I still remember the way my doctor’s lips moved, but I couldn’t make out her words. My ears rang, the room faded, and then everything went silent. I only caught fragments “Sarah, are you okay? I’m so sorry.” She handed me a sticky note, and in purple ink, I saw an address for the oncology unit written in all caps. I thought I was there for a simple post-op checkup. Instead, I was being sent to face the unthinkable.
To this day, I don’t remember driving there or parking. But I do remember sitting in that waiting room surrounded by people who looked sick thinking, They must have gotten it wrong. I don’t belong here. My husband was on his way, and I prayed silently for strength. Strength to walk to the desk. Strength to hear the words. Strength to hold on.
That summer day changed everything. At 4:30 p.m., the oncologist confirmed it: I had choriocarcinoma, a rare and aggressive cancer that forms from placental tissue.
Just three months earlier, life was normal. I was 31, celebrating my daughter’s first birthday and learning to slow down after leaving my corporate job. I felt healthy and free until I started bleeding. A pregnancy test came back positive, but my ultrasound showed nothing. My bloodwork said otherwise; the hormone levels kept rising. The doctors suspected an ectopic pregnancy and rushed me into surgery. I was terrified I might lose my uterus. I didn’t not then. But cancer would take it from me later.
Eight months of chemotherapy followed. Five different drugs, weekly treatments, and endless hospital nights hooked up to a slow-dripping IV. I shaved my head before the hair could fall. My twin sister was the first to take the clippers. She’d been beside me through everything from the womb to motherhood to now, cancer.
People always ask if twins can feel each other’s pain. Not physically, but in every other way, yes. She felt my fear, my grief, my exhaustion. When I couldn’t care for my baby girl, she stepped in, rocking her to sleep and whispering to me, “It’s going to be okay.”
In December, doctors said I was cancer-free. But one month later, it came back. I started chemotherapy all over again, and by the second round, they told me it was time the cancer’s source was my uterus, and it had to be removed. Losing it broke me. It wasn’t just an organ; it was the dream of growing our family, of giving my husband a son. Before surgery, my sister squeezed my hand and said, “Don’t worry. If they take it, I’ll have your babies.” We both laughed through tears.
By April, I was cancer-free again. I taped that report to my mirror as a daily reminder: I am healed. For a year, I focused on rebuilding my strength and soaking up life brushing my hair, taking my daughter to school, breathing in gratitude for every little thing.
A year later, when my doctor mentioned surrogacy, something stirred in me. My ovaries had survived. Tests showed we could retrieve eggs and miraculously, three healthy embryos were created. When I told my twin sister, Cathey, she didn’t hesitate. “You’re not hiring anyone,” she said. “I’m doing this. I was made for this.”
She was right. She’d been by my side every step of the way why not this, too? She and her husband agreed, and now, at 25 weeks pregnant, she’s carrying my son.
When we told our mom, Cathey said, “If Sarah needed a kidney, I’d give her one. She just happens to need my uterus.”
Sometimes I look at her and realize this is what love looks like. The kind of love that sacrifices. The kind that heals. Cancer tried to take everything from me, but God gave it all back in a new way.
I’ve learned that pain doesn’t last forever, faith can carry you through anything, and love pure, selfless love is the greatest healer of all.
