It was February 2025. A cold, fresh, beautiful night in Rome. We were getting ready to head out for dinner when my tummy turned for what felt like the 10th timet hat day, a familiar feeling I had only ever felt three years earlier. I couldn't be? Could I? Can wishes in the Trevi Fountain come true that fast? I'd given up testing a few months earlier, sick of the disappointment of seeing negative tests over and over again. But not this time. I stared at the positive pregnancy test in my hand and couldn't believe our luck. Finally. 2025, a year we would complete our little family and a year we'd never forget, although not for the reasons I thought at the time. I'm not sure how long exactly my voice was hoarse for, but I started to notice it around the time I fell pregnant. It got progressively worse as the weeks went on, along with my morning sickness. I mentioned it at my GP appointments during my pregnancy, and they
advised it was probably silent reflux being aggravated by the pregnancy and vomiting irritating my throat. I was prescribed omeprazole and told it could take around 4 weeks to see a difference. Four weeks later, it was worse than ever. I tried everything...bottles and bottles of Gaviscon, changing my diet, tubs of manuka honey (at a price you'd expect it to cure cancer for), alkaline water, every type of lozenge the chemist sold, you name it - I tried it. I was
desperate for any bit of relief. If you've ever spent the day with a lively 3-year-old, you understand how much you need your voice. My GP advised that she would send off a referral to see an ENT to rule out damage to my vocal cords or things like a polyp. In the meantime, my voice came and went, on a good day, barely a whisper. The breathlessness started around May; I brought it up during maternity appointments but I was always reassured it was just the growing baby putting pressure on my lungs. I also felt a tiredness I never felt before. I hadn't felt this tired on my first but then again, was this normal for a 2nd pregnancy while running around after a toddler?
By July I could barely make it up the stairs without feeling winded, I couldn't sleep for more than an hour at a time and was coughing up more and more blood. I rang A&E as it frightened me but was told not to come in, that it was noted on my chart I had ongoing problems with my throat and it was probably just irritation from vomiting. By this stage I was desperate, I was miserable and I just wanted to feel normal again. I sent a long email to the ENT hospital in my area, outlining my worsening symptoms, the stress it was causing me while pregnant and begging for them to see me earlier. An email that probably saved our lives. Two weeks later I got an appointment and off I went, excited to finally get an answer and sort my 'silent reflux'. What was meant to be a normal day, a routine appointment, changed my life forever. I knew as soon as the doctor put the camera down it was nothing good. His eyes widened and avoided mine, the atmosphere changed in seconds. Before I knew it the room was full of more doctors and nurses, I couldn't hear what they were saying because all I could hear was my own heartbeat in my ears, blood rushing to my head. No one said anything but I knew. I'm no stranger to cancer - I lost my own Mam to breast cancer when she was just 50, 4 years ago. I'd seen those eyes full of pity looking at us before. I didn't get to leave that hospital again for another 6 weeks. There was a large mass on my right vocal cord and it was starting to block my airway. The next few days were a blur. I managed to convince myself while waiting on biopsy results that it couldn't be cancer. Surely it was just a big cyst? I'm only 31, I don't smoke and rarely drink. I'm relatively fit and healthy....but unfortunately, cancer doesn't care. Cancer doesn't care how old you are, it doesn't care if 'people your age aren't supposed to get this type of cancer'. It doesn't care about your hopes, plans and dreams. It doesn't care if you have small children or a partner who need you. It doesn't care how happy you are and that you finally got everything you wanted. It just doesn't care. It sneaks up when you least expect it and turns an ordinary day into one that will change your life forever. The biopsy came back and it was confirmed. Stage 4 squamous cell carcinoma. My whole world shattered in seconds. My heart broke for my little family and my baby who wasn't even born yet. I've been there before and I know how hard it is to look at someone with cancer. I didnt want them to go through it. I didnt want my kids to be afraid of me - what would I sound like? Would I even be able to communicate with them anymore? A word I never even heard of before quickly became one that changed everything - a laryngectomy.
My voice.
My laugh.
The way I spoke to, sang to, and soothed my babies.
The stories and whispered “I love yous” before bed.
The jokes me and my fiancé shared every day.
A part of me — my whole larynx and vocal cords — had to be removed and because it was starting to block my airway, it had to happen fast. Doctors said I wouldn't be able to deliver my baby safely if it wasn't removed first because of my breathing and I couldn't lay flat to deliver under general anaesthetic. The pregnancy also made planning more complicated because what was best for me wasn't best for the baby and what was best for the baby wouldn't be best for me. After careful discussions between the ENT consultants and maternity consultants, they agreed the best chance for both of us would be to do the surgery asap (30 weeks), pray the baby stays inside to get a little stronger and then deliver him 5 weeks later so I could start chemotherapy & radiotherapy. General anaesthetic has a high chance of triggering preterm labour so off we went to surgery, a neonatal team also in theatre with us in case labour started. 12 days from admission to surgery, I hadn't even got my head around it yet, I think I was just in survival mode like a lot of us. That morning was one of the worst mornings of my whole life, going to sleep and not knowing if my baby would be in or out when I woke up. Would we both
be ok? Is this definitely the right choice? A 9 hour surgery, how could that not harm him? I was so scared but had to trust that my doctors knew best. Nothing short of a miracle, my baby stayed put and the surgery was a success. I'll never forget the relief of waking up and feeling my baby kicking. They monitored us both for a few days in ICU and once it was safe we went back to a normal ward. I don't remember much of the next few weeks, I just wanted to get home, pack mine and the baby's hospital bag and spend a few days with my first son before I had to go back in again and deliver the baby. The hardest part was staying away from my son while I was still very swollen straight after surgery. I didn't want to frighten him, so I wrote a book to
prepare him about how Mammy's voice was broken and she had to stay in the hospital for a bit to get a new one. It helped us a lot and I hope it's something that can eventually be available for everyone, for children and grandchildren of laryngectomees. If it makes even one less worry for the next person in our shoes, I'd be happy something good came of it. After plenty of ups and downs I finally got home and a few days later the highest of highs
came when our second son was born - a perfect, healthy, strong, beautiful little boy just like his big brother. I'm surprised I didn't drown myself with the amount of tears of relief that went down my stoma that day. I couldn't believe it, after all the worry, the poking & prodding, scans, an MRI, medications, surgery, stress... nothing had affected him, he was perfect. I'll never forget the happy little bubble I was in that day, nothing else mattered and then how fast it was burst again. I was fitted for a radiotherapy mask before even being discharged from the maternity hospital and treatment started a few days later. The lowest of lows. I thought surgery would be the hardest part, but I struggled a lot during those next 7 weeks. 7 long weeks of chemotherapy and radiotherapy, struggling to keep my energy up, wanting to sleep but not wanting to miss anything with my babies. At least I was able to take stronger pain relief this time as I wasn't pregnant anymore. Looking back, there were a lot of lows but there were definitely more highs, just proving there is a lot more good in the world than bad. We met the most amazing, nicest people along the way. I thank my lucky stars every day for my amazing surgeons and doctors who were skilled and brave enough to not only save just me, but my baby too. They had never been in this position before either.
All the lovely nurses who felt more like friends towards the end, the SLTs, PTs and nutritionists. The Life After Larry group who are always there to listen and offer advice. Everyone. Even complete strangers who pretend not to be shocked when they hear my new croaky voice. My job, Gas Networks Ireland were amazing. They helped us so much and even deferred my maternity leave so it started later and wasn't wasted during treatment. I have the best family and friends who managed to make me smile every day without fail no matter how sore or tired I was. Who still made me feel beautiful on the days I could barely look at myself in the mirror. Who never gave up on me the days I tried pushing them away and never minded, or at least pretended to not mind, being coughed on while I was still getting used to covering my stoma and not my mouth.
And now, its nearly February 2026. I'm sitting here with my three beautiful boys, with a hole in my neck but it's much better than the alternative, and that's all that matters. I thought I was unlucky to get this type of cancer but really, I'm lucky. Because when you are at your lowest, you realise just how many and how much people care. And that's something cancer can never take from us. Cancer may have taken my natural voice, but it will not take my happiness. It will not stop me from living. I'm still me. There's nothing I can't do now that I didn't do before (besides swimming and singing, but I wasn't great at either anyway). I breathe differently now. I sound a little different and my new voice has its limits - but it is a voice. And I'll make sure it’s heard loud and clear. For my children. For people not make the same mistake I did and brush off symptoms. For others who have yet to walk this road someday.
And finally, for anyone who needs to know, that even after everything, life can still be amazing, meaningful, and worth fighting for: that there really is Life after Lary. And I'm proud to be part of that.
