I got stage 4 cancer in my 40s. My young daughter and husband keep me fighting

When I was first diagnosed with rare metastatic appendiceal cancer in October 2023, my world blew up. It was a diagnosis with no known cure and no specific treatment protocol. Talk about shattered dreams. I had just turned 40 and had been married only three years. My daughter wasn’t even 2 years old yet. I shared the terrifying early days of my diagnosis here on Fox News and how stunned I was to be diagnosed with stage 4 cancer despite having minimal symptoms. 

Later, I wrote about my fierce determination to fight for my husband and young daughter because I had “too much to lose.” At the time, my entire existence shrunk to a single, desperate objective: Do everything possible to beat cancer.

So, I suited up for battle. Over the past nearly three years, I’ve lost count of the rounds of chemotherapy I’ve endured. Maybe 45? Alongside the chemo came multiple surgeries, constant scans, port placements, hernias, drains, stents, bags, a 30-pound weight loss, and lots of flights back and forth to Texas for a targeted treatment. My life is lived day to day.

And yet, the world doesn’t stop turning just because you have stage 4 cancer.

I’M A 40-YEAR-OLD MOM AND WIFE WITH STAGE 4 CANCER. HERE’S WHAT I WANT YOU TO KNOW

All of this medical warfare happens while I am still mothering a spunky 4-year-old girl who is my entire world. It happens while I am trying to be a present wife, take care of a house, work as a journalist, be a supportive daughter to ailing parents, and desperately claw at whatever energy I have left to do the things I love.

The whiplash of these transitions is where the real exhaustion lives. In the span of a single week, I can fly to Texas, sit in a cold, sterile infusion room, fly back to New Jersey, spend two days with my head in a toilet bowl, and then force myself up to play dress-up with my daughter, take her to dance class, buy groceries, and run the everyday errands a healthy person takes for granted. Then, if I’m lucky, my husband, daughter, and I get a brief window to do “normal” family things before the entire brutal cycle resets.

When there is no end in sight—no definitive light at the end of the tunnel—the weight of that routine feels crushing. Factor in sudden setbacks such as unexpected hospital stays, and any remaining sense of control simply vanishes. Chasing down clinical trials feels like another full-time job.

I’M 41 WITH A HUSBAND AND CHILD. I HAVE TOO MUCH TO LOSE AND WON’T GIVE UP MY FIGHT AGAINST CANCER

This isn’t about “staying positive” or “being strong.” This is the grueling reality of cancer. You either choose to face it, or you quit and wither away. I refuse to quit, no matter how many roadblocks are thrown in my path. But refusing to quit doesn’t mean I don’t break. I allow myself to cry, and I allow myself to get angry. 

Unfortunately, the people closest to me have to witness that raw ugliness. They see the messy tears; they bear the brunt of the moments I snap and scream. It is what it is. Luckily, the people who regularly witness my breakdowns understand the toll of this siege, and they keep showing up for me and my family anyway. I am profoundly grateful that they do.

People often ask why I don’t just take a leave of absence and step away from work, or how I manage to keep parenting through the physical wreckage of ongoing treatment. The answer is simple: These roles are the anchors keeping me tethered to who I am.

I love my job. I often work during my infusions because it is therapeutic; it forces my mind off oncology timelines. And when it comes to parenting, my husband and I are blessed with a smart, empathetic, healthy little girl. But as she gets older, the boundaries of her innocence are tested. We find ourselves having to explain more. We talk about the scars and bumps on my “Frankenstein tummy.” We talk about God and angels.

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Behind closed doors, my husband and I have to navigate the terrifying conversations you hope you will never have in a lifetime. Sometimes, the heaviest things go entirely unsaid because we are both paralyzed by the exact same fears. That, too, is the reality of fighting cancer with a young child in the house.

Back in 2023, after my first few infusions, I envisioned victory as a traditional finish line: a clean scan, a final treatment, a definitive surgery that removes every cancer cell. Today, I have to accept the reality that those specific victories are unlikely.

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But I have learned that a lack of a cure does not mean a lack of victory. My definition of a “win” has simply evolved.

Now, a win looks like having enough strength to be out on the ice, at the beach or on the ski slopes with my family. It looks like making it through the afternoon without needing a nap before picking up my daughter from school. It’s finishing a workout or staying up late with my husband watching “The Sopranos” reruns. It’s completing normal, everyday tasks.

When I was first diagnosed, a friend who was intimately familiar with cancer told me, “This is just a chapter in your life story.” It has turned out to be an incredibly long, gritty, painful chapter. But the truth is, none of us truly know when our story will end. 

I am still fighting, still working, and still loving with everything I have—and I am praying for many more chapters to come.

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