We all know the cycle of life. We are born, and one day we die. Most of the time, that knowledge sits quietly in the background, overshadowed by the ordinary business of living. But it feels entirely different when you are told you have cancer, when death stops feeling distant and begins to feel uncomfortably close.
I am going to die
March 2022 is etched into my internal calendar as the singular moment my life quietly, irrevocably shifted.
I was diagnosed with breast cancer: Stage 0 Ductal Carcinoma In Situ (DCIS).
There were no warning signs. No lump. No bodily intuition sounding an alarm. I had been diligent with annual mammograms and ultrasounds, save for the suspended years of 2020and 2021, when COVID interrupted not only daily life but the rituals of preventive care.
Cancer, I believed, belonged to other people.
When I heard the words “You have cancer,” my mind bypassed prognosis and treatment and went straight to mortality. I am going to die
The thoughts came fast and unfiltered. I wouldn’t be here to see my daughter give birth to our first grandchild. I imagined harsh treatments, physical pain, losing my hair, and draining our savings. I worried about the toll my illness would take on my husband and children and feared becoming a burden to the very people I loved most.
Death, once an abstract certainty discussed in philosophy or faith, suddenly became personal ,immediate, unignorable.
What followed was not just fear, but deep loneliness and depression. I felt completely isolated, even with my husband and children by my side. The weight of it was heavy, and I didn’t know how to escape it. I realized, with painful clarity, that illness—and death—are ultimately things we face alone. Love can be there, but it cannot carry the burden for us.
I began to understand loneliness not as the absence of people, but as an interior condition. It is possible to be surrounded by love and still feel utterly alone. Loneliness, I realized, emerges when fear turns inward and narrows the world to a single, claustrophobic point—me, my body, my fate.
I needed ways to release the anxiety that threatened to consume me. Walking became one of them. Each morning, I stepped outside and let movement anchor me. The rhythm of my steps, the warmth of sunlight on my skin, the quiet strength and flexibility of my body reminded me that this vessel was still mine, still capable, still moving forward.
But the hardest hours were always at night.
When the world slept and I lay awake, fear arrived unfiltered. In those moments, reason abandoned me. Statistics were useless. Reassurances dissolved. What remained was terror in its purest form.
It was then that I reached for my wooden crucifix given by my cousin Monsignor Dennis
I held it in the darkness as one clings to a lifeline. That simple piece of wood became my raft across turbulent waters, carrying me through the night’s storm. I surrendered my fear to God sometimes through whispered prayers, sometimes through silence and in that surrender, peace came. Gently, almost imperceptibly, my breathing slowed. The storm within me quieted. I slept deeply, soundly.
Night after night, the crucifix became a tangible reminder that I was not alone in the dark, even when loneliness insisted otherwise.
Over time, I learned to shift my focus outward away from the relentless scrutiny of my own fear and toward the world beyond myself. Toward nature, toward others, toward God. In that outward pivot , fear loosened its grip, and something unexpected emerged in its place: connection, meaning, and light.
Treatment
Life after diagnosis unfolded without pause, blurring into a succession of medical imperatives: a partial mastectomy, countless consultations, twenty-four days of radiation.
Time reorganized itself around appointments and results. Eventually, a new rhythm took hold. Oncology consults every three months, biannual mammograms, the daily, almost sacramental intake of tamoxifen. This became the structure of my days, the framework of my new normal.
Bubble of happiness
With each appointment came a fragile reprieve. When my oncologist said “no evidence of cancer,” I floated inside a bubble of happiness… light, almost weightless, for three months at a time.
Then, as the next quarter approached, anxiety returned. Fear gave way to relief. Relief to gratitude. This cycle has become my life now, and I accept it with humility.
I am deeply grateful for every morning I wake up healthy and strong, alive and alert—sharing this journey with my wonderful husband, cherishing every hug and kiss from him, delighting in the giggles and wet kisses of my two granddaughters, and savoring every ounce of marrow life has to offer.
My 4th year anniversary cancer free approaches. I do not romanticize suffering, nor do I claim wisdom. But I know this: when I released my grip on fear through movement, attention, prayer, or faith, loneliness/depression lost its power.
This is what sustained me. I offer it not as instruction, but as witness. May it meet you gently, wherever you are.
Pigoutmanila 