Help Michelle on Her Journey After Surgery

Michelle’s Story: A Fight for Life, Stability, and a Future

My story began in 2012 when I first felt that something wasn’t right in my body. I couldn’t explain it at first—there was just a deep, gnawing sense that something was wrong. I visited doctors, hoping someone would listen, would understand, and would find the source of my fear. After months of appointments, unanswered questions, and sleepless nights, I finally had surgery in April of 2013. The doctors told me they believed they had removed all of the cancer. I held on to those words like a lifeline, thinking I could finally breathe again. For years after that, I lived cautiously but hopefully, trying to reclaim a sense of normalcy. I believed the worst was behind me.

Time passed, and I began to let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I was safe. From 2013 through 2023, I did my best to live fully while also staying vigilant. I celebrated each birthday, every clean scan, and each holiday as a quiet victory. But deep down, I never completely relaxed. That fear lingered in the background like a shadow I couldn’t shake. Then in 2023, I began to notice things that didn’t feel right. My energy dropped, discomfort grew, and my body began sending signals again. I trusted my instincts and returned to the doctors, but they couldn’t find anything—over and over, I was told everything looked fine.

Even when the tests said “normal,” I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong. I felt like I was losing my mind, trapped between fear and dismissal. Still, I pushed forward, trying to function while carrying this silent dread. It wasn’t until July 2023—after insisting something be done—that further imaging and testing were ordered. The silence in the room when they reviewed the results told me what I feared most. In August 2023, I was told the unthinkable: Stage IV Clear Cell Ovarian Cancer. It felt like the air had been ripped from my lungs. I had been right all along—but nothing could have prepared me for the devastation of that confirmation.

As if that wasn’t enough, I had just lost both of my parents weeks before hearing that news. Grieving them was already shattering my world, and then I was told I had to fight for my own life. I couldn’t even finish mourning their loss before I had to become a warrior all over again. It was the loneliest, most terrifying moment I’ve ever known. I cried in silence, holding myself up because no one else could. I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart—I had to move forward and find doctors, specialists, treatment plans. I turned to Beebe Tunnel Cancer Center, Johns Hopkins, and the University of Pennsylvania, determined to find hope somewhere in the chaos. Even when I didn’t feel brave, I chose to keep going.

Chemo began, and it took everything from me—my hair, my energy, my appetite, my sense of self. Every round felt like it chipped away at my body, but not my will. Then, in the middle of that battle, I was blindsided again. My job let me go under the guise of “company restructuring.” I was the only person in my market affected. I couldn’t help but feel discarded, like my illness made me inconvenient. Losing my income while enduring chemo was another blow, another loss layered on top of so many others. But I kept showing up. Because I refuse to quit.

I found a new job recently, something that gave me a sliver of hope again. But now I’m facing my most critical fight yet: a high-risk, life-saving surgery scheduled for April 24, 2025, at the University of Pennsylvania. My tumor is dangerously close to my abdominal aorta, and surgeons have warned me I may lose my left kidney. The procedure is so complex that three surgical teams will be involved, and the full outcome won’t be known until I’m on the operating table. I’m scared, but I know I have no choice but to face it head-on.

But my short-term disability doesn’t start until eight weeks after my last workday—leaving me with no income during recovery.

I am fundraising to cover my living expenses and medical bills during this critical period. Your support will help me focus on my recovery without the added stress of financial instability.

With all my heart,

Michelle