It had been two months since I left this room.
It feels like it’s always 4 p.m. because the walls are a strange yellow color. The same food, nurses, and IV machine that beeped all night to keep me company. I had given up looking at the calendar. What was the point?
Then, last Friday, my sister walked in with a strange smile and told me, “You need to brush your hair.”
I laughed. “Why?” “I’m not leaving.”
She told him, “You’re not.” “But someone is going to come to you.”
I thought it might be an old friend or one of those service dogs that come to people’s homes. But then I heard strings on a guitar. A warm voice calling out in the hall.
She was there when the door opened.
Hi, Florence Welch.
I wasn’t sad. I feel like my body forgot how. While sitting up straighter, I forgot for a moment that everything inside me hurt. She smiled like we knew each other for a long time. Sitting on the edge of my bed like she wasn’t well-known. Like I was the most important person.
Then she sang. My song. The one I wore in my car before meetings. That one I hummed to myself while the chemo made me throw up for hours on end.
When I saw her and my sister together, I knew they had planned this. They made it happen in some way.
Then Florence leaned in close, took my hand, and said something in my ear—
I still haven’t told anyone what it was.
Florence only stayed a short time. It was only fifteen minutes, but it seemed like hours. After she left, the room seemed quieter and empty, even though the machines were still humming and the fluorescent lights were buzzing above. My sister stood near the entry and used the back of her hand to wipe away tears.
She finally said, “What did she say?” because she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
I turned my head away. “Not yet.”
Though she frowned, she didn’t push. My sister or brother is very close to me, but she knows when to give me room. She kissed me on the cheek and said she’d bring me coffee tomorrow. Then she ran off, leaving me to think alone.
That night, it was hard to fall asleep. I could see Florence’s face and hear her words every time I closed my eyes. And the words…the words she whispered stayed with me, heavy and hidden. I didn’t expect them to be that way. Not some long speech meant to inspire or say something vague about working hard. It wasn’t that hard, though. Raw. Being honest. Because it had to do with a part of my life I’d hidden deep, only I could understand it.
Once a week had passed, things went back to normal, or as normal as they could be in a hospital. In and out came the nurses. Meals came out cold. I felt a steady drip from the IV next to me. But something was different. Something small but important. I began to notice small things once more, like how the morning sun hit the floor tiles, the sound of laughter in the hallway, and the faint smell of lavender soap on one of the assistants. I was numb before Florence came to visit. I went through the days without really noticing them. I felt awake now. Still alive.
My sister also saw. She told you, “You seem different,” when she came to see you. “Better.”
I gave a shrug. “Perhaps.”
“Is it connected to what she said?”
I was unsure. “Perhaps.”
She let out a big sigh. “Okay. Keep things a secret. But if you ever need to talk…
“I understand.” I gave her a smile. “Thank you.”
That night, my doctor came in with his clipboard and looked more serious than normal. He pulled up a chair and sat down. It was impossible to read his face. Right away, my stomach got tight.
He started to look through papers and say, “So.” “Your most recent scans show progress.” Significant progress.”
I thought I heard him wrong for a moment. “More progress?”
He said yes. “Yes.” We thought the treatment would work worse than it does. If this keeps up, we may be able to talk about cutting back on your lessons soon.
Initially, I felt relieved, then I was shocked. How did this happen? I was getting ready for the worst just a few weeks ago. Getting ready for bad news. All of a sudden, there was hope?
“That’s amazing,” I said in a low voice, tears in my eyes.
He agreed, “It is.” “But let’s do it one step at a time, okay?” Don’t rush.
Still shaking, I nodded. I couldn’t help but wonder as he walked away: Was this related to Florence’s visit? Could having heard her words and felt her presence have made me feel something? Or was it just good medical luck? I wasn’t whining either way.
As the days turned into weeks, I slowly got stronger again. Before, I spent the whole day lying in bed. Now, I sit in a chair by the window and watch the world go by. Animals flew from tree to tree. On the path below, people were moving quickly. People went about their daily lives without noticing the fights going on behind these clean walls.
I found an interview with Florence while I was looking through social media on my phone one afternoon. I clicked play to find out more. As always, she looked beautiful, and her bright red hair made a halo around her face. When asked about her most recent volunteer work, she said that she had been going to hospitals to help cancer patients.
She said in a soft voice, “It’s humbling.” “These people make me feel good.” Their strength and bravery. It makes me remember why music is important: to heal and bond.
I felt something deep inside when she spoke. I had only been thinking about getting through each day and putting one foot in front of the other for a long time. But after hearing her talk, I realized I wanted more than just to stay alive. I wanted a reason. That is.
I thought about Florence’s whisper over and over again that night as I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. It was as clear as if she were still sitting next to me that her voice echoed.
She told him, “Don’t waste this second chance.” “Live fully.” “Love deeply.”
I thought she meant literally at first—to enjoy every moment after beating cancer. But now I get it differently. She wasn’t just talking about living; she told me I had to live. To find happiness after healing. To help other people with what I’ve learned.
By the time spring came around, I was no longer in the hospital. It seemed strange to walk outside into the fresh air. Everything smelled better and looked better. The bright colors stood out against the dull gray I was used to inside. My sister gave me a tight hug while tears ran down her face.
She said in a whisper, “We made it.”
I gave her a hug back and said, “Yes.” “We did.”
I worked hard to rebuild my life over the next few months. Physical therapy made my body stronger. Seeing a counselor helped me feel better. I slowly started helping out at the hospital where I had spent so many sad days. Telling other people my story made me feel good in a way I hadn’t felt good before. Seeing the joy on their faces when I told them I had been where they were made me think of how Florence had affected me.
As I was getting ready for a support group meeting one day, I saw a familiar face walking down the hall. My heart beat faster. Is it possible?
“Florence?” It was a tentative call out.
She turned around, her face lit up with surprise. “Oh my goodness!” “Is that you?”
As I walked up to her, tears filled my eyes. I just said, “Thank you.” “For everything.”
In a tight hug, she grabbed me. “How are things going?”
I told her, “Better.” “Because of you.”
She gave a warm smile. “No, honey. Because of you. You were the one who fought.
After we caught up for a short time, she told me to keep writing about my trip. She said, “Music brought us together.” “But other people will be inspired by your strength. “Keep shining.”
When I think about it now, Florence’s visit wasn’t just a gift to cheer me up during my worst time; it was the start of a change. Her words made me want to get over my illness and enjoy life to the fullest. I’ll always have scars, both obvious and not, but I’m thankful for the lessons I learned along the way.
Life is funny how it tests us, isn’t it? But sometimes, beauty blooms out of the blue in the middle of pain. Kindness from a stranger, a song that speaks to your soul, or a quiet moment of clarity are all things that tell us why we keep going.
What I learned is that you shouldn’t wait for a disaster to start living. Enjoy the everyday things. Find ways to meet wherever you can. And finally, don’t throw away your second chances. Full-live. Love deeply.
Thank you for sharing this story if it touched you. It could help someone today. One word at a time, let’s spread hope. ❤️
