What If One Day This Gets Better?

In this story, collected through our story portal, Krashnika recalls a moment in her cancer treatment when the pain and exhaustion became nearly too much to bear. She started replaying one small question in the back of her mind: What if one day this gets better?

Krashnika’s Story

I was 22 when I was diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma, and my first reaction was disbelief. I had always thought I was doing everything “right.” I ate well, did not drink or smoke, and had no family history of cancer. I kept thinking, "How can this be happening to me at 22?"

Getting a diagnosis took time. For months, I had recurring fever and cough during the COVID period, so it was repeatedly treated as something viral. Then I developed a lump in my neck. Doctors initially suspected tuberculosis and started treatment, but instead of improving, I became much sicker. I lost weight, lost my appetite, became extremely weak, and even started losing my hair. An FNAC (fine needle aspiration cytology) was inconclusive, and eventually a biopsy confirmed Hodgkin lymphoma.

By then, I was frightened. I had lost some trust in what was happening. I remember asking my doctor, “What if this diagnosis is wrong too?” But I chose to trust my medical team and began treatment.

Treatment was far harder than I had imagined. It affected my physical health, mental health, finances, and sense of who I was. I was constantly nauseous, lost a frightening amount of weight, became too weak to walk, and at my lowest point spent time in the ICU and palliative care.

There was a moment when my blood pressure had dropped and I was so exhausted and in so much pain that I genuinely wanted to give up.

Then my doctor told me something that stayed with me: the dignity was in continuing.

At the time, I did not suddenly become brave or hopeful. I simply kept going with a small thought in the back of my mind: "What if one day this gets better?"

There were days during treatment when I felt like I was going through hell. I honestly could not see any light at the end of it. My body was getting weaker, treatment was making me sicker before I got better, and I had no way of knowing when — or even if — I would feel like myself again.

The hardest part was having to trust that things could get better when I had no evidence of that in front of me.

I did not manage my uncertainty by suddenly becoming positive. Most of the time, I managed it by making life smaller. I stopped trying to imagine the whole journey and focused on getting through the next treatment, the next day, and sometimes just the next few hours.

I also learned to borrow hope from the people around me when I did not have enough of my own. My doctors believed I could get better before I was able to believe it myself. Sometimes that was enough to keep me going.

Looking back now, I think that’s how I survived the uncertainty — not by knowing everything would be okay, but by continuing even when I did not know.

Eventually, things did get better.

Four years later, I am here. I have a normal job, I make plans, I laugh, and I worry about ordinary things. I live a life that once felt very far away.

If you are going through treatment, I do not want to tell you to be positive every day. I only want you to know that there were days when I could not imagine the life I have now. Sometimes you do not need to know how the whole story ends. You just need enough hope to continue to the next day.

What I Wish I Had Known

When I was diagnosed, I did not know anyone my age who had gone through cancer. I did not know about support groups, survivor communities, or places where I could speak to someone who understood what treatment felt like.

Even when I was in palliative care, most of the people around me were much older. I remember looking around and feeling completely out of place. I kept thinking, "Why am I here? I am 22. I am not supposed to be here." It made everything feel even more unfair.

My family was there for me, but there are some things that are very difficult to explain to someone who has not lived through them. I think it would have helped enormously to speak to another young person who had been scared, angry, exhausted, or confused in the same way — and who could tell me that those feelings were normal.

I wish someone had told me earlier that support exists, and that asking for it is not weakness. I wish I had known that I did not have to go through cancer feeling so alone.

If I had known there were communities of patients and survivors who understood this experience, I think I would have felt a little less isolated. And that is one reason I want to share my story now: If you are a young adult going through cancer and feel like nobody around you understands, I want you to know that you are not alone.

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Learning How to Live Again

For a long time, I thought survivorship meant making it through cancer. Four years later, I think it means something more. It means learning how to live again, without letting what happened become my entire identity.

Cancer has made me more intentional, more empathetic, and much more aware that life can change very quickly. I still have fears and difficult memories, but I also have a stronger desire to build a life that feels meaningful to me — not simply a life that I survived long enough to have.

Today I work in the oncology space. Because I have been a patient, the word patient never feels abstract to me, and it will never be an abstract word again. Behind every number is a person, a family, a treatment decision, and a life that can be completely changed by what happens next.

If you are going through cancer, I want you to know that you do not have to be brave all the time. I also want you to know that there is dignity in asking for help. There is dignity in saying, “I am not okay.” There is dignity in taking life one day at a time when thinking about the future feels too overwhelming.

Finally, if you feel like you cannot see any light right now, I hope you know that sometimes hope can be borrowed — from a doctor, a family member, another survivor, or even a stranger’s story — until you are able to find some of your own again.