My Story of Surviving a Year of Uncertainties
By: Becky Alp
The title of my story is “Surviving a Year of Uncertainties.” I’m not entirely sure why I chose this title since I could have opted for something more subtle or, conversely, something more straightforward to convey the events of 2024. These events provided me with a significant and enriching learning experience, illustrating how personal relevance influences the depth of learning.
I chose the word “uncertainty” because it resonates with the shared experience of coping with a life-threatening illness. Life is indeed a series of uncertainties. When we take risks or even just step outside our door, nothing is guaranteed, and anything can happen. But what does it mean to confront an uncertainty that is so unfamiliar, new, and unique that you don’t know how to navigate it? Many of us facing health challenges grapple with this question.
My studies of neuroscience have revealed new insights about my favorite organ, the brain. The brain is a fascinating yet frightening part of our bodies, and like many things in life that intrigue and scare us, I find myself drawn to it. One of the most intriguing things I’ve learned is that our brains do not handle unfamiliar situations well—events that are difficult to predict. These are the circumstances we’ve never encountered before, and they often lead to feelings of stress, anxiety, and fear, tapping into our most primal instincts.
The year 2024 was filled with stress, anxiety, and fear for me as my brain had to navigate many unfamiliar territories, along with these overwhelming emotions. How did I cope? How did I help my brain become more comfortable with the unpredictability of my situation? The truth is, I haven’t fully accomplished that yet—I’m still working on it. However, I believe that sharing this journey with others who may be experiencing similar struggles can be incredibly valuable. It’s a journey of learning and adapting.
On January 6, 2024, I was diagnosed with endometrial cancer at the age of 35. To everyone’s surprise, including my gynecologist and my cousin, who is a radiologist, the diagnosis was real. I still remember the moment I received the news, when my doctor said, “It’s not good news,” and then showed me the official document. It had a picture and many Japanese words, but one English word caught my attention: “adenocarcinoma.”
At that moment, I felt like I was experiencing an out-of-body situation. My senses seemed to shut down; I could not hear, see, smell, or touch anything. Physically, I was present, but my brain was not processing what was happening around me. This experience was a psychological shock, distinct from the physical shock caused by a lack of oxygen. The overwhelming news had thrown me into a state of disbelief.
I was familiar with the concept of an out-of-body experience. I had meditated in the past and performed in various performance art shows, where I intentionally entered an altered state of consciousness to enhance my performance. However, this new feeling was something entirely different—genuine and personal. It wasn’t staged or achieved through meditation for a good cause; it was real and belonged to me.
I can only describe the rest as scenes from a movie. While I personally experienced everything—the surgery, the recovery, the waiting for test results to determine the stage and grade of my tumor, and the subsequent preventive chemotherapy—it all feels surreal, almost as if I observed it on a screen.
I felt this out-of-body experience for a few days, grappling with the daunting task of sharing this information with my family and friends. Somehow, I managed to do it. My family believed it would be best for me to have the surgery back home, so I flew back within a few days. Once again, before I knew it, I was on the operating table at a major hospital, undergoing significant surgery.
I spent four days in the hospital with my mom, then went to stay at my cousin’s house for a few weeks to rest and care for my surgery wound. The doctors kept calling with updates—some good news and some bad. Each day felt like a waiting game: “What news will come today?” My phone was constantly buzzing with notifications and messages of support, with friends and family checking in to see how I was doing.
I found myself living in a perpetual “fight or flight” state, but there was no option to escape. I often felt mentally exhausted, yet my mind discovered a way to find balance amid the chaos, and gradually, I started to feel “normal” again. My new normal. Looking back, I can see that it all began a few days before my surgery, during the flight home.
Does this happen to everyone? I may never know, but this is how I felt then and now.
After recovering from my surgery and receiving all the necessary documents and test results, the doctors gave me the green light to return to Japan. I was set to begin my preventive treatment and continue with my daily life and job. Although uncertainties still loomed, my feelings had shifted. The out-of-body experience I had once felt transformed into a newfound strength—a determination to face whatever came my way. I had never felt so empowered regarding my health, and I embraced this “I can do this on my own” strength that I had never experienced before.
I began visiting the hospital regularly for blood tests, CT scans, and IV drips of potent medications for five hours straight. These medications, while necessary for my treatment, took a toll on my body. They sapped my energy, caused my hair to fall out, and altered my appearance. Yet, despite these visible changes, I had never felt stronger.
At that moment, everything seemed manageable. None of the dramas I’d previously encountered or other life worries felt significant. I had one mission: to complete my treatment successfully and continue my life without letting it affect me. And so I did. I kept working, took cognitive neuroscience courses, traveled when I could, and managed my treatment simultaneously.
Reflecting on the physically challenging four and a half months of chemotherapy, I realize that the things that helped me the most were my neuroscience studies and my work. I am a lecturer at a university in Japan, where I teach linguistics, writing, and cultural studies to young adults. Their eagerness for new information and their vitality provided me with immense strength and motivation to keep my mind engaged and healthy.
As some may know, chemotherapy can lead to a phenomenon known as “chemo brain,” where cognitive functions may feel foggy for days or even months after each session, depending on the individual. Although my brain fog was mild, it still left me feeling unnerved. I found myself spending hours reading just a few chapters from a book I was once familiar with, which was a significant decline from my usual reading speed. This process of learning and maintaining clarity in my mind was challenging, but it ultimately taught me about my limits, skills, and things beyond my control.
I completed my chemotherapy by the end of July.
What comes next?
The most difficult aspect for me has been the wave of emotions I’ve experienced due to uncertainty. For the next five to ten years, I will face a new level of unfamiliarity. Cancer comes with the risk of recurrence; it can return to haunt you at any moment. Sometimes, it doesn’t come back, and sometimes it does—no one can predict this, not even the best doctors. Yet here I am, striving to live my life amidst this unpredictability.
For the last three months of 2024, my mind was consumed by fear. The unpredictability of my situation created a confinement of anxiety that I lived in until my next CT scan, which coincidentally was scheduled for Christmas Day. It’s hard to express how this fear eroded my sense of normalcy, but somehow, I managed to overcome it once again.
I received good news, and now I am filled with hope.
Sharing my experiences with family, friends, and even my students made me realize that life is fundamentally about learning. We learn to navigate whatever challenges life throws our way; we learn to cope with our most basic instincts, emotions, and uncertainties. No one has all the answers, and even our best attempts to solve a few questions can lead us to obstacles that change everything we thought we knew. I feel fortunate to have a brain capable of rewiring itself through new information, experiences, and practice. If our brains can physically adapt, then nothing can stop us from trying to learn, relearn, and adjust our mental models.
I’m not sure what emotions I will experience next or if my mind will eventually adapt to this unpredictability or develop new models based on these experiences. Maybe it will, but who really knows?
Life is filled with uncertainties—some significant, some minor, and some incredibly traumatic. However, we possess brilliant brains that have evolved over the years, equipping us with skills to navigate this uncertainty. And that is what learning is all about. If only we could appreciate our brains more and say, “Thank you!”
Berke (Becky) Alp is a lecturer at Nagoya University of Foreign Studies and a lifetime language learner. She holds a BA in Translation and Interpretation (French – English) and an MA in Media and Communication. She is a polyglot and an artist, and she has been reading and researching Cognitive Neuroscience and the impact of Emotions on Memory and Attention.