Clear-cell renal cell carcinoma. Even after having my left kidney removed, I’m still fighting because my daughter still needs me.

I thought I had already gotten through the hardest part

In 1996, I was diagnosed with a malignant tumor in my left ovary. I underwent a difficult course of chemotherapy, during which it was necessary to remove my uterus and ovaries. It was one of those moments in life that make you look at life and health differently. Over the years, I tried to move on with my life, even though the illness had left a lasting mark on me. I thought, however, that the hardest part was already behind me. Time slowly healed my wounds—both the physical ones and those in my heart. Life went on at its own pace, dictated by daily routines.

My peace of mind was unexpectedly shattered by yet another cancer diagnosis, which I received in March 2026.

On April 10, 2026, I underwent a left-sided laparoscopic nephrectomy—the surgical removal of my left kidney. Another burden has fallen on my shoulders. Fear has returned, and every day my body reminds me of how much it has been through. I’m learning to live with it all over again. I’m learning to live with its limitations all over again. After the surgery, I never returned to the everyday life I once knew. I experience frequent headaches and dizziness. My body feels as if it’s in a constant state of danger, against which it’s trying to defend itself. Digestive problems sap my strength. I’m struggling with high creatinine levels, bacteria in my urine, and the consequences of living with one kidney. My mental health, due to a diagnosis of anxiety disorder and depression, requires specialized care and medication.

I no longer leave the house on my own. I experience dizziness, pain, and weakness far too often. Even a simple trip to get test results requires a caregiver to be present. It’s difficult when a person who has strived to be independent for years suddenly begins to fear their own body. I have no appetite. I rely on a specialized diet, which my weakened body sometimes has trouble tolerating. More and more often, I feel helpless, drained of energy and motivation, even though I know I have to keep fighting.

The fear I feel is paralyzing. I’m afraid of everything related to my illness: more tests, doctor’s appointments, what the results will show, and whether my body will be able to handle further treatment. And yet, I’m alive. And I’m fighting.

My illness affects my whole family

Cancer doesn’t stop at the patient’s body. It enters the home, creeps into conversations, affects relationships, and fills the silence among loved ones.
My husband and daughter help me every day. They’re there for me when I’m too weak, when I have to go for tests, and when I can’t control my fear. But I know that my illness is a burden on them, too.

Sometimes my emotions get the better of me. I can be unstable, nervous, and difficult. Later, I feel regret, because I know they’re suffering too. Sometimes my husband hugs me and tells me everything will be okay. Sometimes he leaves the house himself, just to take a breather from the tension that’s been with us every day for months. My daughter understands more than I’d like her to have to understand. She’s afraid that her mom will die. That sentence stays with me the most.

I have to fight for my daughter

My daughter is adopted. She has FAS and a significant intellectual disability. In many ways, she still needs my support, my presence, and a sense of security. That’s why I can’t afford to give up. Even when my body refuses to cooperate. Even when fear overpowers reason. Even when an ordinary day demands more strength than I can muster.

It’s for her that I try every day to get out of bed, go through another round of tests, endure another doctor’s visit, another set of results, and another difficult moment.

Please help me

I still have further diagnostic tests ahead of me, follow-up appointments with specialists, treatment for complications, doctor’s visits, commutes, medications, psychological support, and the day-to-day challenges of living in a reality that has become much more difficult since my illness.

I am also waiting for medical evaluations at the PCPR and ZUS, but I need help right now so that I can safely move through the next stages of treatment and maintain at least some sense of stability in my daily life.

Please give me a chance to get treatment, to regain my strength, and to continue being there for my daughter, who looks at me with fear every day—and I would love, with all my heart, to be able to tell her more than just, “I’m trying, sweetie.”