They say laughter is the best medicine. Granted, chemotherapy, radiation, and a skilled oncologist are also quite useful, but humor? That’s what carried me through the strangest, scariest, and most unforgettable moments of my journey.
Today is Daffodil Day. Before my diagnosis, I had never even heard of it. The daffodil represents spring and renewal and on Daffodil Day, people wear a pin with the emblematic flower as a symbol of hope, resilience, and support for those facing an unexpected battle. It’s widely recognized in Ireland, where I was treated, but its spirit belongs to anyone who has ever been blindsided by a life-altering event. If you’ve ever endured endless medical appointments, awkward procedures, or well-meaning but misguided reassurances, you know exactly what I mean.
It all started with a routine pap smear. The first two attempts to get a proper sample failed, so I had to go in for a third. By then, I told the nurse, “You’ve been there more than my husband has this month.” She laughed. It didn’t make the experience any more comfortable, but at least it made it more amusing.
Then came the colposcopy. One of the nurses, doing her best to keep things professional, asked if I was comfortable. I wasn’t sure how to respond but found myself saying, “I’ve never had to have my legs up this high, even when I’m having sex.” The whole room chuckled. So did I. Because really, what else can you do when you’re in a stirrup position with a roomful of strangers?
When it was time to choose a gynecological oncologist, I did my research—credentials, patient reviews, the whole works—just as I would when hiring someone for a job. I narrowed it down to two. A friend asked what tipped the scale in favor of Dr. M. I said, “He has a smiley face. After all, you always want a man smiling when he’s going to be spending that much time down there.”
Treatment brought a whole new world of experiences. After a PET scan, I was told I’d be radioactive for the next eight hours and should avoid children and pregnant women. My husband, trying to be considerate, also kept his distance. “I don’t want my man parts affected.” I reminded him of Chernobyl and how much bigger the fish are now. He took a step closer.
Radiation therapy meant lying very still, pants down, while therapists did their thing. After my first session, one of them reassured me, “You were great at staying still.” Without thinking, I replied, “Not the first time I’ve been complimented just lying there without my pants.” It took me a second to realize how that sounded.
Chemo had its own challenges. Thankfully, I didn’t lose my hair, but I did lose my appetite. By the fourth week of treatment, I said something no true-blooded Filipino would ever utter: “Can I please have something bland for dinner?”
After 30 rounds of radiation and chemo, I finally rang the bell to mark the end of treatment—grateful that this phase was over. I gave thank-you gifts to my radiotherapists. Shaibna, who had been with me from day one, said, “Thank you, but you really didn’t have to.” I replied, “After the many times you’ve seen my fanny, trust me, I needed to.” We laughed until we cried. Then I hugged her so tightly, like my life depended on it—because, in a way, it did.
So, this Daffodil Day, I say another prayer of thanks for Shaibna, Drs. McVey, Fennelly, Salib, Shannon, Gaughan and everyone who helped me get better.
I celebrate hope—not just in survival but in living fully.
I choose to share my story, not as a sob tale, but as proof that even the most absurd, undignified, and exhausting experiences can hold moments of joy.
And while I still need regular scans, I’ll be expecting free coffee after my tenth visit. Because if this journey has taught me anything, it’s to take the wins where you can get them.
