something bigger.

The results were supposed to come through quickly. They marked them as urgent. But this is a government hospital.

Things move on God’s time here.

I’ve surrendered to it.

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 I colour. I journal. I read. I talk to God. I rest.

Really rest.

It’s the first time in years that I slow down long enough to notice what rest feels like in my body.

But beneath the calm, there are whispers.
Not fear exactly—more like a quiet conversation I keep having with myself.

What if this isn’t something small? What if it’s something big? Will I have enough strength to do this? To hold myself through it?

I remind myself that strength doesn’t mean pretending I’m not afraid.
It means loving myself through the fear.

And even though I miss being home, and miss my children so much it hurts, I know I need to be here.

I’m used to seeing my family and friends every few weeks (living far away in a rural suburb does that) but my immediate family is my everything and it’s them that I really want to go home for.

I was hoping I could hold them

After days of aching, I finally convince their father to bring my girls to the hospital.

I envisioned a picnic on the grass — a soft blanket, sunshine, their little hands in mine. I wanted it to be light, something that wouldn’t scare them. Even a game of Uno.

But he says it’s not appropriate.

Video calls were just not enough though.
It’s awkward. Strained. Still blessed.

My oldest tries to be strong, to be mature, but I see the way her eyes don’t leave my face.

My youngest is confused, not used to being away from me for so long.

I long to hug them and cuddle. I don’t cry in front of them when they cry for me. But the truth is, I’ve already cried behind closed curtains at 2am watching videos of them, listening to voice notes on repeat.

They are a huge part of why I fight.
But the other part — maybe the biggest part — is me.

I fight for me.
Because I deserve to live.
To rest.
To heal.
To rise.

Day 9 of my Hospital Stay

It’s late morning when the stand-in doctor appears. He’s kind but a little hesitant.

He tells me he has the biopsy results. And then he asks me to step into a side room.

My heart doesn’t race. I already know.
I’ve known since before the biopsy.
I’ve felt it in my spirit. Not panic. Just certainty.

The room is quiet, tucked away from the ward.

He sits across from me, holding the file in his hand like it weighs more than paper ever should.

He starts slowly.
His eyes are soft.

Then, carefully, he says the words:
“You have Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma. It’s aggressive.”

The Moment

I smile at him with my sunny disposition.
Not because I’m happy. But because I’ve made peace with this moment long before it arrived.

I nod and say, “I thought so.”

He looks up, surprised.
“You did?”
“I did,” I say. “And it’s okay.”

I can see it unsettles him. His whole body is tense, like he’s bracing himself for my reaction. For tears or questions or anger.

But I’m calm. Peaceful.
“I’ve already surrendered,” I tell him. “I feel in my heart that I’m going to be ok. I trust that God’s got me.”

I knew that this was just another obstacle in my journey and I needed to keep my head up and keep the faith.

The doctor told me then that it was treatable but he was still so sad and apologetic, so I asked him why.

I felt like I needed to console him!

He shrugs, trying to find the right words.
“Because it’s cancer,” he says finally.

I pause, holding his gaze. “Doctor,” I say gently, “it’s just a word. It’s not a sentence. It doesn’t have power over me.”

Something shifts in the room. His eyes well up. He exhales. And then he says, “You’ve just changed my entire perspective.”

I told him my mindset is one of positivity and I’m embracing the journey — it is what it is. The more you push and fight against it, the harder the journey is.

I walk out of that room carrying a diagnosis.
But I’m not carrying fear.

The Blur

Everything starts to move quickly after that.

Saturday, 12 December – I’m discharged. The word “lymphoma” echoes softly in my head, but it doesn’t roar. It doesn’t scream. It doesn’t drown me.

I go home to my girls. Slip back into our rhythm as if nothing happened.

We go to a play park. We eat lunch. We nap.
I take a deep breath and think, this is what I fought to come home for.

Thursday, 17 December – I’m referred to Oncology.

Tuesday, 22 December – They extract a bone marrow sample from my hip bone — but it felt like my lower spine — to check if the cancer has spread and determine the staging. This was an intense experience.

Wednesday, 23 December – I start my first round of chemotherapy. Two days before Christmas

The results from the marrow come back clear.
My blood work is clear.
It’s Stage 2 — caught early.
The mass is isolated in my chest.

They found it before it had a chance to take more from me.

And I thank God for the pain in my arm. I thank Him for the whispers in my chest.

Because if I hadn’t paid attention, we wouldn’t have found it in time.

The New Lines I’m Drawing

If you take one thing from this chapter of my story, let it be this:

Do not let a “word” define your worth.

Cancer.

Anxiety.

Depression.

Trauma.

Whatever name the world gives your pain — it’s just a word.

You are so much more than any diagnosis.

You are light.

You are resilience.

You are here for a reason.

There is no comparison in our stories.

You don’t need to heal like me.
You don’t need to rise like me.
You just need to rise as you — in your own way, in your own time.

You have the power.
You always have.

And our story… it’s not over yet.
With God by our side, we are just getting started.

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