The day I received my diagnosis felt like the ground beneath me had given way. It wasn’t just a medical condition—it was a sentence. I had stage four cancer, a diagnosis that would change my life forever. But what was even more harrowing than the diagnosis itself was the long, painful road to discovery. For months, I had been suffering from strange and worsening symptoms, but when I visited two different hospitals, I was dismissed and told it was nothing serious. In hindsight, I can't help but wonder how different my journey could have been if they had acted sooner.

It all started with subtle signs. At first, it was just an odd fatigue, a feeling of being unwell that lingered for weeks. I chalked it up to the demands of life—working long hours, raising a child, and dealing with everyday stresses. But as time passed, the symptoms grew more intense. I began to experience severe pain in my abdomen, weight loss, and a general sense of dread. It felt like something inside me was slowly deteriorating.

I went to the first hospital with high hopes, expecting some answers. But after a few tests and a quick examination, the doctor assured me it was likely a mild digestive issue, perhaps related to stress. I was prescribed some medication and sent on my way. The relief I felt was only temporary. Days passed, and the pain intensified. Still, I trusted the doctor’s judgment, thinking that maybe I was just overreacting.

But as my condition continued to worsen, I sought a second opinion at a different hospital. This time, I was met with similar indifference. Despite my obvious signs and symptoms, the doctors dismissed my concerns and sent me home with a vague diagnosis of "anxiety" and a prescription for antidepressants. It was disheartening, but I held onto hope, thinking perhaps they were right, and that it was all in my head.

But the pain didn’t subside. It became unbearable. Eventually, I couldn’t ignore the signs any longer, and I pushed for more tests. When the results came back, I was blindsided. The cancer had already spread to multiple organs, and it was too late for curative treatment. My heart sank as I processed the devastating news. My body had been telling me the truth all along, but the hospitals had failed to listen.

I cannot express the depth of the pain I feel knowing that my little girl will grow up without me. She is just a child, full of life and promise, and the thought that I won’t be there to guide her through the milestones of life—her first day of school, her graduation, her wedding day—breaks my heart into pieces. I had always imagined a future filled with love and joy, watching my daughter grow, but now that future is slipping away from me.

What haunts me the most is the realization that the doctors at both hospitals could have caught my illness earlier. If they had acted swiftly, maybe there was a chance for treatment that could have given me more time—time to be with my daughter, time to watch her blossom into the incredible person I know she will be. The frustration of being dismissed for so long, of not being taken seriously, is a weight I carry with me every day.

As my time grows shorter, I’ve tried to focus on the moments that matter the most. I cherish every second I have left with my daughter. I tell her how much I love her, how proud I am of the person she is becoming, and how lucky I am to have been her mother. But despite my best efforts to prepare her, I know the pain of saying goodbye will be too much to bear.

I tell my story not just to mourn what I’ve lost, but to raise awareness about the importance of listening to patients and taking their symptoms seriously. Too many people, like me, are dismissed when they seek help, and it costs them precious time. No one should have to face the pain of knowing they could have had more time if only their concerns were heard. I urge those who have the power to make a difference—doctors, medical staff, and policymakers—to remember the human side of healthcare. The patients who walk through those doors are not just cases or symptoms—they are parents, children, siblings, and friends, with hopes, dreams, and loved ones waiting for them at home.

I hope that my story will inspire others to speak up, to fight for their health, and to never let anyone dismiss their symptoms. We deserve to be heard. We deserve to be treated with the care and respect that every human life deserves. My battle may be coming to an end, but I will continue to fight for others who still have a chance. I may not get to see my daughter grow up, but I’ll make sure my voice is heard, even if it’s my last one.