Life After Survival: A Deep Dive into Episode 7

The Diagnosis Doesn’t End the Story

If you’ve ever lived through a life-altering diagnosis—or supported someone who has—you know that the moment you hear the words from a doctor is both the beginning and the end.

It’s the end of how things used to be. And the beginning of living life with new terms, new fears, new rules.

Transcript

Renata Ortega:
  Hello and welcome back to Cycle Breaker and Change Maker. I’m your host, Renata Ortega—and if you’ve tuned in today, I want to begin by acknowledging something important: surviving a critical illness doesn’t mean the journey is over. For many, that’s when the deeper emotional and psychological healing begins.

In today’s episode, I want to take a deeper dive into something I first shared in Episode 7: the long-term impact of critical illness—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, and even socially.

And as always, this episode comes with compassion. If you or someone you love is navigating this path, please listen with care.

Part 1: The Diagnosis Doesn’t End the Story

If you’ve ever lived through a life-altering diagnosis—or supported someone who has—you know that the moment you hear the words from a doctor is both the beginning and the end.

It’s the end of how things used to be. And the beginning of living life with new terms, new fears, new rules.

For me, it started with dizziness. Then nausea. Then—after being dismissed for years—it all culminated in a brain tumor diagnosis on my 18th birthday. Yes—my birthday. There are 365 days in a year, and I got the call on that one.

That day shifted my sense of self. It altered what I worried about, how I viewed my body, and how I understood time. Suddenly, the person I had just started to grow into—confident, excited for prom, finally feeling beautiful in my skin—was replaced with someone terrified of surgery, of losing hair, and of not making it to the other side.

Part 2: The Layers of Emotional Pain

Here’s something I wish more people understood: it’s okay to grieve everything—big and small—when you’re sick.

Yes, I was worried about the surgery. But I was also devastated about my hair. That may sound trivial to someone on the outside, but to 18-year-old me, it was everything. It symbolized identity, control, confidence, and my ability to feel normal.

When I asked my neurosurgeon to save as much hair as possible, he gently reminded me that saving my life was the priority. But he still honored my request.

That moment taught me something: you’re allowed to care about the details. Your fear, your vanity, your grief—it all matters. Illness doesn’t strip you of your humanity.

Part 3: The Aftermath No One Warns You About

What comes after treatment can feel like a wilderness.

People celebrate your survival—“You’re so strong!”
  But inside, you might be exhausted, angry, scared, or numb.
  You may not even recognize yourself anymore.

The scars—physical and emotional—are real.
  And the world doesn’t always make space for that kind of healing.

For me, I thought surviving the tumor would be the end of my struggle. But it was the beginning of years of anxiety, nightmares, dissociation, and distrust of my own body. I lived in fear that something else might happen—and that I wouldn’t see it coming.

This is especially common in people who were children or teens when diagnosed. Why? Because illness disrupts identity development. You don’t just fight for your life—you fight to hold onto who you are. And that fight can last for years.

Part 4: What Helped Me Heal

If you’re on this journey now—or love someone who is—I want to offer you what helped me:

1. Plan for joy. Not just survival.

After diagnosis, so much is about endurance. But you deserve more than that.
  One of the best decisions I made was to wish for a wig through the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
  Yes, a wig. Not a vacation or electronics.
  Why? Because it allowed me to look in the mirror and still recognize myself.
  That wish gave me something to look forward to. Something to hope for.
  Hope matters. Even if it looks like hair.

2. Let people help—but set boundaries.

Some people will offer brilliant support. Others? Not so much.

I had people tell me I caused my own tumor.
  I had someone confess they thought they caused it, and wanted comfort from me.
  When you’re sick, you don’t need to hold anyone else’s emotional baggage.

Make a list if you have to: what helps, and what doesn’t. Communicate it clearly.
  And if someone refuses to listen—you’re allowed to walk away from that conversation.

3. Understand healing isn’t linear.

Even years later, I’ve experienced flashbacks—like the time a light startled me awake and I was instantly transported to waking up from surgery.
  Your body stores trauma. It may speak through symptoms, panic, or shutdowns.

But you don’t have to fear it.

With tools like grounding, breathwork, therapy, and community, you can learn to meet your body where it is.
 And slowly, build trust again.

Part 5: For Caregivers and Loved Ones

If you’re supporting someone through a critical illness, here’s what I want you to know:

●       Don’t try to fix it. Just be there.
 
 

●       Let them grieve—even if it’s about their hair or prom or the loss of control.
 
 

●       Don’t project your fears onto them.
 
 

●       Ask what they need, not what you think they should need.
 
 

And most importantly, be patient.
  Healing is exhausting. It’s not just about what happened physically. It’s about making peace with a body and a life that may never be the same again.

Closing Words

Surviving a critical illness is a milestone. But it’s not the finish line.
  It’s the start of a new chapter—one that might be confusing, grief-filled, messy… and also beautiful.

You’re allowed to feel it all.
  You’re allowed to take your time.
  And you’re allowed to come out the other side not just alive—but fully, gloriously yourself.

Thank you for spending this time with me. If you’ve survived something big, I see you.
  If you’re in the middle of it now, I’m with you.
  And if you’re supporting someone through it—thank you for showing up.

Until next time—stay kind, stay brave, and keep breaking the cycle.