*Updated 1/7/2026

TL;DR: My sister Karina underwent preventative surgeries after testing positive for the BRCA1 mutation. Complications, chronic pain, a Fibromyalgia diagnosis and loss of insurance followed. Additional surgeries became necessary, she was diagnosed with stage 1 cancer and is now undergoing six months of chemotherapy. Treatment has been physically and emotionally devastating, and she has since lost her job. Funds raised here help cover ongoing medical care, chemotherapy-related costs, medications, and basic living expenses while she remains unable to work.

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Nobody wants to be here—not me, not you, and least of all my sister Karina—but here we are.

Three years ago, Karina tested positive for a high-risk genetic mutation (BRCA1) that significantly increases the likelihood of developing cancer. Given our family history, this wasn’t abstract or theoretical—it was looming. After years of monitoring, scans, tests, and planning around what little financial flexibility they had, Karina made the difficult and proactive decision to undergo prophylactic surgeries to reduce her risk.

These were not easy surgeries. They were physically grueling and emotionally heavy, and required long recoveries. What no one knew at the time—what went undetected by her medical team—was that Karina had an underlying condition that would severely complicate healing. Her recovery stalled, then declined. Pain escalated. Swelling became unmanageable. Attempts to return to work failed repeatedly. Medications either rendered her nonfunctional or did nothing at all. Physical therapy, lymphatic drainage, pain specialists, trigger point injections, dry needling—every option was pursued.

Some things helped briefly. Others made it worse. The financial toll mounted faster than the medical answers came.

And things being how they are, the most pressing injury quickly became the financial one.

Before I go further, yes—she’s married. No—her husband Tim is not a layabout. Tim has been disabled for several years due to an autonomic disorder that appeared suddenly and without warning. He works as much as he can without causing dangerous flare-ups, which—because bodies are rude—still happen anyway. They have both been doing everything in their power to stay afloat.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because this family has been here before. About six years ago, Tim’s illness abruptly removed his ability to work, medical bills piled up, and disability was denied due to lack of diagnostic clarity. With no other options, I asked friends and family for help. Many of you showed up. Because of that generosity, they paid off bills, moved in with me, hired a disability lawyer, eventually secured a diagnosis, and rebuilt. They stabilized. They bought a small townhome. They put their son in a good school. They adopted two floppy dogs. They were careful, grateful, and deliberate with every cent.

So when Karina tested positive for BRCA1, they believed they were finally ready to face it head-on.

Her bilateral mastectomy initially appeared successful. Recovery seemed on track. She planned to return to work. But once she had to taper off pain medication, it became clear her body was reacting aggressively and unpredictably. Severe nerve pain, swelling, and exhaustion derailed everything. Eventually, she was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, a chronic condition that causes widespread pain and complicates recovery—especially after surgical trauma.

Then came delays. COVID postponed her reconstruction. Insurance lapsed. Short-term disability ended four days after her rescheduled surgery date. Tim required emergency surgery of his own, eliminating the possibility of additional work hours. Out-of-pocket costs ballooned as appointments, imaging, prescriptions, and follow-ups became something they had to calculate, ration, or postpone. All of your support helped keep her on track.

During the course of three additional surgeries, Karina was diagnosed with stage 1 ovarian cancer.

That sentence still feels unreal to type.

This is a cancer that is notoriously difficult to detect and is most often diagnosed at stage 3 or 4, after it has already spread. There is no reliable way to screen for it early, so it is often aggressive and carries a high mortality rate. Catching it at this stage is rare—almost unheard of.

The good news—the real, honest, life-altering good news—is that it was caught early. And it was caught early because of the surgeries, the vigilance, and the breathing room and access to care your support made possible. The road is not easy, but now she has a strong chance of surviving and thriving beyond.

Karina is currently undergoing six months of chemotherapy, which has been physically and emotionally punishing. She remains unable to work.

Chemotherapy has been brutal in ways that are hard to summarize cleanly. It seems to bring bone-deep exhaustion that sleep doesn’t touch, pain that never fully lets go but flares without warning, nausea that comes in waves, a fog that makes simple tasks feel strangely out of reach, and days where just getting out of bed takes more than she has to give.

She has lost all of her hair, a visible marker of what treatment has taken from her. Less visible are the long stretches where her body feels hollowed out by treatment, where standing up is an effort and getting through the day becomes the only goal. Rest comes in fragments, interrupted by nerve pain and pervasive neuropathy that follows her into the night and leave her depleted before the day even begins.

The mental toll compounds the physical—living in constant pain, bracing for the next round, and carrying the quiet fear of what comes after this weighs heavily. Recovery between cycles is neither linear nor guaranteed and just when she begins to feel a little steadier, the next round knocks her back down again. Pushing through isn’t an option when the work her body is doing is surviving.

In the months between the last update and now, Karina lost her job. Medical expenses continue to grow, insurance coverage has been inconsistent, and many necessary follow-ups, oncology appointments, imaging, prescriptions, and supportive care are now out of pocket. The support raised here goes directly toward continuing treatment, managing symptoms, keeping appointments, and covering basic living expenses are piling up again—not because of poor planning or lack of effort, but because bodies sometimes fail people who do everything right.

I have watched my sister and her family exhaust every option before asking for help again. I have watched them hesitate, worried it would betray the kindness shown to them the last time they stood here. I have watched them joke through tears, recalibrate plans, and modify bootstraps that have already been pulled to their limit.

No one wants to be here. But more than that—no one wants to stay here.

If you are able to give, if you are able to share this page and this story, you are helping cover medical care, chemotherapy-related expenses, prescriptions, utilities, and frankly, the basic stability required to keep going. Your generosity already changed the course of this story once. It did so again—quite literally saving my sister’s life. Rest assured, you are helping ensure that catching this cancer early actually leads somewhere better.

It would mean more than I could ever hope to verbalize.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for your continued attention. And thank you—for the timely care, the compassion, and the chance you’ve given my sister to heal and move forward.

— Adriana