Two months ago, life became a cycle of hospital corridors and beeping machines.
First, the respiratory ward.
Then critical care.
Then thoracic.
Then cancer.
Each move meant something new had gone wrong.
A serious chest infection stole my breath.
A collapsed lung followed.
Then multiple organ failure.
Chest drains.
A RIG feeding tube.
More procedures than I can count without stopping to breathe.
My body was pushed to places I never imagined it could survive.
There were days when time blurred—when morning and night felt the same, when pain and exhaustion became normal, when the simple act of sitting up felt like a victory. Days when I wondered how much more a body could take before it simply said enough.
But today, something different happened.
Today, I received my 70th immunotherapy treatment.
Seventy times choosing to keep going.
Seventy times trusting medicine.
Seventy times showing up, even when strength felt borrowed.
When I look at the photos—one from October, one from yesterday—the difference isn’t just physical. Yes, the weight has shifted. Yes, the body tells a story. But what really changed can’t be seen.
It’s resilience.
It’s survival.
It’s the quiet strength built in hospital rooms when no one is watching.
And through all of this, the support—messages, shares, kindness from people who may never fully know what it took—has mattered more than I can explain. It lifted weight I couldn’t carry alone. It removed stress when my body had no room left for it.
This isn’t a victory post.
It’s a continuing story.
One breath at a time.
One treatment at a time.
One day at a time.
And today, I’m still here.
