I felt it twice, and I kept feeling it until I realized I needed to see a doctor about it. At the doctor’s office, I was told it was a muscle cramp; I was given painkillers and sent on my way. However, the pain came back when I ran out of painkillers on vacation with my sister; therefore, I made an appointment at a clinic in Istanbul.

 When Faiza Al Kaabi – The owner of the story – went to her appointment, she described her pain to the doctor, who ordered some tests, and when the test results finally came back, her sister found out before her, and she could see in her face” Bad news. “

Faiza said, “I had lymphoma around the lungs, and the cancer had spread to my underarm and abdomen.

I was shocked–I couldn’t believe it. I had cancer. I used to participate in events to support cancer patients, and now they tell me I am a cancer patient. How did this happen? I had no bad habits that could cause cancer: I was active, constantly moving around. Why did this happen? Was it a test from Allah? Was it an affliction, and if so, for how long? Was it a punishment–what am I being punished for? What is my future going to be like? Will even I have a lot, to begin with? I had too many questions running around, colliding in my head. I was torn; one part of me thought it made sense that I had cancer. The pain was there (I could feel it); the test results were there, confirming the diagnosis. And yet the other part of me couldn’t make sense of it, and that part screamed, “This is me we are talking about! How can I have cancer!” But I did. I had cancer.

My head was a tangled web of thoughts, and the world was moving too fast. I needed to decide if I wanted treatment, and if so, I needed to start treatment immediately. I needed to decide where will I get the treatment. Will I return to Doha, get treated there, or stay in a foreign country? I needed to make too many decisions, and I needed to make them quickly. I couldn’t decide since I was still confused and in disbelief. Eventually, I pulled myself together and decided to get my treatment abroad with the same doctor who diagnosed me.

As my first chemo session approached, more and more people called me to tell me that I was strong and would get through it, and after a while, I started to believe it. I began to accept that I had cancer. By that point, some of the initial shock dissipated, but not all of it.

Everything changed a few days before Eid Al-Adha when I started chemo. The chemo shocked my body: I was constantly tired and vomiting, I was irritable and anxious, and I couldn’t eat without getting nauseous. I reached a point where I wished my mother would not visit me so that she would not bring me food that would make me sick. It felt as if I became a new person that didn’t know what she wanted or how to express it; I felt like I was in the middle of a storm, alone with a stranger that is supposed to be me, and my task was to get to know the stranger. I was in such agony that I prayed for patience to bear all this pain and the trials to come the day before Eid.

The first day of Eid came, and Faiza felt even worse. Her family looked as if they had been at a funeral. Everyone had a frown on their face. They couldn’t smile or be happy, and they couldn’t even wish each other a happy Eid. Eid seemed like a burden on her family, reminding them that while the rest of the world was enjoying this “happy” day, something was eating her from the inside out.

A week after my first chemo session was my birthday. The chemo was wreaking havoc inside my body, and I felt every little change the chemo was inducing. I felt the pain of every dying cancer cell and was exhausted. The pain was too much. I reached a point where I started to question why I was doing this. Why am I putting myself through this torture? Why am I bearing all this agony?

My reason became apparent when I saw the unshed tears in my family’s eyes and how hard they tried to make the treatment more accessible and make me happy. On my birthday, my sisters rented a yacht. On the yacht, they showed me how much they loved me; they prepared a birthday dinner with cakes and gifts and even wrote my name with a laser on Bosphorus Bridge. I was over the moon. I forgot about the pain and was too happy to think about it or feel it. In that blissful moment, I thought, “If I die after today, I will be content.” That day gave me an intense dose of happiness that kept me going.

My family treated me with love. They showed me how much they loved me through the little things. The smell of detergent bothered me, so they told me to leave the room whenever they wanted to use it. I saw how worried they were about me. My sister couldn’t sleep well and would wake me up and ask me if I was alright. My mother couldn’t eat because I couldn’t eat. She would cook me food daily, even though it was hard for her to get up and stand due to a leg problem. It soon became apparent that I feared leaving my family behind rather than fearing death.

When it was time for one of my sisters to return to Doha for her kids, I could sense her heart’s dilemma. She left a part of her heart with me, while the other part belonged to her children. We were all having dinner one last time before my sister went back to Doha when I broke the news to them. “I haven’t had enough of you all yet,” I said. “There are so many more experiences that I want to have with you. I want to grow old with you. I will bear it all for you; I will endure the pain, bear the nausea and the fatigue. I will come back for you, sister.” Everyone broke down in tears. I realized I was one of the lucky ones. I had so many people that loved me and cared for me. The people who weren’t physically with me called me every day without getting bored to check up on me.

It took me a while, but I accepted my illness. I was in a situation I couldn’t get out of. What was I going to do about it? My doctor told me that my chances of survival were high. Nonetheless, some people don’t get better and die. He said, “It’s still a disease, treat it like you would anything else, and leave the medicine for me and focus on yourself.” And that I did.

After my third chemo, I learned to live with my cancer. I had a chair in the bathroom for when I got dizzy and bags for when I needed to vomit. I knew that lemon made me nauseous, so I steered clear of it. I had one of my sisters sneak ice cream into my hospital room behind the nurse’s back since I wasn’t allowed to have any. I had my favorite books sent over from Doha to read them whenever I felt like it. I let my body adjust to the new reality of cancer and chemotherapy.

Even with my family’s unwavering support, I had moments of weakness. I was left alone in an isolated room for six chemo sessions, with no sound except for machines beeping here and there. I was starved of human interaction. I missed being with people and socializing with them. The loneliness of the treatment room, combined with the inconsistent illness that the chemo brought on, pushed me to a point where I couldn’t make the most straightforward decisions, so I surrendered my autonomy to those I trusted most, my family. During my moments of weakness, I felt insufferable pain that made me want to quit, but my sister wouldn’t let me. She would ask me to bear it for her if not for myself, which made me angry. I didn’t want to take this torture for anyone. My sister would leave me to my thoughts after my outbursts. I would think about what she said and remember why I started treatment in the first place: I started it for them.

Six chemotherapy sessions in total. It sounded like a lot and like the sixth session was so far away, out of my reach. Regardless, I did it: I finished the first course of chemotherapy, and now, it was time for the doctor to check and see if chemotherapy had any effect on my cancer.

I had no expectations for the test results. I was neither hopeful nor was I pessimistic. I didn’t want to have hope to get disappointed, and I didn’t want to think negatively. Whatever the test results were, I would have accepted them. I was in a place of tranquility. If the doctor told me the treatment didn’t work and there was nothing else he could do, I would be upset, but I accepted death. I didn’t take death as the end. Instead, I took it from a religious perspective. “If you yearn to meet Allah, Allah will also yearn to meet you.” That phrase gave me comfort and courage to face my death. My family, of course, wouldn’t hear any of this, but it was a possibility that we all needed to acknowledge. If the doctor told me I had a little while left, I would go back to Doha and gather all my loved ones to see them one last time before I departed this universe and entered another. If he told me my end was near, I would stay in this country until my time was up.

“Fayzah, I have some news for you,” said the doctor.

“What?” I asked.

“Good news,” the doctor answered. I expected him to say that my body was responding well to treatment or other things doctors say to their patients to motivate them. What he said next left me speechless and baffled.

“The test results are out: they show a healthy body.”

Everyone calls me a hero for beating cancer, but I do not feel like one. I had moments of weakness, for no one is strong regarding illness. Sometimes we can’t sleep due to a toothache. Imagine what it would be like to feel the ache of cancer and chemo. It has been a year since I got cancer. I don’t know if it will ever come back or when. Maybe I got cancer to change how I see things, to tell me that I needed to live my life better. However, I know I am stronger now, thanks to cancer.

My life was a dirty lens before cancer–blurry and unclear–and cancer helped me clean it and see the world. I stopped letting the small things bother me, for life is more significant than whatever little thing is trying to upset you. Cancer taught me to choose myself and those who love me over work because I am easily replaceable at work, whereas I am irreplaceable for my loved ones. I realized that losing my hair is nothing compared to losing my soul and that I should do whatever it takes to preserve it, for a single hair doesn’t determine my happiness, and my soul is what matters.

I am grateful that I belong to a community where strangers will reach out and ask about you, and other strangers will start a charity project in your name just because they heard you were sick. Nonetheless, I hope that one day people will stop treating cancer as if it were a disgrace: we, cancer patients and survivors, did not choose or ask for it.

I can say to those who were just diagnosed, “I prevailed, and so can you.” There isn’t a single disease on earth without a cure. Humans haven’t discovered the cures for “incurable” diseases. Listen to your doctor and only your doctor for medical advice, and focus on yourself.

I’m glad I put up with the treatment a year later because many things are worth the pain and living for. I’m so happy that I got cancer and went through this experience. Given the choice, I would not return to the way things were because I now see things.

I wouldn’t wish that someone would go through what I went through, but if someone has cancer, take it with courage. We can do this together. We are part of a supportive community that wants to be there for everyone. I am sharing my story as my way to be there for you.

On June 14^th, 2013, I felt a tightness followed by a pain in my chest. It wasn’t sore like I had after a futile effort fighting off a bench press sitting on my sternum. It felt like some uncomfortable imp pushing against my heart to leave my chest, and my heart responded by beating back in a morbidly familiar way. I went to the hospital for an EKG, and years of learning vectors in Physics made me an expert in reading, or at least I remember saying as much. They then put an IV cannula on my hand, the first of many that year, and injected contrast for the upcoming CT scan.

Rana Shahryar talked about his experience with cancer, saying: “I was eventually diagnosed with lymphoma. There was a medical who was doing a rotation with the team overseeing me, and she told me that the T cell lymphoma was indeed cancer but that most at my age with the disease survive. My most immediate thought was: “Neat, I’ll live through this and milk this experience for sympathy for my entire life,” and I laughed. She and my parents joined in the discussions after a lot of hesitation and a bit of concern. She would visit every evening, and we would talk about what I was interested in school, what I did for fun, and what I planned on doing after high school… but that’s when it occurred to me that I might not see my friends for quite some time. I asked my father if I could go to school after this, and he said that treatment would most likely take a few months, so we couldn’t hope to have this resolved all that soon.

The doctors required a biopsy to confirm the diagnosis, but I had to be awake during the procedure because they were taking a sample from the chest. Once the biopsy wound healed, I was sent to Qatar’s National Center for Cancer Care and Research (NCCCR), and I waited in the shared room before a private room could be arranged. I was started on steroids to decrease inflammation around the mass. Being a patient this long, I eventually recognized patterns that come with that role. Nurses come in every morning to check my vitals, give me my medications, and perhaps joke with me and ask what I’m reading. My mother would come in with some food, sit, and ask how I was doing before heading out to pick up my siblings from school. My father would come in after work; we would speak for a while, and later he would sleep on the couch beside my bed.

However, my interactions were limited overall, and I would be alone to my own devices for most of the day. Being sick is also quite restrictive as people would see you as a fragile creature and insist that jumping jacks would cause the mass to move down and influence my heart, among other things. I would also be given a different kind of pity that I’m much less sympathetic towards. On my birthday, my grandmother paid a visit, and my parents had yet to explain my diagnosis to her, though she read the hospital sign on the way to my ward. As I was given my cake, she asked, “Why are you doing this? His life sucks.” It was a condescending and hopeless pity that I thankfully didn’t see often. Still, when I did encounter it, I could glimpse into their eyes momentarily and see a frail young man blissfully unaware that he may soon die. Of course, we’re no longer in the 1970s, and treatment has been quite successful for my particular cancer, and I knew death was a much more remote possibility.

If I could go back–take the time to spend more time with my friends. Hearing them talk about finishing their final year of high school on our group chats only made me feel further and further distant; at least if I could explain my situation, I’d be able to join in on the conversation with a freer conscience. Instead, I tried to limit my interaction to meet my parents’ wishes, and at least in this instance, it simply was not worth the cost.

Chemotherapy wipes out your bone marrow’s ability to create new cells, including your white blood cells, leaving you vulnerable to infection. To kickstart my white blood cell count, I was given Neupogen, which has the rare side effect of causing joint pain. I had that rare side effect in its full glory. I often spent my days at home crouched into a ball; with each movement, a hot dagger buried into one of my joints. I also had a cold the entire time at home. This time, it was impossible to keep my illness secret from my neighbors and friends; it’s not easy hiding a bright naked scalp and absent eyebrows. My neighbor would often visit, but I would be curled on the couch the entire time, struggling to sit comfortably. Once the worst of it had passed, I managed to call my high school. Once in the library, the librarian who knew me well hugged me. She knew I had a budding hobby of playing cricket, so she passed me a book about the history of cricket, and I sat like I had hoped to some weeks ago, reading a book while watching the sun rising from the window. I met my friends, and one of them hugged me, but I had to adjust a blue strap on my shoulder before I could hug him. I had to explain that it was not a bra but was used to hang the container around the central line in my neck, which quickly diffused my friends’ discomfort. We caught up quickly, and though it was clear that I wouldn’t graduate with them that day, I felt like I was still part of my class.

My extended time alone taught me how to direct my energies and conversations to the page and write poetry, and I also performed spoken word poetry in talent shows and at public events. I found poetry a much better way to solidify my complex and amorphous ideas about time and mortality and ideas of a more grounded perspective. I think there is a tendency to imagine that rationalism necessarily leads to cynicism; however, I’ve learned that it’s often rational to hope and find delight in the simple facts of life. As dark as my humor is, laughing is incredibly courageous and empowering when faced with harsh realities such as suffering and death.

As many would say, I wouldn’t limit humor to a coping mechanism because I think that view conjures up the image of a mental band-aid. Humor can be an act of healing an otherwise hurting soul. But that’s not all it offers. Much like courage, ambition, and resilience, humor is a way to invite people to the challenge of defeating and dealing with their hidden fears and the absurdity often encountered when living. It also brings people closer, and much like poetry, it gives the individual a broader set of tools to understand their audience and allow them to respond with thoughts of their own. I wouldn’t say I’m grateful for this experience; however, I don’t think any suffering was necessary. I wouldn’t recommend we reintroduce cholera to children so that they have a greater appreciation for living. These skills can be learned, and I would have much rather learned them from a friend or a mentor instead of through months of pain and isolation.

My history with cancer is something I often tell people within minutes of meeting them. As someone who enjoys humor, some mischievous part of my mind relishes the opportunity to flip people’s expectations. It’s a running gag in my class for me to mention that I had cancer, and they groan whenever I say that I had experienced that particular experience. Most days, that’s what I wished it all was, something insignificant. However, I often get hurt when I hear how many interpret it and often understate the magnitude of my experiences. As much as I would like it to be behind me, I know it was difficult and sometimes traumatic. I don’t usually share that aspect of my experience. I don’t share that for a few years after remission; I would return to the Emergency Department worried that the chest pain had returned or felt pain in my leg yet again, wincing for days when physically nothing in my leg had changed. The panic I felt in those moments was real, and my experiences left an indelible imprint on my outlook and behavior. I’ll continue to make jokes about my experiences. However, I’ll be more proactive in clarifying that this issue is still difficult to share with complete transparency and that the audience is not invited to speak on my behalf about the most troubling aspects of my journey.

As I’m doing rounds as a third-year medical student, I notice that my colleagues often wince and get disturbed by the more “difficult” and less fortunate cases we often encounter. Metastatic, genetic, and disabling diseases are the ones most often feared. My colleagues often tell me that since there is no hope of success, they would feel like they are failing their patients. I’m sympathetic to that mindset; as future physicians, we all wish to see our patients leave our clinic smiling and ready to enjoy their lives in total health and comfort. However, I want to help where I feel I’m needed. Of course, I can’t offer parents of a child born with multiple congenital diseases the chance to see their child speak his first words, his first unassisted steps, seeing him grow to his mother’s height and drive his family on a road trip. I can’t even offer the parents much time. But I can show them comfort. I often think of Lujain, the intern I befriended, and I remember how powerful the uncomplicated desire to do good can be.

After a long and exhausting workday, Mawya began to feel some stiffness in her neck. When this stiffness persisted and started hindering her movements, Mawya sought medical help. After ruling out bone pathology, Mawya was prescribed muscle relaxants and advised to pursue physical therapy. Determined not to let her pain affect her work and productivity, Mawya continued to go to her physical therapy sessions despite noticing a progression in her pain. She completed several sessions before she began to feel a fever.

Mawya continued seeking medical advice, at which point she felt the pain spread to her limbs and pelvis. After several tests, scans, and conflicting diagnoses later, Mawya was referred to an oncologist, who recommended a mammogram. When a lump was found on her mammogram, Mawya was in denial. She was unsure how it spread to the lymph node and caused pain in her bones. Worried and confused, Mawya looked to the people around her for guidance. Many of her friends and family gave her suggestions on various therapies she could try– herbs, supplements, cupping, and acupuncture. Maya tried several of these alternative therapies but to no avail. Finally, Mawya contacted a few physicians to get her lymph node biopsied.

She was admitted to NCCCR, where her pain worsened exponentially, necessitating her taking potent analgesics and receiving intravenous infusions as she intensely disliked food. Still, without a confirmed diagnosis, Mawya convinced herself she had cancer. She remembers the biopsy vividly. It seemed like a simple procedure to the staff, but to her, it was enormous. She opted for local anesthesia, fearing the complications of generalized anesthesia, but she did not anticipate the impact her first procedure would have on her. She subsequently needed a psychologist to help her overcome this “simple” traumatic experience.

Before she knew it, medical personnel were talking about treatment plans. No one thought to stop and talk with her through the diagnosis. For some reason, everyone assumed she already knew. One doctor told her she was lucky to have a “good” variant of breast cancer. Maya did not feel lucky at all. She felt shocked. She had previously led a healthy lifestyle; she exercised regularly, ate healthy foods, did not smoke, and did not even own a microwave. She felt overwhelmed. She could not comprehend the huge amount of treatments and procedures she was supposed to endure later due to the spread of the disease in her body and reaching the fourth stage.

With time, Mawya realized this was a test from Allah, and her relationship with her creator grew stronger. Was this diagnosis a message? Was there a lesson she needed to learn? She began to see life in a new light, finding new meanings in every part of her journey.

Mawya also acknowledges that her journey would have been infinitely harder without the support of the people around her. She could not forget the kindness and care of her radiation therapy team and the medical team at  National Center for Cancer and Research NCCCR.

Even with their hectic schedules, they never failed to make time to ensure Mawya’s comfort in whatever way they could. She remembers a specific technician who, noticing that Mawya’s hijab was sliding off her hair, took the time to adjust it despite her identifying with another religion. Maya explains that such small gestures, though they might seem trivial to medical professionals, leave a significant mark on patients. Another encouraging part of Mawya’s journey was the inspirational stories of other cancer survivors that her sister would read to her throughout her treatment. She hopes that her story will serve the same purpose for others.

Ms. Mawya continued to go to the hospital and receive chemotherapy, where all the staff at Al-Amal Hospital were of the highest level of efficiency, helpfulness, and kindness, facilitating all stages of treatment.

Mawya started listening to her body well, preferring not to listen to unwanted and conflicting advice around her. She felt her body was asking for comfort, food, and mental health. She has realized the importance of self-care after years of believing that self-love and self-prioritizing are selfish. Now, she cares about the things she loves more; she read many books, learned the art of crochet and coloring while in bed, and practiced Meditative breathing and yoga; all these activities helped her a lot in the recovery journey.

The most important message she realized was to appreciate the blessings that seem small, but they are much more than we can thank God for them. During her illness journey, she lost the ability to walk alone, eat, taste, smell, shower, and many other things that man considers for granted, some of them because of the disease and others because of the medicines used. However, thankfully today, after three years of diagnosing the disease, Mawya regained her senses and ability to move, returned to practice her life naturally, and, most importantly, realized the value of life and learned that every day lived is a gift to be appreciated and celebrated. A man should remember to deal with body, mind, and spirit humanely and respectfully as she deals with the most precious loved ones. She realized that man should enjoy accompanying, appreciating, and understanding himself more. The most important thing is to forgive yourself and decide that every day will be better than the day before. When you love yourself and appreciate all your experiences, you can love and be grateful to your God and appreciate everything around you.

Every harsh experience takes you to a higher level of self-awareness, where you rearrange your being, make yourself a more affluent person on a spiritual level, and create a masterpiece that adds a magical touch to your life.

 You may be depressed by the hurricane of pain you pass through. Instead, you should fly with the wind as a feather and speak to Allah with your soul; Allah will send you a light that takes you out of the storm; try to be flexible and practice something new that you love to forget the pain until the crisis passes quietly and creates you as a newborn man like a stone of diamond that shines and become brighter and charming as it is refined.