As their words landed, everything around me blurred. The noise in the room faded. My body was there, but my spirit drifted, hovering somewhere between shock and surrender. I left the hospital carrying a storm inside me. They say life begins at 40—but for me, life at 41 came with a different kind of beginning. It was a rude awakening—an entry into a battle I didn’t see coming. That year, I was diagnosed with Paget’s disease, a rare form of breast cancer. Nothing prepares you for that kind of news. It was as though my world, once firm beneath my feet, gave way all at once. The drive from Korle-Bu to my office took about 25 to 30 minutes, but that day, it felt like a lifetime. I sat in the back seat of the taxi, tears streaming uncontrollably. The driver kept asking what was wrong, gently begging me to stop crying. But it wasn’t just crying—it was soul-deep weeping, the kind that comes from fear, shock, confusion and helplessness all crashing in at once. When I got to the office, my Head of Department, Jacqueline Rugayo, and my supervisor, Christie, were there for me, encouraging me to stay strong and trust that God would heal me. Stephen and Josephine, my colleagues, didn’t just offer words—they prayed with me, standing in faith when I could barely stand on my own. I remember the weight of having to tell my husband. I broke the news to him through trembling words and held my breath as he tried to process it. But what haunted me even more was how I would tell my mother and brother. That’s when my uncle, Dr Thomas Agbemaple— who has been an angel in my life since childhood—stepped in. He made the call to break the news to my mother. Shortly after the call ended, my mum phoned me. She was crying… until suddenly, she wasn’t. Her tears stopped midstream and, in a tone filled with faith, she declared, “God is in control, and He is our only source of hope.” That declaration pierced my heart. I began to cry again, but she gently told me to stop—that we would overcome. And from that moment on, something shifted. My brother got to know, and my husband carried the burden of informing our children and his family. Reality caught up with me fast. I had to brace myself for a full year of chemotherapy. It wasn’t an easy decision, but there was no time to hesitate. I was referred to Dr Josephine Nsaful, one of the angels God sent my way. Her steady hands, coupled with the medical team’s care, led to a successful surgery, and for that, I give God all the glory. The treatment phase that followed was intense— physically, emotionally, and financially. It was expensive and daunting. But once again, God stepped in through the kindness of people. Dr Frances Noble Nkrumah, another God-send, fought relentlessly to get the company I worked for to cover the first six months of treatment. The entire sum was paid through a one-off cheque issued directly to the hospital. It was a miracle. For the remaining six months, my faith in God’s provision never wavered. And true to His nature, He came through. Bro. Mike, husband of Sis. Eleanor, raised funds through his school’s year group. Mercy Ampah, my schoolmate, also rallied support through our school alumni. Mr and Mrs Bility, friends I made through work, contributed generously. Sis. Phil, older sister to Sis. Eleanor, sent help from the U.S., and my dearest Maud— my friend-sister—also raised funds to support. Each of these acts of love was a lifeline. God’s goodness during this phase was unimaginable. Yet not all battles were fought in hospital wards. Marital challenges reared their head again during this season. There were moments I felt like a stranger in my own home, moments I wanted to give up—not just on treatment, but on everything. But I had a praying mother, and a host of faithful friends who saw firsthand the silent battles I was facing and offered unwavering support, standing in the gap for me. This phase also matured me spiritually. It wasn’t just about surviving—it was about surrendering. I developed a deep, personal relationship with my Maker. Not one built solely on routine prayer or Sunday worship, but on raw, unfiltered communion. I learned to lean on God, not just for healing but for clarity, strength and peace. And see how God works—He sent people into my life, new vessels of His love, who showed me another level of kindness. Some came through work, others through my children’s connections, but each one was intentional, timely and divinely placed. Henry Amoako, Wilfred Haruna, Frank Twum-Barimah, Paul Twum-Barimah, Susana Akuba Ndede, Mrs Rebecca Whittal and Junice Pianim—each of them offered help in ways that still humble me. Whether it was a prayer, a call, encouragement or quiet support, they became part of the army God used to carry me through. Through all these challenges, my family remained a constant anchor—especially my mother, my brother and my husband. Their love held me up 28 The Birthday Journal
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