This Wasn't the Plan: When the World Shifted After Cancer

At age 19, stage 4 blood cancer changed everything, leading to a journey of resilience and quiet hope: © stock.adobe.com.

Dear Reader,

My name is Anushree. I’m 19 years old, and I have stage 4 blood cancer.

Sometimes even I can’t believe I just wrote that, but I’m used to it now.

Yet, this book is not about a victory, or a survivor, or an inspiration. It’s about being human — about crying in hospital bathrooms, about losing my hair and part of myself, about watching my father go through dialysis, while my mother quietly fights her own kidney disease. It’s about pain that doesn’t always show up in lab reports.

But it’s also about love. About how even in the darkest room, a little hope can still glow like a diya in the wind. About how I’m still breathing, still feeling, still trying to leave something behind, just in case my body can’t carry me for much longer.

If you’re reading this, maybe you’re hurting too, or maybe you’re caring for someone who is. This book is my heart — laid bare page by page.

This isn’t the end. It’s just the part where we start telling the truth.

With all my love,

Anushree.

When the World Shifted

I still remember it vividly. I was just a 19-year-old girl, in my first year of medical school — full of dreams, ambition, and excitement. Everything seemed perfect. I could clearly envision my future. I was finally a medical student, something I had worked so hard for. The joy of securing admission into my dream course filled me with pride. I was determined to give it my all, studying day and night with relentless dedication.

But then, one day, everything began to change.

It started with a strange pain throughout my whole body. At first, I brushed it off — maybe it was just stress, I told myself. After all, being a medical student came with its own pressure, right?

Little did I know that this minor discomfort was the beginning of something much bigger — something that would shift the course of my life forever.

As days passed, the pain didn’t go away. In fact, it worsened. I started experiencing frequent headaches and body aches. My energy began to drain. No matter how much I rested, I never felt better. My digestion weakened. My body started showing signs that something wasn’t right.

I began missing classes. I couldn’t keep up with my routine. Slowly, I started losing grip over everything I had built so passionately. Fear crept in. I found myself waking up in the middle of the night, anxious, confused, not knowing what was happening to me.

One such night, around 2 AM, I woke up in a panic. My heart was racing, my body felt weak, and I couldn’t understand what was going on. I felt lost and helpless.

The next day, I visited a doctor. He assured me, “You’ll be fine.” A Complete Blood Count (CBC) test was done. I waited anxiously.

When the results came, my world stood still — my blood count was only 7.9. That one number changed everything.

I sent my reports to my dad, and he told me to come back home.

Two days later, my flight from Bhubaneswar to Mumbai, meant to be a short 12-day break, turned out to be something else entirely.

As I stepped back into my home, I could feel it in my bones — my life was about to change in ways I had never imagined.

Bedridden

Even today, I vividly remember the day I was admitted to the hospital. I was already on an IV drip. My parents came to see me twice, and both times they looked tense. They tried to act normal, but I could sense that something was off.

After lunch, I was taken to receive a dose. There, I saw a senior doctor. I couldn’t understand what was happening. Soon, I was informed I would be taken for surgery. That’s when my mother broke down and couldn’t say a word. I was wheeled away on a stretcher.

Just before being taken to the operation theatre (OT), I remember being terrified. Anesthesia was administered, and everything faded.

When I regained consciousness, the first face I saw was my mother’s. Despite her worry, she smiled at me with a brave face so I wouldn’t be scared. That image has stayed with me.

From that point, every day felt like an endless series of tests — blood work, scans, and constant monitoring. Simple things like sipping chai or having a piece of toast felt like a luxury.

I used to think about when I would go back to my university life. One day, my father came to my bedside and told me that the doctor had advised six months of complete rest. That made me anxious. I suspected it had something to do with the bone marrow results, but no one had told me for sure.

The bone marrow biopsy itself was terrifying. I remember being in so much pain and feeling like I might not make it. As I was taken into the OT, I felt like I was slipping away. The anesthesia hit, and then everything went blank.

When I came to, I saw my mother again. She smiled through her tears, trying to give me strength.

My time in the hospital became routine. Tests, meals, and chats with the nurses and doctors from the window. That little bit of conversation brought joy to my otherwise grim days.

Finally, after 13 days, I was discharged. The doctors and nurses were emotional. I had become a familiar and beloved presence. Even they had grown attached to our small moments of laughter.

Sometimes, I still can’t believe it all happened.