“Say thank you that you are alive, madam”: When cancer ends, life is shattered

There are things that even when you share them again and again, still make your stomach turn. Writing the whole truth, what really happened without any filter, is always frightening. The fear of exposure still accompanies me, and even the fear of seeing the words describe moments of terror, success, and perhaps even using the word “healing” (knock on wood).

There are so many moments in my long journey, and it is hard for me to decide where to begin. So I decided to start not from the beginning, but from the moment the treatments ended. For the first time - and yes, I went through it twice - I went through difficult treatments: Chemotherapy, biological therapy, hormonal treatment, radiation, and two surgeries. And most of the time I was actually okay. I was in control. I managed my own treatment, made decisions, and most importantly - I had a supportive environment.

That moment when I sat in the treatment chair in the oncology ward will never leave me. I found myself full of pity and tears, listening to other women saying goodbye to the amazing team that had accompanied them for long months. The team hugged them and said warm words of farewell at the end: “And please - don’t come back here again.” For them, the medical stage ended successfully. But we, the survivors, speak a completely different language in those moments: A language of fear, even terror, deep uncertainty and pain that only we understand.

And then it really ended. Not only the treatments, but also the attention, the empathy, the support system. Everything disappeared at once. I found myself alone. Even though I was never physically alone for a moment - I was alone with myself, with my fears and thoughts of “Where do we go from here?” and “How long will all of this thing called life last?”

I stopped sleeping. I could not have imagined that it was almost possible not to sleep. The tears became the owners of the house and decided on their own when they would wash everything away, unable to stop them. I cried in the street, in the car, just like that in the middle of a meeting. One day, muscles in different parts of my body started twitching. I was convinced that I and my luck had given me another “gift” of illness. The doctor said it was anxiety - a word that would accompany me for many years without pause, and I know today that it accompanies all of us.

After a month I realized I was simply alone. No one understands what is happening to me, and more than that - no one really wants to hear how I feel. I understood that no doctor fully understands or can answer all my questions, and I learned to interpret their gaze: “Say thank you that you are alive, madam.” So I put on a smile, took a breath, put strong gel on the strange hair that started growing back, and began a long process of recovery with too few answers. I don’t know how I ended up in this situation - I am only 38, still a child. That was the first time, I continued, because that is what was expected of me, but my body and my mind stayed there, with no progress and no rehabilitation.

The social expectation is that we return immediately to routine - work, children, and maintaining the household as if nothing happened. But reality is completely different. Precisely at the moment when the system releases us, we begin to face the truly difficult, long, and invisible part of the journey. To understand how critical this stage is, it is enough to look at the data: 42% of female cancer survivors are forced to leave or change their workplace. How can we expect a woman to pick up the pieces and rebuild herself when she is required to deal with this burden alone?

That was the moment I decided that I was changing this irrational story and rewriting it. Out of this enormous lack, I founded the SHENA Center. I wanted to create a space that sees the woman behind the illness. Today, our home in Rishon LeZion is alive and breathing recovery. It is a place that provides care, professional understanding, and a community embrace. A place where there is no need to explain the fatigue, the anxiety, or the tears that appear out of nowhere.

But our vision does not stop in central Israel. These days, with great excitement and many butterflies in my stomach, we are striving to establish another home - this time in the north. The goal is to be there for more survivors in the periphery as well, to give them the tools to return to life, and to ensure that no woman finds herself crying alone in a car on the day after treatment.

We are in the midst of a crowdfunding campaign to turn this dream into reality. I ask everyone reading these words - please take part. The donation starts with a very small amount, but its meaning is the difference between heaven and earth for someone in her darkest moment. Because of you, we will be able to ensure that no survivor is alone.