Rachel’s story

For years, I was iron deficient, constantly fatigued, and overwhelmed by stress. I visited my GP regularly, saying, ‘I know something’s wrong. I can feel it.’ They ran blood tests, dismissed me, and told me everything looked normal.

Then, two weeks after my wedding, I started experiencing intense back pain. It worsened within an hour to the point that I couldn’t walk. I called an ambulance and was taken to the emergency department.

They did a CT scan, a physical exam, and sent me home with painkillers — ‘It’s muscular,’ they said.

Early the next morning, I got a call from a senior doctor in emergency. She said she noticed something on my scan and wanted me to come back – they’d have a bed ready.

Back at the hospital, a doctor did an internal exam and told me they’d schedule an urgent colonoscopy and endoscopy. Within three days, I was in for both procedures.

I woke up from the procedure to a nurse telling me she was so sorry.

‘Sorry for what?’ I asked.

‘You have cancer.’

I left the hospital with more questions than answers.

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Monday, 21st November 2022.

Sitting in a sterile clinic room in the oncology outpatient’s unit. Staring back at me were three unfamiliar faces: the oncology registrar, the oncology consultant, and the oncology nurse. Little did I know these three faces would become quite familiar — my new normal for the next six months.

You know those movie scenes where someone gets devastating news, and everything goes silent? Their mouths move, but nothing registers? That was me. But this wasn’t a movie. I wouldn’t even call it a conversation, because that would imply participation from my end – and believe me, there wasn’t.

I sat there, silent. Still. Everything stopped – the clock on the wall, the rise and fall of my chest.

‘You have Stage 3 bowel cancer.’

They told me I had to have surgery – one that would leave me with a permanent stoma. But I knew, deep down, that wasn’t the right path for me. I fought my medical team and stood my ground, telling them:

‘Hit me with everything you’ve got and give me a chance.’

The dark thoughts came flooding in. My boys. My husband. The business. What is going on? This isn’t happening. I have too much left to do in this lifetime. And then the most daunting thought of all… I’m going to need to ask for help.

Help from my family. My friends. People who love me. But asking for help wasn’t something I knew how to do. I was used to juggling umpteen glass balls without dropping a single one. How the hell was I going to ask for help – and trust others to keep juggling when I couldn’t?

Asking for help, accepting help – it wasn’t in my nature. I built walls higher than Fort Knox. I conditioned myself to rely only on me, so I could avoid the disappointment and pain that come with others’ letdowns. Would you call that disconnection? Have I disconnected and distanced myself so much that I feel nothing at all?

I’ve developed this almost uncanny, intuitive way of knowing how things will play out before they happen. Before someone finishes speaking, I’ve already over-analyzed, internalised, flipped it inside out and back again, seeing every possible outcome. A defence mechanism. It’s served me well – in work.

No one or anything can prepare you for the fight of your life. No amount of ‘I’m so sorry this is happening to you,’ ‘I wish I could take it away,’ or ‘If only there was something I could do’ can ease the weight of those words. You know what you can do? Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t pity me. Don’t change the way you treat me or speak to me — and please, please don’t change the way you look at me.

I am a strong, fierce, independent person who has internalised, over-analyzed, and sat with every possible way this sucks and all the different ways it could go. But you know what? The only way this is going to go is with a goddamn fight. Everything I’ve got, I’m going to give it — and then I’m going to dig even deeper and give more. Our potential is only limited by our minds and the limits we set for ourselves.

But now, sitting with it, I realise it’s been a hindrance too. It’s robbed me of joy. Of living in the moment. Of hope — real, honest hope — that things might turn out better than I could have imagined. It’s given me limits. It’s confined me to a box.

Over the years, I’ve felt unimaginable pain — physical, emotional, spiritual. I truly believe some things in life happen to throw us off course and onto the path we’re meant to be on. I’ve learned more about myself in the first six months of fighting this disease than I had in my entire 38 years on this earth.

I’m unlearning old habits. Learning new ones. Navigating this roller-coaster of a journey. Connecting with source and the divine. Getting back to Mother Nature — where it all began. Finding my soul’s purpose.

I’m learning that I have to go through this — this is my path to walk. I’m learning to walk it proudly, even with setbacks, knowing they’ll only propel me forward.

This is my journey. I claim it — in all its unruly glory.

I went through 9 rounds of chemotherapy — two types infused over eight hours in the hospital, and another type connected to my portacath for 48 hours at home — every two weeks. Then came 30 fractions of radiation, followed by three more cycles of the same chemotherapy.

But I didn’t stop there. I embraced alternative therapies alongside medical treatment.

Today, I am NO EVIDENCE OF DISEASE — and have been since September 2023.

I now have 12-weekly surveillance scans and colonoscopies. My most recent scan — just a few weeks ago — was clear. I’ve now been moved to 6-monthly checks.

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My one piece of advice:

If I could give one piece of advice, it would be this: trust yourself and your body — and don’t stop advocating for yourself, no matter how many times you’re dismissed.

For years, I felt something was wrong. I was iron deficient, constantly fatigued, and overwhelmed, but every test came back ‘normal.’ Deep down, I knew it wasn’t. When the pain finally became unbearable, it still took persistence — and one doctor who took a second look — to uncover what was really going on.

Your intuition is powerful. If something doesn’t feel right, push for answers. Get second opinions. Demand further testing. No one knows your body better than you do.

And beyond that? Let people in. Asking for help isn’t weakness — it’s one of the strongest things you can do. You might be used to juggling everything on your own, but sometimes, the bravest thing is to let someone else carry a few of those glass balls for you.