Hi,

My name is Hanna Alm and I am 44 years old. I live with my partner Daniel and our 13-year-old daughter Rut.

In March 2021, I was diagnosed with stage 1b1 cervical cancer. I had surgery, and the doctors believed everything would be fine. In November 2023, I discovered a lump in my armpit, and it turned out the cancer had returned, spreading through the lymphatic system and forming several tumors in the pelvic area and peritoneum. I will never forget the doctor’s words and the look in his eyes when he told me: the cancer is incurable and is considered chronic. My world collapsed, the walls closed in around me, and all I could think was, Rut can’t grow up without her mom. I can’t die.

I underwent tough chemotherapy treatments between December and April. The tumors shrank slightly, but my panic and fear of death grew just as fast. I tried to hold it together—for those around me, for myself, because I felt I had to. After chemotherapy, I started immunotherapy, a treatment that has shown remarkable results in some cases. After six months on this treatment, with horrific side effects, new scans showed that it had no effect. The cancer was growing again.

I chose to participate in a clinical trial in Uppsala, testing a promising new drug. Fifty percent of participants would receive the new medication, the rest would get traditional chemotherapy. The lottery was done, and the doctor called with a shaky voice to tell me I wouldn’t be getting the new drug. I tried not to think, not to feel, to stay in the moment—but it was hard, endlessly hard. I had another round of chemotherapy for about five months. My body and mind are so exhausted, so tired, sick of fighting, sick of trying to smile. This treatment didn’t work either. The cancer is growing again.

My doctor now says we’re running out of options. She decided to try surgery—if she could find a surgeon willing to take on the job. She did, and the operation was performed in June this year. Now here I stand—the large tumor is gone. But the doctor says it’s not a question of if the cancer will return, but when and where. The assessment is that I may have a couple of years left to live.

My dreams of seeing Rut grow up, have children of her own, and supporting her through life are gone. I can only manage to look ahead a month, a week—sometimes just one day. When people talk about retirement or future plans, I shut down, try to breathe, and smile. But the anxiety tears at my chest—I want to scream. I have to hold it together, I have to try to stay in the present. If you can—live your lives!

This is where you all come in ❤️

I so deeply wish for a bit of peace, some calm—a chance to enjoy what time I have left. To create memories for Rut. To be the parent I want to be.

I need help. Help to create space for joy and experiences. But it’s not possible—I don’t have the means. I want to be able to relax, enjoy life, and not worry about finances.

I hate that I have to ask for help, but we only get one life, and mine is limited—I want to make the most of it.

With your help, maybe I can.

If you’re able to help me—big or small—please do. Share this fundraiser with everyone you think might be able to help, in Sweden and abroad. I will be eternally grateful❤️