The last thing I expected the year before I turned 40 was to be diagnosed with Stage 3 stomach cancer. I had plans to train and run a marathon by my 40th birthday on August 2025, but life unexpectedly signed me up for a different marathon--a marathon that started in October 2024 with ER visits for frequent vomiting, precipitous weight loss and severe malnutrition followed by CT-scans, ultrasound, and endoscopies. My route took an abrupt detour when I was hospitalized and the endoscopy revealed an aggressive tumor, 5.5 x 4.2 cm in size, that was causing the blockage in my stomach; the biopsy and pathology report classified it as a gastric signet ring cell adenocarcinoma. Genetic testing would later reveal the cause as a hereditary mutation of the CDH1 gene, which increases the risk of developing stomach cancer at an early age. (https://nostomachforcancer.org/about-stomach-cancer/risks-genetics-prevention-of-stomach-cancer/hereditary-diffuse-gastric-cancer/)

The next couple of weeks was like trudging a relentless uphill section where my stomach was pumped around the clock to prepare for a subtotal gastrectomy that culminated in a 5-hour surgery to remove 90% of my stomach and extract the tumor and stomach lymph nodes where the cancer had already advanced. And this uphill section seemed never-ending--a blood clot was found in my lungs after the surgery, and the blood thinner intended to dissolve the clot caused hematemesis and anemia which then required a blood transfusion. When I was finally released from the hospital after 3 weeks to begin recovering at home, I took a long look at myself in the mirror and didn’t even recognize the body that I was in: the atrophied muscles, the sallow skin that hadn’t felt outdoor sunlight for weeks, the scarred punctures across both arms from countless IVs and blood draws, the 7-inch vertical gash on my stomach from the surgery--this was not the body of an aspiring marathon runner or even a healthy person in their late 30s in general. And then there’s still chemotherapy…

I’ve pretty much recovered from the surgery, physically (mentally, I’m still getting used to the post-surgery changes in my body and learning to accept that this is still mine and it’s still a strong one), but for the first half of this year, my marathon to defeat cancer will continue with chemotherapy and immunotherapy. I took off from the starting line on January 10, 2025 and will undergo 2-week cycles of treatment until mid-June.

I have always prided myself on being a "Type-A" and self-sufficient person. But the experience I’ve had these past few months has taught me humility, vulnerability, the value of rest and slowing down, and the grace of accepting and asking for help. I’m sharing this story with my community and asking for your help. With each detail I’ve recounted, starting with the ER visits and continuing with chemotherapy (and the tests I’ll be taking for the rest of my life to keep the cancer from recurring), underlies the financial burdens and anxieties that come with the colossal cost of cancer (averaging ~$150,000 a year), from initial care to lifelong management: every doctor’s and specialist’s appointment, prescription medicines, multiple CT scans and bloodwork, genetic and biomarker tests, treatments, procedures, infusions, port installations and removal, therapy, dietary adjustments, transportation, and unforeseeable complications. I would be deeply grateful for any help you’re able to give to soften the financial brunt from my treatments and in doing so, you are ultimately giving me the freedom to focus fully on fighting this cancer and healing.

Although my experience with cancer has been harrowing, I feel tremendously thankful and fortunate for the outpouring of kindness, compassion, and love that I have received from family, friends, medical care team and staff, and especially from my husband Omar Noury, who has been by my side and taking care of me through every milestone.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story and giving me hope that I can still have a thriving life to look forward to after I cross the finish line.