My Stage IV Uterine Leiomyosarcoma Diagnosis: One Step at a Time
Learning to Accept Stage IV Uterine Leiomyosarcoma: My Story of Cancer, Fear, Faith, and Taking the Next Step
On September 9, 2020, a biopsy confirmed metastatic leiomyosarcoma.
I had Stage IV uterine leiomyosarcoma.
I understood the words.
I understood that the cancer had spread. I understood that I would need treatment. I understood that doctors were now talking about tumors, surgery, chemotherapy, and what needed to happen next.
What I could not understand was how those words had suddenly become the description of my life.
Just two years earlier, I had undergone a hysterectomy for what was believed to be a fibroid uterus. The tissue had been morcellated, and the original pathology was reported as benign. I went home believing the problem was behind me.
Then new masses appeared.
Nearly two years after my hysterectomy, I was learning that I had a rare and aggressive cancer that had already spread beyond where it began.
Suddenly, I had questions about everything.
What had happened?
How long had the cancer been there?
Could anything have been different?
What did Stage IV really mean for me?
What would happen next?
And perhaps the hardest question of all was this:
"How was I supposed to keep living my ordinary life when my life no longer felt ordinary?"
Cancer did not wait for me to emotionally catch up.
The appointments started. The tests continued. Doctors discussed surgery and treatment plans. Medical terminology became part of conversations that I never expected to have about myself.
But my regular life was still there.
I still had work.
I still had bills.
I still had family.
I still had responsibilities.
Somehow, I had to learn how to become a cancer patient while continuing to be the person I had been before cancer.
That is what this story is about.
It is about what happened when I heard the words "Stage IV uterine leiomyosarcoma". It is about the fear, confusion, grief, faith, anger, and hope that followed. It is about learning to understand a rare cancer I had never heard of before. It is about the statistics that frightened me and the decision I eventually made not to live every statistic in advance.
Most importantly, it is about learning that I did not have to carry the entire future at once.
Sometimes, I only needed to carry the next step.
I Understood the Diagnosis Before I Accepted It
When a person receives a serious cancer diagnosis, understanding the medical words and accepting that those words describe their own life can be two completely different things.
I heard the diagnosis.
I repeated it.
I wrote down appointments.
I listened while doctors explained what they were seeing.
Part of me still felt as though they had to be talking about someone else.
I had gone from believing that a uterine mass was a benign fibroid to learning that I had metastatic uterine leiomyosarcoma. That was too much information to absorb emotionally in one moment.
The biopsy gave me a medical answer.
It did not tell me how to wake up the next morning.
It did not tell me how to explain the diagnosis to my family. It did not tell me how I was going to continue working. It did not tell me how to think about the possibility of dying.
And it certainly did not tell me how I was supposed to emotionally accept everything that was happening.
I eventually learned that I did not have to.
Not all at once.
The Earlier Benign Diagnosis Made Everything More Difficult
My hysterectomy had taken place in 2018.
The mass removed during that surgery was believed to be a fibroid. It was morcellated and sent to pathology. When I was told the result was benign, I felt relieved.
I believed the problem was over.
For approximately eighteen months, I returned to ordinary life. I worked, managed my home, handled responsibilities, and continued moving forward without any reason to believe that an aggressive cancer would later become part of my story.
Then new masses appeared.
The cancer diagnosis did more than change my understanding of the present. It made me look backward.
I began questioning what I had believed about the earlier surgery.
How could something that had been called benign become metastatic leiomyosarcoma?
Had the cancer been present all along?
Could anything have been done differently?
Had something been missed?
Those questions were difficult because there was no way to go back in time and experience the earlier events with the knowledge I had after the diagnosis.
I could look back.
I could ask questions.
I could learn.
But I could not change the past.
That became an important part of learning how to move forward.
Acceptance Did Not Mean Agreement
People sometimes talk about acceptance as though it means becoming peaceful with what happened.
That was not my experience.
I did not agree with cancer.
I did not think it was fair.
I was not suddenly comfortable with the possibility that my life might be shorter than I had expected.
For me, acceptance meant something much more practical.
It meant recognizing that the doctors were talking about **my body**.
The tumors were real.
The biopsy result was real.
The cancer was real.
Treatment decisions could not wait until I felt emotionally prepared.
I could be shocked and still make a decision.
I could be terrified and still go to an appointment.
I could cry and still ask questions.
I could feel completely unprepared and still take the next step.
There was no perfect morning when I suddenly felt ready to be a cancer patient.
I simply had to begin.
There Was No Time to Process Everything
One of the hardest things about a serious cancer diagnosis is that the emotional process and the medical process do not necessarily move at the same speed.
Emotionally, I needed time.
Medically, there were things that needed to happen.
I needed specialist appointments. I needed to understand what the scans showed. I needed to learn about a rare cancer I had never heard of. I needed to understand what metastatic meant. I needed to gather records and listen to treatment recommendations.
I also had to think about surgery, treatment, work, my household, my family, and all the ordinary responsibilities that did not disappear just because I had cancer.
Cancer did not clear my calendar before entering my life.
There was no quiet month available for me to sit somewhere and process everything.
The appointments arrived before acceptance did.
So I learned that sometimes action comes before emotional understanding.
I could complete the next necessary task even when part of me was still trying to understand how I had gotten there.
Stage IV Felt Like an Expiration Date
When I first heard the words Stage IV, I immediately thought about death.
Most people understand that Stage IV cancer is serious, even if they do not know all of the medical details.
I thought about survival statistics.
I thought about how much time I might have.
I thought about my children.
I thought about my grandchildren.
I thought about all the things I had expected to do.
The future that had once felt open suddenly felt uncertain.
I did not know whether surgery would remove enough cancer. I did not know whether chemotherapy would work. I did not know how my body would respond to treatment. I did not know what the next scan would show.
The uncertainty was terrifying.
But I eventually learned something important about statistics.
Statistics describe groups of people.
They do not know me personally.
They do not know my exact tumor biology, my response to treatment, my overall health, my treatment decisions, or what medical advances may become available in the future.
The National Cancer Institute explains that prognosis depends on multiple factors, including the type and stage of cancer, characteristics of the cancer, overall health, and response to treatment. NCI also recognizes that some people find survival statistics useful while others find them frightening or overwhelming.
The numbers were important.
But they were not my personal expiration date.
I Could Not Survive Five Years in One Day
The phrase five-year survival rate can be overwhelming when you are newly diagnosed.
Five years sounded enormous to me.
Impossible.
How was I supposed to think about five years when I was still trying to understand September 9, 2020?
Then I realized something that changed how I approached the journey:
I could not survive five years in one day.
I could survive that day.
I could go to the next appointment.
I could make the next decision.
I could prepare for the next procedure.
I could ask the next question.
Then I could do it again.
Instead of trying to carry five years, I began carrying one appointment.
One decision.
One day.
One step.
That did not make cancer easy.
It made the journey possible to carry.
Learning About Uterine Leiomyosarcoma
Before my diagnosis, I had never needed to know what uterine leiomyosarcoma was.
Afterward, I needed to learn.
Uterine sarcomas are rare cancers that develop in the muscle or supporting tissues of the uterus. Leiomyosarcoma is one type of uterine sarcoma. Treatment and prognosis can depend on factors such as the type and size of the tumor, the stage of disease, overall health, and whether the cancer has spread.
I wanted to understand everything.
Where did this cancer begin?
Where had it traveled?
What treatments were available?
Could surgery remove it?
What chemotherapy drugs were commonly used?
Were clinical trials available?
What did my pathology mean?
What did my stage mean?
What did my prognosis mean?
Research gave me information.
It also frightened me.
That is something I think people should know before they begin searching for information about a rare cancer.
Information can help you feel more in control, but not every piece of information will feel comforting.
Some statistics are frightening.
Some stories are hopeful.
Other stories can make you afraid.
One patient's outcome is not necessarily another patient's outcome.
I eventually learned that I needed to be careful about where I got my information and how I interpreted it.
Reliable Cancer Information Matters
When you are newly diagnosed, it is very easy to type the name of your cancer into a search engine and spend hours reading.
I did it.
But not everything I found deserved the same amount of trust.
Today, I encourage people to begin with reliable cancer organizations, academic medical centers, specialty organizations, and peer-reviewed medical information. Then bring what you learn to your own medical team.
The National Cancer Institute provides information about uterine sarcoma, including treatment by stage and clinical trials.
I include medical resources because I do not want my personal story to become someone's only source of information.
My experience can tell you what happened to "me".
It cannot tell you what will happen to "you".
That distinction matters.
My First Job Was Understanding What Happened Next
I did not need to understand every possible treatment on the first day.
I needed to understand the immediate plan.
Where was the cancer?
Where had it spread?
Was surgery possible?
Which specialists needed to be involved?
What additional testing was needed?
What did the pathology actually say?
What treatment was being recommended?
What was the goal of that treatment?
Those questions gave me something concrete to hold onto.
The National Cancer Institute recommends that patients ask about the exact type and stage of cancer, whether it has spread, what additional tests may be needed, which doctors should be involved, and whether a second opinion might be appropriate.
I did not always understand everything the first time.
That was okay.
I learned that I could ask again.
I Learned to Ask Questions Without Apologizing
At first, medical language could make me feel as though everyone else understood what was happening except me.
I had to learn that I was allowed to say:
“I don't understand.”
I could say:
“Can you explain that again?”
I could ask:
“Why are you recommending this treatment?”
I could ask:
“What are my other options?”
I could ask:
“What happens if this treatment does not work?”
I could ask whether my pathology should be reviewed.
I could ask whether another opinion would be useful.
I could take notes.
I could bring someone with me.
Those things did not make me difficult.
They made me involved in my own care.
NCI specifically recommends writing down questions, taking someone to appointments when possible, asking for simpler explanations, and repeating information back to make sure you understood it correctly.
That was empowering for me.
Not because asking questions gave me control over cancer.
It did not.
But it gave me a voice in what happened next.
I Needed a Medical Team I Could Trust
Having a rare cancer made the importance of medical expertise even more apparent to me.
I needed doctors who understood gynecologic cancer, sarcoma, surgery, chemotherapy, and the specific details of my case.
I also needed people who were willing to explain what they knew and acknowledge what they did not know.
Trust did not mean agreeing with everything without questions.
Trust meant being able to discuss the evidence, risks, treatment options, benefits, and uncertainties honestly.
Becoming an active participant in my care helped me move from shock toward acceptance.
A Second Opinion Was About Understanding My Options
A second opinion does not necessarily mean that you believe the first doctor is wrong.
Sometimes it is simply another opportunity to have a diagnosis or treatment plan reviewed, particularly when dealing with a rare cancer or a complicated situation.
I learned that I could ask whether my pathology should receive another expert review.
I could ask whether additional testing might be useful.
I could ask whether another specialist had a different perspective.
I did not need to apologize for wanting to understand my options.
Being informed was part of caring for myself.
I Learned That My Medical Records Mattered
Cancer creates a mountain of information.
Pathology reports.
Imaging.
Laboratory results.
Operative reports.
Treatment records.
Medication lists.
Appointments.
Questions.
I learned to keep track of as much as I could.
Having information organized made it easier to communicate with different members of my medical team. It also gave me a small sense of control in a situation where so much was outside my control.
There was something comforting about knowing where the information was.
I might not be able to control the scan.
But I could keep the report.
I might not know what the next treatment would bring.
But I could write down the questions I wanted answered.
Sometimes control comes in very small forms.
I Was Still Working
One of the strangest parts of cancer was that my responsibilities did not disappear.
Cancer did not cancel my bills.
It did not cancel my job.
It did not cancel my household responsibilities.
I was still a single mother, even though my children were adults and at different stages of their lives.
I still had work to do.
And I continued working.
Sometimes I think people imagine a cancer diagnosis as though the entire world stops.
Mine did not.
I would talk about tumors and treatment and then return to work.
I would have a medical appointment and then think about ordinary responsibilities.
I would spend part of the day dealing with cancer and another part dealing with everything else.
It could feel cruel.
But sometimes that ordinary life helped me.
Work gave my days structure. It reminded me that I was still a person outside of my diagnosis.
For a few hours, I could focus on something other than cancer.
I Did Not Always Feel Like a Cancer Patient
There were times when I could sit at my computer and work.
I could talk.
I could laugh.
I could make decisions.
I could handle ordinary responsibilities.
And yet I had Stage IV cancer.
That created a strange disconnect.
How could something this serious be happening inside me when I could still function?
The diagnosis was real even when I did not feel like the person described by the diagnosis.
That is one of the strange realities of cancer.
The outside world may see someone who looks relatively normal.
Inside, that person may be carrying fear that nobody else can see.
My Body No Longer Felt Completely Safe
Before cancer, I thought I understood my body.
I had experienced endometriosis, fibroids, cysts, bleeding, and other medical problems. Those things had explanations.
Cancer changed my relationship with my body.
A mass had grown inside me.
Later, additional masses appeared.
The earlier uterine tumor had been called benign.
Suddenly, every pain or unusual symptom could make me wonder:
Is this cancer?
That kind of fear can be exhausting.
I had to learn not to turn every sensation into a prediction.
At the same time, I had to learn not to blame myself for what I had not known.
My body had become a place where I was looking for answers.
I Replayed the Past
After the diagnosis, I looked backward.
I wondered about symptoms.
I wondered about the original surgery.
I wondered about the pathology.
I wondered whether something had been missed.
I wondered what might have happened if things had been different.
Those questions were understandable.
But looking backward can become dangerous when it turns into self-blame.
I had been exposed to a lot of chemicals in the Navy.
I had made decisions based on what I knew at the time.
I could not go back with the knowledge I had gained after the diagnosis.
I could learn from the past.
I could advocate because of the past.
But I could not live there.
Fear Did Not Mean I Had Given Up
I was afraid.
There were times I thought about death.
There were times I thought about treatment and pain.
There were times I wondered how much time I had.
But fear did not mean I had surrendered.
It meant I understood that the situation was serious.
I could be terrified and still choose treatment.
I could cry and still make decisions.
I could be frightened and still show up.
I eventually understood that courage does not always look like confidence.
Sometimes courage looks like walking into the appointment when you would rather run away.
Sometimes it looks like asking the question you are afraid to hear the answer to.
Sometimes it simply looks like getting out of bed and doing the next thing.
Crying Did Not Make Me Weak
There were times when I cried.
Then I got up and did what needed to be done.
Crying did not mean I had stopped fighting.
It did not mean I had lost hope.
It did not mean I was incapable of making decisions.
It meant something painful was happening.
Cancer patients can feel pressure to be strong for everyone else. I learned that I did not have to perform strength every minute.
I could have a bad day.
I could cry.
I could admit that I was scared.
Then I could try again tomorrow.
Strength did not always look like a smile.
Sometimes strength looked like tears followed by another phone call.
My Faith Did Not Remove My Fear
My Christian faith became part of how I faced cancer.
Faith gave me somewhere to place the things I could not control.
It gave me hope.
It reminded me that my worth was not determined by a medical stage or a survival statistic.
But faith did not make me fearless.
I still worried.
I still cried.
I still wondered what would happen.
Faith and fear existed together.
For me, that was not a contradiction.
It was reality.
I did not have to pretend I was never afraid in order to have faith.
Hope Was Not a Promise
I hoped surgery would work.
I hoped chemotherapy would work.
I hoped my body would tolerate treatment.
I hoped I would live long enough to see my grandchildren grow.
But I did not have guarantees.
Eventually, I learned that hope does not have to mean:
“I know everything will be okay.”
Hope can mean:
“I don't know what will happen, but I am going to keep going.”
That was enough.
Hope did not erase uncertainty.
It gave me a reason to keep moving through it.
I Had to Keep Living While Fighting Cancer
This became one of the biggest lessons of my cancer journey.
Cancer treatment can consume your schedule.
But you are still a person.
There are still birthdays.
There are still holidays.
There are still conversations.
There are still meals.
There are still jokes.
There are still people you love.
There are still moments when you can forget about cancer for an hour.
I learned not to feel guilty about those moments.
If I laughed, it did not mean I was ignoring cancer.
If I worked, it did not mean I was pretending cancer did not exist.
If I enjoyed something, it did not mean I was not taking treatment seriously.
Living was part of my fight.
I Did Not Have to Become an Expert
There is a difference between being informed and becoming overwhelmed.
I wanted to understand my cancer.
But I did not need to become an oncologist.
I needed enough knowledge to participate in conversations about my care.
That meant learning the important words.
Understanding my pathology.
Knowing my stage.
Understanding the purpose of treatment.
Knowing what questions to ask.
Knowing where to find reliable information.
Then I could allow my medical team to do what they had trained to do.
That balance mattered.
Being informed gave me a voice.
Trying to understand everything at once could take that voice away because I became too overwhelmed to process anything.
Acceptance Came in Layers
I accepted the biopsy result.
Then I had to accept surgery.
Then treatment.
Then changes to my body.
Then uncertainty.
Then the possibility that cancer could return.
There was no single morning when I woke up completely at peace with Stage IV cancer.
Acceptance came in pieces.
Sometimes I accepted something for a while and then struggled with it again.
I think that is important because people sometimes believe they are failing if they are still upset months or years after a diagnosis.
You are not necessarily going backward.
You may simply be processing another layer.
A diagnosis can change as you experience it.
What seemed impossible during the first week may become manageable later.
Then something new happens, and you have another layer to process.
That does not mean you failed.
It means you are human.
Cancer Changed the Future I Had Imagined
The diagnosis did not only threaten my body.
It changed the future I had expected.
I planned to continue working.
I planned to retire.
I wanted to travel.
I expected to watch my children move through their adult lives.
I wanted to watch my grandchildren grow.
I expected to make plans without first checking a treatment calendar.
Stage IV cancer placed a question mark beside many of those expectations.
That was another form of grief.
I was not only grieving what was happening in my body.
I was grieving the certainty I once felt about tomorrow.
I eventually learned that I could grieve the future I had imagined without giving up on the future that was still possible.
I Could Not Grieve the Entire Future in One Day
The mind can move very quickly.
It can imagine treatment failure, disability, recurrence, pain, death, and every missed future event in a matter of seconds.
Trying to absorb all of those possibilities at once was unbearable.
Most of them had not happened.
Some might never happen.
I needed to return to what was real that day.
What appointment was next?
What did I need to prepare?
Which question needed an answer?
What was within my control?
That became my practice.
When the future became too large, I made it smaller.
I Started Separating Facts From Fears
My mind could create an entire future in seconds.
What if the treatment failed?
What if I died?
What if I could not work?
What if the cancer spread again?
What if I never got to see my grandchildren grow up?
Those fears were real emotions.
But they were not all facts.
The facts were what the doctors knew that day.
The fears were what my mind imagined might happen tomorrow.
For example:
Fact: I had metastatic uterine leiomyosarcoma.
Fact: Tumors had been identified.
Fact: Treatment was being planned.
Fear: Every treatment would fail.
Fear: I would definitely die soon.
Fear: I would never have another normal day.
The fears deserved compassion.
But they did not deserve to become predictions.
That distinction helped me breathe.
I Learned What I Could Still Control
There were many things I could not control.
I could not control whether cancer had developed.
I could not control every scan.
I could not control every treatment response.
I could not control the future.
But there were things I could control.
I could ask questions.
I could organize my records.
I could attend appointments.
I could seek information.
I could ask for help.
I could decide who I wanted beside me.
I could tell my doctors when I did not understand.
I could take medications as directed.
I could report side effects.
I could continue living when I was able.
NCI similarly encourages patients to participate in their health care, ask questions, keep appointments, and focus attention on things within their control as part of coping with cancer.
That idea became very important to me.
I stopped asking myself:
“How do I control cancer?”
and started asking:
“What can I control today?”
That was a much better question.
I Did Not Want Cancer to Become My Entire Identity
I was still me.
I was still a mother.
A grandmother.
A worker.
A friend.
A veteran.
A writer.
A woman with opinions, dreams, responsibilities, and things I still wanted to experience.
I still wanted to travel.
I still wanted to laugh.
I still wanted to cook.
I still wanted to help people.
I still had things I cared about.
Cancer became part of my life.
It did not become all of me.
That distinction became more important as time went on.
I was a person living with cancer.
I was not simply cancer.
What Loved Ones Can Do When Someone Is Newly Diagnosed
A person receiving a cancer diagnosis does not necessarily need everyone around them to solve the future.
Sometimes they need someone to sit quietly.
Sometimes they need someone to listen.
Sometimes they need help writing down medical information.
Sometimes they need someone to drive them to an appointment.
Sometimes they need a meal.
Sometimes they need help organizing records.
Sometimes they need to talk about something completely unrelated to cancer.
And sometimes they need to cry without being told to “stay positive.”
The newly diagnosed patient may not be ready to discuss the next five years.
They may need help getting through the next twenty-four hours.
That is okay.
Questions I Learned to Ask After My Diagnosis
Every cancer diagnosis is different, and these questions are not a substitute for medical advice. They are simply a starting point for conversations with a medical team.
What exactly did my biopsy show?
What type of cancer do I have?
What is the stage?
Where has the cancer spread?
What additional testing do I need?
What is the goal of the recommended treatment?
What are my treatment options?
What are the potential benefits and risks?
How will we know whether treatment is working?
Should my pathology be reviewed by another specialist?
Would a second opinion be helpful?
Are clinical trials appropriate for my cancer?
Are additional tumor or molecular tests appropriate?
What side effects should I report immediately?
Who should I contact between appointments?
What medical records should I keep?
What information should I bring to my next appointment?
NCI provides additional questions for people dealing with cancer diagnosis, treatment, advanced cancer, and clinical trials.
The important thing I learned was that I did not have to remember everything.
I could write it down.
I could bring someone with me.
I could ask the same question twice.
I could say, “I don't understand.”
That was allowed.
What I Wish Someone Had Told Me About Stage IV Cancer
I wish someone had told me that I could understand my diagnosis medically before I accepted it emotionally.
I wish someone had told me that hearing “Stage IV” did not mean I needed to know my entire future that day.
I wish someone had told me that statistics describe groups of people and cannot predict my exact life.
I wish someone had told me that fear did not mean I had lost hope.
I wish someone had told me that crying did not mean I was weak.
I wish someone had told me that asking questions was part of being an informed patient.
I wish someone had told me that it was okay to ask a doctor to explain something again.
I wish someone had told me that ordinary life could continue in the middle of cancer.
I wish someone had told me that faith and fear could exist together.
I wish someone had told me that I did not have to carry the whole future at once.
Most of all, I wish someone had told me:
“You do not have to accept the diagnosis, the treatment, the uncertainty, and the entire future in one day. Accept enough of today to take the next step.”
If You Have Just Been Diagnosed With Stage IV Cancer
If you are reading this because you or someone you love has just been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer, I want you to know something.
I am not going to tell you that everything will be fine.
I cannot promise that.
I am not going to tell you to be positive every minute.
You do not have to pretend you are not afraid.
You do not have to understand every medical term immediately.
You do not have to make every decision alone.
Instead, start smaller.
Ask questions.
Write things down.
Take someone with you when you can.
Learn the exact name and stage of your cancer.
Ask what happens next.
Ask what the goal of treatment is.
Ask about your options.
Ask whether another opinion would be helpful.
Find reliable information.
Give yourself permission to have emotions.
Ask for help.
Hold onto whatever gives you strength.
And then look at the next step.
Not five years.
Not the entire treatment journey.
Not every possible complication.
The next step.
My Hope for Someone Reading My Story
I cannot tell you what your cancer journey will look like.
I cannot promise you a particular outcome.
I cannot tell you that your fear will disappear.
But I can tell you what I learned from my own experience with metastatic uterine leiomyosarcoma.
You can be afraid and keep going.
You can cry and still be strong.
You can question your doctors and still respect them.
You can seek another opinion without being disloyal.
You can learn without becoming an expert.
You can look at statistics without allowing them to define you.
You can have faith and still be afraid.
You can accept help.
You can continue to laugh.
You can continue to work when you are able.
You can continue to love your family.
You can still have good moments.
You can still have hope.
And when the entire journey becomes too much to imagine, make it smaller.
One appointment.
One question.
One decision.
One day.
One step.
That is how I learned to live with Stage IV uterine leiomyosarcoma.
One step at a time.
Frequently Asked Questions
When was my metastatic cancer confirmed?
A biopsy confirmed metastatic leiomyosarcoma on September 9, 2020.
What type of cancer did I have?
I was diagnosed with Stage IV uterine leiomyosarcoma, a rare type of uterine sarcoma.
Did I immediately accept my cancer diagnosis?
No. I understood the medical words before I emotionally accepted that those words described my life.
What did acceptance mean to me?
Acceptance did not mean agreeing with cancer or feeling peaceful about it. It meant recognizing that the diagnosis was real and taking part in the decisions that needed to be made.
Did Stage IV cancer tell me exactly how long I would live?
No. Stage IV describes the extent of cancer. It does not provide an exact personal expiration date.
Prognosis can depend on many factors, including cancer type, stage, tumor characteristics, overall health, and response to treatment.
Did I continue working after my diagnosis?
Yes. I continued working while preparing for medical appointments, surgery, and treatment.
Did I stop being afraid?
No. Fear remained part of the journey. I learned that fear and courage could exist at the same time.
Did faith remove my fear?
No. My Christian faith gave me hope and strength and helped me face things I could not control, but it did not make the diagnosis less serious or eliminate uncertainty.
Why did I focus on one step at a time?
Trying to imagine treatment, recurrence, disability, death, and the entire future at once was overwhelming. Focusing on the immediate decision made the journey more manageable.
Does acceptance happen only once?
Not necessarily. For me, acceptance came in layers. I had to process different parts of the journey as new treatments, changes, and uncertainties appeared.
Support for the Journey
A Stage IV cancer diagnosis can overwhelm a person with medical information, fear, statistics, appointments, and questions about the future.
That is part of why I want this story to be more than a story about what happened to me.
I want it to become a place where other people can recognize themselves.
Surviving Life Lessons Community Groups are being formed so patients, survivors, and caregivers can discuss diagnosis shock, acceptance, treatment decisions, fear, faith, medical uncertainty, and the experience of taking a cancer journey one step at a time.
The purpose is simple.
Sometimes a person does not need someone to tell them how the entire story will end.
Sometimes they need help figuring out what comes next.
# You Do Not Have to Carry the Entire Future Today
Looking back at September 9, 2020, I can see how much I wanted answers.
I wanted to know what would happen.
I wanted to know whether treatment would work.
I wanted to know how long I had.
I wanted to know whether the cancer could be controlled.
I wanted certainty.
But cancer does not always give us certainty.
Sometimes it gives us a diagnosis.
Then an appointment.
Then a decision.
Then another appointment.
Then another decision.
And somewhere in between all of those medical moments, we are still expected to live.
I learned that acceptance was not one dramatic moment when I suddenly became at peace with Stage IV uterine leiomyosarcoma.
It was much quieter than that.
Acceptance began when I stopped waiting to feel ready.
It began when I recognized what was real.
It continued when I asked questions.
It grew when I learned what I could control.
It deepened when I allowed myself to cry without believing that tears meant weakness.
It strengthened when I allowed faith and fear to exist together.
And it became possible when I stopped trying to survive the entire future at once.
I could not carry five years.
I could carry today.
I could carry the next appointment.
The next question.
The next decision.
The next day.
The next step.
That is what I know now that I did not know when I first heard the words "Stage IV uterine leiomyosarcoma".
You do not have to accept everything today.
You do not have to understand everything today.
You do not have to stop being afraid today.
You do not have to know how the entire story ends.
Sometimes you only need enough information, support, faith, courage, and hope to take the next step.
"And sometimes, the next step is enough."
Find Your Community
No one should have to face life's challenges alone. At Surviving Life Lessons, we believe in life survivors helping life strugglers. Explore our growing Community Groups to connect with others who understand your journey, share encouragement, and find hope through meaningful conversations. You'll also have the opportunity to introduce yourself and share your own story of overcoming. Your story matters. It may be the encouragement someone else needs to keep moving forward, reminding them that they are not alone and that hope is always possible.
Your Story Matters
We need your nice comments below! Your thoughts, experiences, and lessons learned might be exactly what someone else needs to hear today.
Drop a comment, Say Hello, and join the conversation.
Need More Personalized Support?
Everyone's journey is unique. If you're looking for personalized guidance, encouragement, or one-on-one support, explore our services to find the option that's right for you. We're here to help you take your next step with confidence and hope.
Helpful Resources for Your Journey
Explore our collection of books, journals, coloring books, and printable PDFs designed to encourage, inspire, and support you every step of the way.
References
National Cancer Institute. “Coping with Cancer.” National Cancer Institute.
National Cancer Institute. “Emotions and Cancer.” National Cancer Institute.
National Cancer Institute. “Questions to Ask Your Doctor About Cancer.” National Cancer Institute.
National Cancer Institute. “Questions to Ask Your Doctor About Your Diagnosis.” National Cancer Institute.
National Cancer Institute. “Questions to Ask Your Doctor About Cancer Treatment.” National Cancer Institute.
National Cancer Institute. “Talking With Your Health Care Team.” National Cancer Institute.
www.cancer.gov/about-cancer/coping/adjusting-to-cancer/talk-with-doctors
National Cancer Institute. “Cancer Prognosis.” National Cancer Institute.
National Cancer Institute. “Uterine Sarcoma Treatment.” National Cancer Institute.
www.cancer.gov/types/uterine/patient/uterine-sarcoma-treatment-pdq
About the Author:
Deborah Ann Martin is the founder of Surviving Life Lessons, a published author, poet, speaker, and trainer with over 20 years of management experience across multiple industries. An MBA graduate, U.S. veteran, single mother, and rare cancer survivor, Deborah brings both professional expertise and lived experience to her writing on resilience, leadership, personal growth, and overcoming adversity. Her mission is to empower others with practical wisdom and real-life insight to navigate life’s challenges with strength and purpose.
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