Cancer in Kenya: Giving a real chance of recovery

"When I first felt pain and swelling in my right breast in June 2024, I thought it was something small. I went to several clinics, but all I got were painkillers and uncertain explanations.

Some said it was hormonal. Others said it was because of breastfeeding. One even said it was “boils in the bones.” None of them did a scan. None of them really looked deeper.

As the pain grew, I went to Bondo District Hospital three months later. This time, after an ultrasound, the doctor told me there were “masses.” I remember that word, masses. I asked if it was okay to keep breastfeeding, and even though the doctor said it was fine, something inside me said otherwise. My maternal instincts told me to stop. My baby was just a year old.

That night, I told my husband. He had already noticed the swelling. We were both scared but tried to be strong for each other. When the doctor suggested a mammogram or biopsy, I googled what those tests were for. That’s when I came across the word “cancer.”

I froze. I wasn’t ready for that word to be part of my story.

I didn’t go for the biopsy. I told myself, “I don’t want the unknown to be known.” Both my husband and I had seen people close to us die from cancer. I wasn’t ready to face it.

By November 2024, the pain became unbearable. I went to Tenwek Hospital. They asked for my old reports, did another ultrasound, and a CT scan. When the doctor called me in, she didn’t sugarcoat it. “Hii report yako inasema uko na cancer. Kama si stage 4 ni stage 3.” She said it plainly. I sat there, silent. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even move. I just felt my world slow down.

I’ve faced hardship before, but this was different. This time, my fear wasn’t just about me. It was about my two little girls, five and two years old. I kept wondering, “If I die, who will take care of them?”

That day, I was with my sister at the doctor’s office. When she heard the news, she just ran out crying. I understood. It was too heavy. At the waiting area, a man approached me, a survivor. He told me his story, encouraged me, and reminded me that healing was possible. We still talk to this day.

When the treatment plan came out, I almost broke.
8 cycles of chemotherapy.
18 cycles of Herceptin.
Surgery.
20 sessions of radiotherapy.

My husband was still recovering from a fracture and couldn’t work. We had no savings left. But somehow, we just decided to keep moving. SHA helped cover chemotherapy, but when I got to Tenwek in January, they didn’t have the drugs. I waited two weeks, still nothing. I was told to go home and wait for a call.

That day, going back home to Kisumu, I thought maybe this would be the end for me. But God had other plans. A friend told me about a cancer center in Kisumu. I went to inquire, and they said I could start treatment that same day. That’s how I began chemotherapy.

When my hair started falling off, I tried to be strong. My little girl once said, “Eiii mom, usikuje shule yetu.” She didn’t mean to hurt me she was just a child but my heart sank. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. I would ask my husband all the time, “How do I look?”

On 15th July 2025, I had a mastectomy. Losing my left breast was a constant reminder of everything I’d gone through. But I kept telling myself I’m alive.

When I came to Nairobi for radiotherapy, the bills hit hard. SHA covered Kshs 72,000, but we had to top up Kshs 208,000. We begged, borrowed, and fundraised from friends. Somehow, God provided.

That’s when I found Faraja. I had heard about them before, but visiting their office was different. I was received with warmth, kindness, and hope. They supported my radiotherapy and helped me navigate where to get Herceptin at an affordable rate. But more than that, they made me feel seen, not just as a patient, but as a person.

Today, I’m still on treatment. The doctors say I’ll be on it for the next five years. I don’t know what lies ahead, but I’ve chosen to stay hopeful.

My faith has carried me through everything. I always think of Job, how he stayed faithful through pain. I pray that my story gives someone else hope. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that acceptance and faith can turn even the darkest moments into testimonies."

Faraja Cancer Support Trust also provides financial assistance to cancer patients through the Faraja Medical Support Fund. This fund supports patients like Milcah with the cost of their treatment, ensuring that financial barriers do not stand in the way of receiving the necessary care. The fund is fully dependent on the generosity of donors, like you, whose support makes a significant impact on the lives of cancer patients.

Thank you for being a part of this life-changing work.