When people say cancer “broke their heart,” most mean it metaphorically. The grief. The loss. The heaviness of knowing life will never look the way you thought it would.
But for me, cancer didn’t stop at the metaphor. It became literal. Somewhere along the way — between the endless rounds of chemo, the radiation, the surgeries, the years of toxic drugs — my heart began to fail me too.
The Day I Learned My Heart Was Damaged
It started small. Just shortness of breath I chalked up to “cancer fatigue.” I told myself it was normal, that everyone going through treatment feels tired. But then I noticed climbing the stairs left me dizzy, that my chest sometimes felt like it was caving in, that I had to sit down halfway through folding laundry because my pulse was racing like I’d run a marathon.
When I finally mentioned it, my doctor ordered tests. Sticky patches on my chest, wires, an EKG machine spitting out its lines. A tech frowning slightly during an echocardiogram, typing notes I wasn’t allowed to see.
Then came the words: “Your heart function is lower than it should be. The treatments have caused damage.”
It felt like a second diagnosis. Like just as I was making peace with one battle, another warfront opened up inside me.
The Medical Terms That Haunt Me
Now my chart holds words I never expected to see in my twenties:
- Cardiotoxicity – the cruel price of chemo.
- Reduced ejection fraction – the measure of how much blood my heart pumps with each beat, now too low.
- Risk of heart failure – a phrase that echoed like a death sentence.
I left with prescriptions meant to protect what strength my heart has left. But I also left with a new fear: that my own body is running out of places left untouched by cancer.
Living With a Broken Heart
Heart damage doesn’t show itself the way baldness or scars do. It’s invisible, but it infiltrates everything.
- Everyday tasks feel like marathons. A trip to the grocery store, carrying a basket of laundry, or walking the dog leaves me winded.
- I ration energy like it’s gold. I plan my day around what will cost me the least heartbeats.
- I mourn little freedoms. Dancing in the kitchen. Running after my niece. Carrying groceries up the stairs without having to sit down halfway.
Every twinge in my chest, every dizzy spell, every skipped beat reminds me that the very organ keeping me alive is now fragile.
Annika’s Empty Chair
I think about Annika a lot these days. She was one of the first people my age I met in treatment. We bonded over dumb things people say, over our matching infusion chairs, over symptoms we could laugh about because only someone living it could understand.
Then one day, I walked in and her chair was empty. No IV being set up. No nurse prepping her meds. Just… empty. She had fallen asleep sending funny TikToks, and then her lungs filled with fluid, and she was gone.
That chair lives in my mind. The silence of it. The reminder that cancer doesn’t play fair.
Now, every time I feel my heart falter, I think of her. How quickly it can all change. How fragile we all are in this fight. And I silently hope her parents know that every word I write is, in some way, a tribute to her.
The Emotional Side of a Broken Heart
My heart is damaged in every sense of the word. Physically scarred by treatment. Emotionally scarred by grief.
It makes me feel fragile, less independent, less like myself. And yet, I know Annika would tell me to keep going. To laugh when I can, cry when I need to, and never forget that surviving with cracks is still surviving.
But Still, It Beats
Despite the damage, despite the fear, despite everything cancer has taken — my heart still beats. It beats when I’m afraid. It beats when I laugh at a dumb joke. It beats when I sit in silence and remember those who aren’t here anymore.
Cancer broke my heart — literally and figuratively. But every beat, no matter how scarred, is proof that I’m still here. Proof that I’m still fighting. Proof that I’m carrying Annika with me, always.
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