When Cancer Steals More Than Your Health

I was sitting in the Needham branch of the hospital, answering the usual list of routine check-up questions. 

• Are you in any pain today? 

• On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate the pain? 

• How is your appetite? Any nausea, diarrhea, or constipation? 

• How is your neuropathy? 

The nurse typed my responses with rapid keystrokes, barely looking up. It was mechanical for both of us. The same questions, the same answers, the same dull rhythm that had become my life over the past year. Then she asked something different. 

“How are you coping with everything right now?” 

It was such a simple question. But no one had ever asked me that before. It had been exactly one year since I had first landed in the emergency room—June 24, 2023. Now, on June 24, 2024, I was sitting there, supposedly on the other side of the worst of it. I was in remission. I had survived. I had endured a year of radiation, chemotherapy, multiple exploratory laparoscopies, a major surgery, and a reversal of ileostomy. And yet, in that moment, I realized something terrifying—I wasn’t okay. 

The usual text messages I got were always the same: 

• “How’s the treatment going?” 

• “What did the doctor say?” 

• “How much time do you have?” 

People wanted updates. No one wanted my emotions.  

And the minute I let myself consider how I was coping, the dam broke. Tears spilled out before I could stop them. In front of a total stranger. And strangely, that felt… nice.

She didn’t know me well enough to respond with - “You are the strongest person I know.” She didn’t try to tell me I was brave. She just sat there. And for the first time, I wasn’t performing strength for someone else. 

Depression and Cancer: The Unspoken War 

It occurred to me then that I had spent the past year fighting more than just cancer. I had also been fighting my own mind. Depression is a common comorbidity among cancer patients, with studies estimating that roughly one in four patients experience clinical depression at some point during or after treatment — but no one warns you about it. Doctors focus on keeping you alive. Friends and family focus on supporting your treatment. But what happens when you don’t recognize yourself anymore? 

For many of us, depression isn’t just a symptom. It’s a response to what cancer steals from us. When I investigate in the rearview mirror, I can attribute my depression to four major causes.  

1. Loss of Freedom: When Your Life No Longer Feels Like Yours 

One of the cruelest parts of cancer is how it hijacks your life. Before my diagnosis, my days were mine to shape. After cancer, my life belonged to doctor’s appointments, radiation schedules, chemotherapy infusions, bloodwork and imaging scans. Every part of my time was dictated by test results and treatment plans. Even my body wasn’t mine anymore. 

Doctors, nurses, and technicians constantly examined, poked, scanned, injected, and monitored me. I wasn’t living – I was being kept alive.  

2. Menopause at 34: The Grief No One Talks About Openly 

Three weeks into radiation, I woke up drenched in sweat. My body felt hot and cold at the same time, and I had my period twice within three weeks. I informed my doctor about it, expecting reassurance. Instead, he informed in frank words - “That’s premature ovarian insufficiency. The radiation put you into menopause.” That was it. Just a clinical fact. A new medical condition added in my medical chart.  I had known it was a possibility. My care team had warned me that my ovaries were in the line of fire. But what they hadn’t told me was how brutal it would feel. A normal woman transitions into menopause over 5 – 10 years. I woke up one day, and my body had already changed. Estrogen isn’t just about fertility. It controls mood, energy, and mental stability. The sudden depletion of it? It hit me like a freight train. 

I was newly married. I had dreamed of having children. And suddenly, that dream was gone. 

I hid this from my mother for ten months. I didn’t want to add to her worry. In hindsight, that was a mistake. She was the only one who could have guided me through it. 

3. Social Isolation: The Loneliness of Being “Strong” 

People love calling cancer patients strong.  

“You are the strongest person I know.” 

 “You got this.” 

“Fight it with all your strength. You can do it.” 

It sounds like a compliment. It is meant to be a compliment. But sometimes, being called strong is the most isolating thing in the world. It meant people assumed I didn’t need comfort. It meant they expected me to handle everything. It meant that when I finally tried to talk, they didn’t know how to respond. 

One person texted me: 

“Stop discussing your struggles. Talking about pain keeps you in that energy.” 

Another completely changed the subject: 

“So, what are your plans for Christmas?” 

That’s when I understood: People want to support cancer patients, but they don’t want to witness their suffering. They want to rally behind a survivor, not sit with someone who is still struggling. It’s performative altruism—the kind that looks good on the surface but lacks real emotional presence. I saw it everywhere. People donating to cancer charities, running marathons “for the cause,” but failing to check in on the actual cancer patient in their life. And so, I stopped talking. I withdrew. I carried it alone. Because it was easier to be “strong” than to feel the ache of being unheard. 

4. The Existential Crisis: Who Am I Now? 

I recently read Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka—the story of a man who wakes up as an insect, no longer recognized by his own family. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I understood that transformation too well. Cancer had changed me in ways I hadn’t agreed to. My body was no longer my own,  bloated from steroids, hair thinning, muscles weak. The same legs that once carried me through half-marathons now trembled when I climbed four flights of stairs. The same sharp, ambitious mind that thrived at work now struggled to keep up with conversations. I was out of the loop on many projects and losing numerous opportunities at work. I was still me, yet I felt unrecognizable. 

One day, I caught my reflection in the changing room mirror of Dick's Sporting Goods. I didn’t recognize the person staring back at me. It was then that I realized I wasn’t just grieving cancer. I was grieving the version of myself that cancer had stolen. The athlete, the overachiever, the independent woman who never asked for help. She was gone. And I had no idea if I’d ever get her back.  

The First Steps Toward Healing 

That day in the hospital, after I had cried in front of a stranger, my doctor looked at me with something I hadn’t seen in a long time—concern that wasn’t just about my test results. She told me what I was experiencing was expected, and her entire office will support me through this phase of my life. She hugged me and told me she would do her best to help me.  

Two weeks later, I had a team of mental health specialists. But therapy alone didn’t save me. 

Healing wasn’t a single breakthrough moment. It wasn’t waking up one morning feeling “better.” It was a slow, frustrating, painful process. It was learning to rebuild myself piece by piece, day by day. 

 Here’s what I did. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But enough to pull myself out of the wreckage. 

I Learned to See Who Was Truly in My Corner 

When I first got diagnosed, people reached out in floods. “I’m here for you.” “Anything you need, just ask.” But as time passed, I saw who meant it. Some texted, “Let me know if you need anything,” but they never checked in again.  And then, there were the few who texted, “Hey, I know today’s a chemo day. Want me to send you a playlist? Want to vent?” 

I started paying attention to what people did, not what they said. 

And when I stopped wasting energy on the ones who only cared when it was convenient, I had more space for the ones who truly showed up.  

I Found People Who Actually Understood 

No matter how much my family loved me, they would never truly understand. They saw my fight from the outside. But they didn’t know what it was like to wake up in a body that didn’t feel like mine anymore. So, I sought out people like me. I found cancer support groups—on Facebook, on Reddit, in my hospital. 

At first, I just read their posts, watching people put words to feelings I had been too scared to admit. “I finished treatment, but I still feel broken. No one told me I’d feel worse after remission.” 

“I feel so alone, and I have no friends left.” “I separated from my partner; I feel so broken.” I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t crazy. The more I talked to people who got it, the less isolated I felt in my grief.  

I Stopped Waiting for Life to Go Back to ‘Normal’ 

For months, I told myself, “Once treatment is over, I’ll feel like myself again.” “Once I’m in remission, I’ll be happy again.” But those milestones came… and nothing changed. So, instead of waiting, I started building. I forced myself to focus more on work, pick up small rewarding projects, and make more plans to go out with my sister and mother. I needed something that made me feel like a person again. Even when I was diagnosed with a recurrence, I continued to add joy to my everyday life by doing more of what I loved—reading books that made me happy, making small staycation plans, decorating my small studio by the sea, cuddling with my puppy, doing light workout to feel strong in my body again.  

I Let My Family See My Pain 

For most of my life, I had been the one people relied on—the one who had it together, the “strong one.” So, even when I was drowning, I kept pretending I was fine. 

I didn’t tell my mother about my menopause for ten months. I didn’t want to add to her worries. 

I didn’t tell my sister that some nights, I lay awake wondering if I’d ever feel whole again. 

But eventually, the weight of it became too much. The first time I sat across from my mother and told her everything, she didn’t fall apart. She looked me in the eyes and said, “I wish you had told me sooner.” From that day, she became my beacon of strength, hope, and resilience. I thought I was protecting my family by keeping my struggles to myself. But I wasn’t protecting them; I was isolating myself. 

 If You Are Struggling Too… 

If you are in the thick of treatment, and you feel like you are losing yourself to this disease, I need you to know - You are not broken. You are not weak. And you are not alone. 

Depression is not just a side effect. It is a reaction to everything this disease has stolen from you. But you don’t have to stay in that place. Healing isn’t a straight path. It’s not about feeling okay overnight. It’s about finding one small thing that makes you feel human again—and holding onto it for dear life. One step at a time. One day at a time. You will come back to yourself. 

I did. And so will you!